Prose Poem: I owe my career to Sydney Ember

 

I owe my career to reporter Sydney Ember

and will be forever grateful to her.

It happened this way:

I was stuck at a small market radio station

in Northwest Iowa.

One of those places where the Dutch

Reformed Church has taken root

like dandelions in a graveyard lawn.

I read the news and was supposed to

dig up local stuff to read on the air.

But those Dutch Reformed bozos were

a hard nut to crack. News-wise.

They would talk to me about sports.

About church picnics.

About the next tulip festival.

But they were tight-lipped when it 

came to hard news.

Traffic accidents.

Brawls and assaults.

Robbery and theft.

Niets.

The sheriff; the cops; the state patrol.

They were all in cahoots. Members in

good standing and not likely to spill

the beans to a buitenstaander like me.  

Then Sydney came to town.

Reporting on state caucuses.

For the New York Times.

She was a live wire. Let me tell you!

She dropped by the radio station to

pick up a free rain poncho.

And we got to talking.

I told her of my problems with

the local yokels.

And she said: 

"Kid, when the authorities won't talk

you just say they are reserving comment

until the families are notified."
 

I nodded my head. Not really understanding.

Then she turned the key for me:

"Local families will go nuts wondering if

one of their kids or cousins died or was arrested.

They won't give City Hall any rest." 

She winked at me and gave a nod

as she rose up the chimney --

"You'll have the cop shop spilling their

guts to you after that!" I heard her exclaim

ere she drove out of sight.

Now the sheriff's deputies bring me homemade bread pudding at least once a week.