Spring Training, Day One -- Buggin Out

When you work in the newspaper business reminders accumulate daily that your way of life -- or at least your way of making a living -- is about to change profoundly.

Woke up this morning to learn that one more big city newspaper group is declaring bankruptcy. This time, it's Philly.

Still, life where I work hasn't been too bad by contrast. Thanks to the Star's sheer size (biggest paper in our market by far), the Canadian economy (which hasn't tanked as deeply as the U.S. economy... yet), and the 5 million or so employees who took buyouts last year, our place hasn't reached New York Times levels of poverty.

Yesterday I arrived in Tampa for Spring Training on a flight the company paid for, rented a car on the company credit card, and drove straight to the condo the company has rented through the end of March.

Yeah, life is still pretty good over here.

But look closely and you'll see subtle signs that the Rich Uncle's money is growing shorter.

Like the cockroach that scurried across the living room floor last night.



I was sorta surfing the internet and sort of watching the Oscars when I caught him in the corner of my right eye, a black dot emerging from the pantry and moving toward the front door.

He didn't move all that quickly, as though he were real comfortable here; as though his were his condo and we were just squatters. And he didn't seem scared. Even as I grabbed the Air Force One and cocked it back behind my head, he stood still, as if he knew I wasn't going to come into his house and disrespect him like this.

Like Hell.

I brought the AF-1 down hard across his back.

Whomp.

He disappeared briefly beneath my shoe. The floor vibrated. Dishes rattled on a nearby table.

And the cockroach?

He took my best shot and kept smiling. Stood there looking at me like, "Zat all you got?"

Naw, punk. I got some more for that behind.

Three quick ones.

Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.

The cockroach gloated no more.

I scooped him up and dropped him in the trash, then spent the rest of the night paranoid, Air Force One cocked like a hammer, just wishing some roach would walk his ass out into the living room looking for trouble.

Understand this:

I'm not scared of roaches.

I just hate them, just like my dad, and his dad before him.

I hate them for what they symbolize, which, more than anything, is poor hygiene, either in a household or in a building. I don't necessarily mean poverty -- I've lived in the hood and not had roaches.

I mean poor upkeep and a general lack of cleanliness.

I've been here before.

Grew up in a townhouse, and one year when I was real young a family from Jamaica moved in next door.

These. Folks. Were. Country.

They removed the panes and screens from their windows, so they just had holes in the side of their house. If the kids owned shoes, I didn't see them. And if they had indoor plumbing, nobody told their youngest boy, because he used the patch of asphalt in front of our house as his personal urinal.

A few weeks after they moved in, we started seeing roaches in our house. It took a while to figure out the bugs had hitched a ride from Ja. with the family next door, stowing away in their furniture and luggage.

So my pops headed next door to confront the neighbour about his bug problem, and precipitating the following exchange:

Pops: You need to do somethin bout these roaches, Willie. I'm tireda this mess!

WIllie: Easy nuh'mahn. Roo-chez hev'reh-weer bahk hoom. Dem like like flies in Jamaica.

Pops: N*gga, this ain't no GOT DAM Jamaica!

And neither is this.

But its symbolic of the times in this business. The last time the rich uncle sent me to Florida he put me up at the Hyatt. This time we're staying in a condo complex with roaches. A beautiful complex otherwise, but still one I share with that big bug I killed last night, plus a few thousand of his cousins.

Whatever fits the budget, I guess. We've all got to sacrifice in tough times.

But remind me to buy a roach trap tonight, and expense it later.