my life as a communicator

for my communications class we had to write a paper describing how we got involved with the world of journalism. i wrote this paper, and although it isn't completely "in scene," it was a memoir in its own way. my teacher wanted us to write about what makes us unique (so he could get to know us better) so i thought it was appropriate to tell him about my love for serial killers, cannibals, vampires and the like. i'm sorry if any of you get sick of reading about my gothic obsession, but i feel like most of what has happened in my life is a result of my strange interests. anyway, enjoy!

also, look for me on BYU TV (channel 11) every monday and wednesday at noon! i'm a reporter.

I have been a journalist my whole life—a reporter, a researcher, an interviewer, a writer. However, studying journalism never occurred to me until my last years of high school. It wasn't until then that I knew I belonged in a newsroom. In fact, the newsroom is one of the very few places I actually fit in.

Ever since I was young, I have loved strange things. As a child I would read supernatural fiction and watch gothic horror movies. When girls my age were listening to the Spice Girls, I was reading Dracula for the twenty-first time. I loved to write and make movies then show off the finished products to my parents. I loved filling myself with information and acting as a source of knowledge for my friends, but I didn't know how to apply my skills.

Growing up, I never knew exactly where I belonged. I tried drama, student government, dance and other activities. No matter where I involved myself, I always found that I had different interests than my peers. I read about cannibals and evil cult killers instead of watching the latest episode of Friends. I knew I needed to find my rightful place in the world.

When I joined the school newspaper staff my junior year of high school, I had less than high hopes. I was sure that journalism would be just another subject I would never relate to. Most of the students on the staff took the class to get an easy A. They would make up their quotes and write fake stories. I found myself working as hard as they were lazy; I interviewed countless students and did more work than most of the page editors. The next year I became editor-in-chief of the newspaper.

My senior year I was offered an internship at the local newspaper. I can still remember that first day in the newsroom. I walked into the building, greeted the receptionist and asked for Jon Mallard—my mentor. She asked me to sit down while she paged him. I sat in a blue plastic chair and listened to the sounds of phones, computers and typing all around me. News anchors were talking from televisions mounted on the walls. Everyone was busy. People were walking in between desks, printing large amounts of paper, and making copies. It was exactly how I wished the students on my small high school staff would work: seriously.

I felt small and insignificant in the busy news room. Everyone was preoccupied with their own projects and paid no attention to me. A man walked up to me and introduced himself as Jon Mallard. He led me to his work area and showed me a desk where I would be able to work.

My own desk.

More than anything else, that desk made me feel like I belonged. I thought of myself at school, reading books about serial killers and constantly writing. I certainly didn't have my own designated desk there.

Just then, Jon's cell phone rang. It was the X-Files theme song. I loved X-Files.

It was then that I knew I was a journalist. While the world outside was slowly moving along, the newsroom was hustling and I had a desk in the middle of all the action. People who shared my interests—people who loved to write and learn and watch X-Files—were all working together in one building. I could say newspaper jargon like slug or beat, and my colleagues wouldn't think of garden bugs or physical violence. For the first time in my life, I was in my rightful place.

Once I started writing I never stopped. I filled journals and notebooks with stories. I had so many ideas in my head; I knew I would explode unless I released them onto paper. Journalism was the perfect motivation to channel my writing abilities into application.

Soon, all my hard work paid off. Seeing my first story printed in the paper made me feel proud and accomplished. There it was—my name, Camille Whiteley—at the top of an article I had written. It was squished between two larger stories and looked unimportant considering mine was merely a column long. It didn't matter that my story was half the length. I didn't care it was hiding in the lower, left corner of a page that might be overlooked. All I knew was my name appeared on the page with all the other journalist's names. No one cared I was obsessed with Jack the Ripper and read The Witching Hour late into the night. I was still a member of the newspaper staff, and without me, that small column would have been blank.

*´¨)
¸.·´¸.·*´¨) ¸.·*¨)
(¸.·´ (¸.·´ Camille
moviegalcamille.blogspot.com

Saturday Morning

I had a dream last night that Plummer sent an e-mail out asking why we didn't turn in our final memoirs on time. (FYI, I told my friend about our "final memoirs" and she said it sounds like we're all dying.) In his e-mail, good ole' Plummer agreed to secretly meet us today for a fee of $100 and he would accept the papers. He called it a "blackmail rendezvous," although I'm not entirely sure what that means. Then again, my dreams tend to not make sense. The next scene involved an elephant charging through town and completely destroying the French Bastille Day parade. C'est la vie.

