by Charles McKelvy
The self-involved editor/reporter/photographer of the small town newspaper zoomed in late for the dedication of the small town’s new/old library.
The dignitaries had already cut the ribbon and were mugging for social media photographers.
Hrrummppff, thought the self-involved editor/reporter/photographer. They should have waited for me— the one true journalist in this Podunk place. The only real one in miles.
Still, he had a paper to publish, and other stories to get, so he whipped his big, honking digital camera out of his shoulder bag and fired off the requisite shots.
Then, when the mayor pointed to an elderly woman in the audience and noted she had started the town’s first library in her garage, lo many years ago, the self-involved editor/reporter/photographer framed her for a shot.
But then, as he was about to press the shutter, that pesky old fart he had forced into early retirement—without benefits—sat down next to the library’s guiding light and engaged her in lively conversation, as though they had known one another for years, which, of course, they had.
The self-involved editor/reporter/photographer thought to include his former employee in the shot, as a courtesy, as a kindness, as a—
Nah, he thought, I’m cheapin’ him out.
And he did by simply refusing to take the old librarian’s photograph until she was free of impediments to petty, small town journalism.