Crazy Henry: Journalist

 

CRAZY HENRY: JOURNALIST.

Why should I have been surprised when Crazy Henry, my only friend left from childhood, told me he had become a reporter? The man lived a charmed and chaotic life, guarded over by some fairy godmother with a hangover.

We were shucking corn in his kitchen for a homeless shelter, saving the husks so Crazy Henry could make dried apple and corn husk dolls to give to his nieces and nephews at Christmas. I'd seen him make them before; ugly, misshapen gargoyles that would scare the pants off Boris Karloff.

And out of the blue he says: "I just got a job as a reporter on the Fergus Falls Sentinel."

I didn't bother to reply. Sometimes Crazy Henry will say things just to get a rise out of me, like "I'm going to the Moon next Tuesday," or "Didja hear? They've created a Peter Sellers clone."

Or wait. No, that's not correct. I'm the one who tells him outrageous things from time to time to see if he'll take the bait. That's right -- I should have been the one to say I was going to become a reporter.

But it was Crazy Henry who said it. I waited for more, which I was sure would be forthcoming. Crazy Henry has to talk when he works with his hands. His doesn't like to listen to music or watch CNN -- he likes to shuck corn or shell peas and talk. Once, when I was helping him pull weeds, he recited Hamlet's soliloquy in Ebonics. So I just waited.

Sure enough, he went on: "See, my aunt here in the city, the one that was mayor for a while before they kicked her out, she got me the job cuz she said she was worried I was being stifled by my surroundings and lack of intelligent friends."

"Now wait just a darn minute . . . " I began, but he just kept going.

 "She knows the publisher of the Fergus Falls Sentinel, so she set me up as their new high school sports reporter. I start this weekend. The high school has a big caber toss competition on Saturday."

"Well congratulations" I told him. "What are you going to do with your apartment here in the city -- and by the way, what the hell is a caber toss?"

But instead of answering my questions he went and got a copy of the Fergus Falls Sentinel, and we forgot about the corn to read it together.

"There's no funnies" I said critically. "Can't be a real newspaper without Hi and Lois."

"But look at this" he said. "It's called 'Pet of the Week.' Ain't that a cute little puppy?"

"Bah" I replied scornfully. "That's strictly social media stuff. Do they have any hard-hitting news? Any scandals or double suicides, stuff like that?"

"Here's an article on how to waterproof your clothesline."

"Fiddlesticks!" I told him.

Then the van came to pick up the corn.

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I drove Crazy Henry up to Fergus Falls on Friday, because his car was in the shop. The editor met us at the old brick newspaper building and showed Crazy Henry where his desk was and where he would be sleeping until he could find his own place -- a cot in the basement next to some rusty tanks of carbolic acid.

"We used to use the carbolic acid to mix with lamp black to make our own printing ink" explained the editor. "But now we buy it direct from China -- saves a lot of money."

"Can I get right to work, chief? I'm rarin' to go!" asked Crazy Henry eagerly.

The editor smiled indulgently at Crazy Henry, then handed him a sheaf of papers.

"Here's tomorrow's regional weather forecast from the NOAA. See if you can come up with a two-hundred word rewrite."

I never saw Crazy Henry so excited in my life. He sat at his keyboard for an hour, happy as a bivalve, while I wandered around the newspaper office, which seemed to be completely deserted except for an elderly lady in a side office who was knitting.

He finally showed me his rewrite, which read, in part: Small disturbances in the mesosphere will lead to big problems for local peanut farmers today, as conditions ripen for a derecho of epic proportions. Better batten down the hatches and lock up your daughters . . .

"They don't grow peanuts around here" was all I told Crazy Henry. "They grow sugar beets."

"Peanuts sell more newspapers" he told me, so pompously that I said goodbye and drove back home. He'd be back in a week, I told myself: he couldn't write his way out of a paper bag.

But a month later the newspaper changed its format completely, to become an online dating service -- and they put Crazy Henry in charge of it. He gets a huge salary and stock options. Now he owns the biggest house in town and drives a used Lincoln Town Car.

In his spare time he runs the local 'Defund Garrison Keillor' campaign. He offered me a job up there as manager of the Fergus Falls Sentinel Antique Shop -- apparently they're selling off all the printing press equipment piece by piece as well as the carbolic acid carboys in the basement. Or maybe he wants to turn it into a museum -- I wasn't listening very carefully when he talked to me.  

I'd been evicted from my apartment and was shucking corn at the homeless shelter where I'm staying. I told Crazy Henry I'd think about his offer and get back to him. You never want to appear too eager when a job offer comes your way.