In short time, the population of co-workers at the new place, who had also previously been co-workers of mine at the R. Allen Stanford newspaper, was steadily approaching five.  Like moth to a flame, and as I expected, with each new arrival, the drama balloon got fuller and threatened to burst. And, like an ever present and all-knowing [Greek] chorus, observers acquainted to me and strangers who’d seen it all, issued warnings and explanations.

A section of my chorus wanted to know “did they follow you to that new place, or what?” Another section cried out: “danger!” and opined: “just wait for it. They’ll try to push you out. So it goes.” I didn’t dismiss the observations/ warnings. (My chorus had not been wrong before when issuing warnings while I was still at the R. Allen Stanford newspaper and I knew they weren’t now.) Their warnings echoed in my head whenever I received a call, stinking of fraud, which invited me to make some input on some matter.

If there’s but one thing I can say for my stint at the Stanford newspaper, it’s that it afforded me a sheltered life as a journalist.  Perhaps, it was because I was on the smaller and less interfered with features desk and not on the hard news desk.  Or perhaps, it was because we feature writers weren’t cooped up together for hours.  Or maybe, it was just the nature of the place; staff accepted responsibility to stifle- grin and pretend all’s well-, if not kill, drama/battles almost as quickly as they begin.

Whatever it was, drama was on the low or on the pretend low. But, at this new place, there was an obvious and obscene push for drama to be on the high and this push came from inside the company as well as outside- from male and female counterparts alike. Which… brings me back to the second ludicrous call I received- this one from a female journalist working for another news company.

One fine Sunday, this female caller got very concerned about my professional health. I knew of her- she was a byline in another paper. But, I did not know her, nor was I planning to- nothing personal. She wanted me to know, in case I didn’t, the true nature of the people with whom I worked.

She’d heard that there were battles being fought at the news company where I worked. She’d heard I was battling with another female journalist for leads. She’d heard I was jealous. She knew this couldn't be true. She’d heard so many things I began thinking her beat was investigating the internal affairs of rival agencies.

When she was through with reporting what she’d heard, she moved quickly into phase two. Vicious slander- the stuff of the best soap operas, inclusive of who did what or whom and other varying but predictable plotlines.  I listened, mostly quiet on the other end, marveling at the female on female violence in the field, and wondering if right at this moment there was some male journalist making the same sort of accusations to some male journalist, against another male journalist.

She repeated her concern for me- many times over, and, just in case I’d missed any bit of her tale, she ran it all by me several times.... And, of course, she rounded it all off with a promise that she wasn’t really trying to stir up trouble and I shouldn’t say anything to the people she’d just nicely slandered. She was just a messenger warning me for my own good....

Coming Next Tuesday: #25 Selfishly Unencumbered...