THE ASPIRING WRITER

I return to my office and write a story about a musician who was riding a bike through his neighborhood when a car drove up next to him, its occupant pulling out a pistol and firing several shots into his body, leaving him dead in the middle of the street. His neighbors greeted his death as more of a curiosity than a tragedy. "He liked to have barbecues at his home on Sundays and invite his friends to watch the soccer matches," I quote a bystander for the article. "But he was a músico." This artistic calling, in the opinion of his acquaintances, was a death sentence. Among la raza a musician is known to have several loves and either an angry husband or a jealous boyfriend had been the murderer. The trip from my house to El Bravo is an hour. El Bravo is Matamoros' top newspaper. Unlike the United States where one newspaper monopolizes a community, Matamoros has several morning and afternoon newspapers as well as weeklies and monthlies. I was once La Voz de Brownsville. For 25 years my column appeared across the bottom of The Brownsville Herald. Although circulation never improved, I had convinced myself that the majority of the subscribers picked up their morning newspaper in order to read my commentary. "I scan your column and if I don't see my name, I relax and read with enjoyment" was the most common comment during my more than two decades recording the community's daily occurrences. I spared no one as compadrismo and corruption affected every entity. To these constant themes I included the usual backdrop of poverty, unemployment, high dropout rates, crime and skyrocketing taxes. For someone naturally attracted to sensationalism, I was a pervert in a peep show. My daily pieces were the subject of conversation wherever the movers-and-shakers gathered. And everywhere I went everyone greeted me as the writer with the fearless flair for inflaming the community with fiery rhetoric. "What are you still doing in Brownsville with your talent?" or "Has anyone ever threatened you with bodily harm?" were a few of the many questions I entertained regularly. I basked in my minor celebrity status although my head never grew big because I read enough to recognize that my prose was puny stuff compared to the muscle of the great writers. Nevertheless, it was exhilarating exposing the hypocrisies of local leadership and bringing the powerful to their knees. I had never planned on a journalistic career. After two years at Texas Southmost College, I spent four at UT Austin where I managed to graduate with a major in literature and a minor in Spanish. I bounced around for several years, serving as a foreman at a mushroom farm in Salinas, digging swimming pools in Las Vegas and waiting on tables at sundry restaurants in Dallas, Houston and San Antonio as well as holding a series of odd jobs on the border. I was selling appliances and surviving at my parent's house when I saw an ad about a position as a sports writer at the Herald. I applied and the newspaper hired me the next day. Though I touted my knowledge of literature and sports, I had never written for public consumption. The little league association would call about an upcoming meeting and a one-inch paragraph would take me an hour to write: "The West Brownsville Little League Association is holding its monthly meeting this Thursday night at the VFW Hall. The proceedings begin at seven. Refreshments will be served." On page four in sports lost among other public service announcements but bearing an 18-point head--LL Meeting Thursday--my writing took root. I couldn't believe my good luck. I looked forward every morning to going to work. I compared my one-inch fillers with the 25-inch stories written in an hour by the beat reporters on the editorial side detailing breaking controversies and I had a mission. I wrote painstakingly. With each article, my confidence waxed and waned. "If can only write this piece, I'll be able to write anything," I would tell myself when faced with a challenge that tested my nascent skills. At a small newspaper where young reporters working for abysmal wages, change is the rule as Corpus Christi, San Antonio, Houston and Dallas are the professional destinations with their siren songs of bigger paychecks and exciting assignments. Who wouldn't want to call Mom and inform her you had questioned the governor or tell Dad that you had interviewed an Astro star? These were giddy opportunities to which all young reporters aspired. I believed I was on a meteoric rise in the business when the offer of an extra $50 a week lured the sports editor to Waco. Six months behind the desk and I was the Herald's sports editor. I assumed the post in August. The football season was around the corner and I had six teams to cover, four in Brownsville and one each in Los Fresnos and Port Isabel. As editor, I needed to hire a fulltime and a parttime reporter. One of the news reporters informed me about an unemployed friend from Corpus who was painting houses and driving cabs, but he held a literature degree from UT Austin. The demise of his marriage had made him anxious for a move. I was sitting in the Palm Lounge when he walked into the cantina. Chad Sweetman had disappointed his dad when he abandoned the gridiron in high school for the Gulf of Mexico. He possessed the sinewy outline of a surfer. Wispy blond hair hung to his shoulders. By his informal attire I could tell that he didn't own much or would be caught dead in a suit. We talked about our mutual time in Austin as well as our favorite teams. After the introductory chit-chat, I told him that my most pressing problem was dependable transportation. My father had been generous with his car when I was in high school, but I had lived subsequently without a vehicle. I knew nothing about an engine, hated paying insurance and despised the upkeep expenditures. I needed a chauffeur, especially in the mornings. In those days the Herald was an afternoon paper and sports needed to have its pages laid-out by ten. Between buses and a bike and a broken-down motorcycle and walking, I had managed to arrive at work on time every morning, but I required a sure thing. "Do you have a car?" "Of course. Why?" "Is it in good shape?" "It runs fine." "If you can give me a ride to work every morning, the job is yours." "You don't want to see anything I've written? I brought some compositions from my college classes." "I can teach you everything you need to know since I didn't know anything six months ago and now I'm sports editor. My biggest need is a ride to work. The job is yours if I can count on you." "I'll be there." "Then it's a deal." Chad's addition completed the staff. I had hired Mike Mansfield, a preacher's son, to the parttime post. He was a senior in high school, easy-going and eager. Like Chad's car, he proved to be dependable.