No Pets, No Reps

After attending a seminar on newsroom leadership at the West Virginia Press Association convention, I made my way down a corridor of the Wilson Lodge at Oglebay Resort in Wheeling. I was hoping to get back to the room for a little nap before the big awards ceremony that would be held that evening in the Ihlenfeld Dining Room.

As I turned the corner, I heard a voice that sounded very familiar to me, though I couldn't place it.

"Well, I'm not leaving until you can assure me I'm gonna get some king-sized trade show discounts, or Granny's gonna kick my ass into next week! And I want to know where John Luckett is so I can have him make an announcement over the PA system!"

The women representing the W. Va. Press Association were staring in shock at Citizen Jim; unfortunately, he spotted me before I could slip past without acknowledging him.

"STIMPY! Goddamn it—what the hell's going on? What's wrong with these people?"

"Jim, I think you're confused. You see, this is the—"

"The convention! Yes! I know that! You said 'meet me at the convention,' so I hitchhiked all the way up here and almost got shot by the goddamn sniper in Charleston, I'll have you know, so I could meet you."

I smiled weakly at the press people, who were glaring at me, now, as if it were all my fault that they'd been harassed by Citizen Jim.

"He's a little mixed up about the nature of this conference," I said to them.

"Me? I'm mixed up? They're the ones who act like they never heard of free freight or anything called a book signing," Citizen Jim fumed. "They claimed they didn't know what I was talking about when I asked them who the big author was at this dinner tonight."

I grabbed Jim by the arm and began dragging him behind me. "Come on, you idiot, and I'll explain everything."

Two hours later, Citizen Jim smacked me on the forehead, knocking me against the headboard of the bed we were sitting on Indian-style. There was literature from the Press Association spread out between us.

He picked up a handbook on Best Newsroom Practices, a thin, wire-bound booklet, and said, "We get better shit than this at SEBA! This thing isn't even signed!"

"Well...This isn't about the Southeastern Booksellers, precious lamb. It's about journalism."

"So that's it?! This is all about goddamn newspapers?" he said.

"Yes, and I need to get ready for the awards banquet," I said, and got up.

"Really? You won some awards? WOOO HOOOO!" Citizen Jim whooped. "Boy, am I glad I brought my tuxedo and a disposable camera!"

I immediately panicked. "No, Jim, NO! I didn't win anything. I'm just going because everyone has to go. I didn't win anything."

"Bullshit! Don't act all modest," Citizen Jim said. "Or I'll punch your face in."

I regret that I didn't tie him up and knock him unconscious with my iron by the time we finished our first couple of drinks at the pre-banquet reception.

While people were milling around, shaking hands, laughing, Jim put a finger in either corner of his mouth and whistled shrilly. "Listen up! My best friend here, she moved back to West Virginia a couple years ago, and I wanted to kill her for leaving my ass all alone down in Alabama. But now that she's won all the awards you're giving out tonight, I just want to say, you people have my deepest respect and regard."

There was silence, as well as nervous glances anywhere but in our direction.

"Jim, okay, just—" I started, but he drew back his hand, biting his lip.

"Shut up! I am making me a speech here!" he yelled at me. In a lower voice, he went on. "So, if she never gets around to saying it, it's a privilege to be here, and a great thrill to be honored by you for all her hard work."

A few people leaned together and began whispering, and this set off a chain reaction of people turning their backs on us.

"What the hell?" I heard several people say.

"Who the hell is she?" another group asked.

We were soon forgotten. Citizen Jim complained throughout dinner about wanting the awards ceremony to start, and about what they were serving us. "At SEBA, you know, we'd be eating red beans Anne Rice," he said as he tore a thick piece of filet mignon apart with his hands and stuffed it into his mouth. "And Random House would make sure we all got plenty of booze before, during and after this monkeysuit marathon."

After the last awards were announced, members of the press association began standing to collect their plaques and leave.

Citizen Jim stood up on the table we'd been sitting at and raised his hands above his head, shouting, "Pipe down, you fucking morons! This thing can't be over," he yelled. "Where the hell are Stimpy's awards? Where's John Luckett? I want some answers!"

Ignoring Jim, the winning news staffs searched for their plaques among those that lay on a long table behind the emcees' station. Then they began filing out of the banquet hall.

"I'm gonna sue some people!" Citizen Jim roared. "Just wait! I bet none of you hoity-toity, highfalutin journalists ever had Senator Jay Rockefeller shake your hand and say he liked your goddamn award-winning articles! STIMPY did! She touched Robert Byrd! And she knows Ann Patchett, winner of the PEN/Faulkner award for her novel Bel Canto!"

"Jim, please," I begged. "I love you, but give it up!"

"SHUT UP, woman!" he shouted at me, kicking a leg in my direction. "And anyway, it doesn't matter, because Stimpy, here, she's a writer, not a journalist! There's a difference, you know! So, ha! Ha ha ha, you hack-assed BASTARDS!"

Nobody even looked back.

I tugged at his sleeve. "Get down," I said. "Just come on."

"Let GO of me!" he yelled, yanking his arm away as if he were on the ledge of a building and I was trying to talk him out of a suicide jump.

"Get down from there," I said. "You're a perfect target for the sniper when you stand there waving your arms around like that."

At my mention of the sniper, Citizen Jim ducked, and looked all around while he hopped off the table and crawled on all fours across the floor of the banquet hall like the hero he was and always would be to me.

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