I SMELL A STORY

I haven't studied journalism for more than two decades.  Oh, sure, I've had editorials and some articles (mostly sports related) published in the interim, but I have not actively gone looking for a news story in probably twenty-five years.

 That doesn't stop me from being a snoop.

A couple of years ago, an SUV drove directly onto the train tracks, right into the side of the commuter train that was slowly coming through the crossing.  I walked down the street, camera in hand, and snapped pictures while trolling police for information.  Whenever something is going on, I'm like Rikki-tikki-tavi -- I have to find out and I have to know, and I usually won't stop until I get to the bottom of whatever it is.

(This last bit of information should scare the shit out of any lying hyenas at my job, but I prefer to have this information come upon them as a complete surprise, while they're looking up from under the tires, wondering who's driving the bus on top of them.  But, I digress.)

I tell you this so you will understand why I take the long way around on my walk, in case you happen to see me come by your house twice today, going the same direction both times.  It's all the policeman's fault.

I decide to walk a grid today because the weather looks iffy.  It has already poured buckets this morning, and now the sky alternates sunny with patches of blue to dark with angry gray clouds.  If I cross between two main streets, I can walk opposite directions on the connecting streets, never venturing too far from the safety of buildings downtown should a weather disaster strike.

I get to the last leg of my trek, hoping to head straight down Summer Street, but the road is blocked off by a police motorcycle.  Being curious, I get as close to the blockade as I can safely, and I peer about one hundred yards away.  There is police cruiser, the paramedics in the trauma SUV, a fire truck, a tow truck, a white box truck, and a regular town ambulance. 

I walk away.  I cannot get down the remainder of the road, and I've already walked two and a half miles in the humid morning air.  I don't need to know what's going on.  I don't need to ... I ... don't ... I do need ... not ... I ... I ... oh.

Damnation.

I am back in the center of town now, turning right, walking in front of the wine-bar-turned-oyster-place, going in the exact wrong direction from what I intend.  Why?  Why am I doing this?  I hustle, picking up the pace.  Yup, the cruiser is still there.  Now, an extra half mile later, I'm at the complete other end of Summer Street and can walk right past the action.

Two fragile, elderly women are standing in the street, pacing nervously while the white box truck backs up and into the main street, guided by a police officer.  The ambulance, trauma team, and firetruck are gone now.  What I see now is that the box truck drove right through the hedges of the house, taking out a bunch of plants.  But, why the paramedics from the hospital?  Why the local paramedics?  Did someone get hit crossing the road and the box truck ran off sideways?  Did the truck driver lose control and hit someone working in the yard?

I don't get a chance to ask.  The motorcycle cop is too many paces in front of me.  I'll have to read the police log and hope my curiosity gets satisfied while also hoping no one was hurt, at least not seriously so.  In my mind, though, I have put the pieces together, written the story, and published the article already.  It's just the way my mind works.

Apparently, you can take the journalist away from the story, but you cannot take the story away from the journalist.

(Prayers for the journalist and her camera man who were murdered in cold blood by a whacko fellow employee, a guy with a history of job-related issues.  Listen, when someone calls you for a reference on a potential employee, much as you'd like to dump the sicko, please, please, please tell the damn truth and save us all this heartache.)