The Drought
Upstate South Carolina is a mass of red clay. The banks of our lakes are longer and wider than they used to be. Boat docks are now picnic tables, underwater forests are dangerous midwater pilings. No matter how hard the skies spit, the drought is one mean mother.
High winds spark red flag alerts that warn of massive forest fires. Deer and bears are carrying Evian bottles. Fish are begging for an aquarium refugee camp.
The ground is dry, my wet-stated friends, and so is the news business.
It might startle many Upstate viewers and readers to know that despite four and half hours of daily local television news, a morning newspaper, and two weekly tabloids…there is nothing going on in or around Greenville city proper. Simply put…you are living in a newless region.
My good friend Quackers the Duck is quick to point out that “No news is good news.” Of course, he is imaginary and rides around on my head like a hat, so his opinion is less than credible.
No news is simply no news. Everybody is sane, politicians are politicians, developers are developing.
This does not frighten the non-newsies. The less news they see, the more comfortable their suburban lives are. For me and my colleagues, the situation is a heart attack waiting to happen.
Imagine for a moment…your boss. She is looking at you with wild eyes, drool dripping from her fangs, her man-hands clutching empty air like a choking victim reaching for life. “I want the project,” she says.
You check your day timer, your palm pilot, your desk blotter. Nothing. There is no project. Your boss is writhing, a serpent with a need to constrict.
You venture: “The project?”
Your boss grabs you by your neck and crotch and the same time, squeezing. She moves her hand and shoves a long long thumbnail into your navel. “I want…”
“…the project,” you finish. Of course. This is just like yesterday. You have a nameless, formless, impossible project. And it is due in seven hours. Scratch that…
“And I want it by noon,” she says, misting into nothingness, only to re-appear at the same time tomorrow.
Our boss is The Beast and we have to feed it daily. It gets increasingly hard when the news drought strikes. Local news is dehydrated and we need news-water to make Tang. We haven’t had the sweet orange liquid for a year.
The real rains are starting to fall again. It’s not enough to fill the lakes, but it is helping. As a young man in the sharp clutches of The Beast, I can only help the news-water is going to come down. Otherwise, I may just acquiesce.