I'm In. I'm In.

Hi Gang,
I may try some stuff I writing on you. Tear me to ribbons. Eat me alive. I'm sad the class is over--and that's something I cannot always say. I loved it. You had so much group and individual energy. It was great fun.
By the way, I'm not sure how my name will appear on the class blog. I'm Old Rabbit (alias Plummer).

Just to get us started...

Delivery #176

The heat in my car didn’t feel oppressive that day. I made my way to a little side street... what was it called? Lincoln? Jackson? Washington? It was the name of a president anyway. I turned up my music and inhaled the overwhelming scent of pizza. For some reason, delivering pizzas in your car day after day renders the “pizza” smell different than when you are actually eating the pizza. The “I deliver pizzas” stench is more like cardboard, old cheese and olives—whether or not there are any olives on the pizza, incidentally enough. The smell mingled with the scent of Victoria’s Secret Pure Seduction body mist, with which I had drenched my car seats in an effort to mask the aforementioned Hungry Howies’ Pure Repulsion.

Though I had only been working at Hungry Howies for several weeks at that point, I felt like the routine was old, worn-in, comfortable. When I first applied for the job, I never imagined myself being “at ease” with delivering pizzas. The enterprise is often viewed as “man’s work,” much like plumbing, carpentry, or growing facial hair. Initially, all of my co-workers scoffed because, in their minds, my femaleness somehow prevented me from delivering as quickly, driving as adeptly, or navigating the local maps as proficiently as their male selves were inclined to do. I couldn’t decide which was worse: their taunting about my perceived weaknesses or their unrelenting reminders that my long hair and curves would produce more generous tips from the male clientele. From my perspective, the Hungry Howies uniform produced more of an androgynous appearance than an attractive female one. Every day I wore beat-up sneakers, khaki pants, an oversized maroon polo shirt that proudly bore the Howies logo, and a baseball cap with matching insignia: a blond boy whose head pops out of a pepperoni pizza, licking his chops in anticipation of the mouthwatering “Original Flavored Crust Pizza.”

In spite of the adversity I faced in the form of frumpy outfits and grumpy co-workers, I managed to prove myself as a pizza delivery girl. (At this point, it would be entirely appropriate to imagine a Mulan-esque montage in which I am trained to fight as a man.) When work was slow and I was stuck folding boxes at headquarters, I let my eyes wander over the giant map of Coldwater that Spencer, my boss, had laminated and taped onto the wall. I came to learn all of the street names and I even gleaned an idea of which were the “best houses”—a title earned purely on the basis of high-end tipping. Likewise, it was also important to know about the “bad neighborhoods.” In some cases, all that denoted was dysfunctional families, yipping dogs, and the likely appearance of a mullet or two. Other times, the area was intimidating enough that I allowed my male co-workers the satisfaction of taking the route for the sake of my safety. I didn’t play the “damsel in distress” card too often, though, for fear of tarnishing the image I had worked so hard to build.

I squinted to see the house number on Lincoln... Jackson... Washington? street and pulled my car over the crunch of a gravel driveway. I walked up to the door, tattered black pizza bag in hand, and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again.

“Pizza!” I said, as though the word alone would be enough to excite someone off the couch to answer the door.

After several minutes, I began to wonder what to do. The house was old—splintered wood that had been painted a heinous color like olive green or cadet blue. I couldn’t tell exactly which because all that remained were the fading chips of color that represented the house’s former glory. The windows were covered with the fading pastels of old Care Bear comforters and the rickety swinging doors were all shut and locked. I looked back at the ticket to insure that I was at the right house. Yep. 378 Linjacksington. Looking around to see if there were any signs of the family’s presence, all I saw were broken beach toys lying in the driveway and a variety of worn-out furniture, plastic silverware, and old magazines strewn haphazardly across the porch. I truly began to wonder if the customers were home, but then I heard voices coming from inside the house and I saw a pair of eyes peeking through the make-shift “curtains.”

“Okay, I know you’re in there!” I yelled, feeling like one of the detectives on Law & Order coming to arrest the suspect. I Mirandized the best I knew how: “I’m not sure what’s going on... but I have your pizza. And pop. It’s root beer.” I waited. No response. I guess the promise of impending soft drinks didn’t do the trick. Unsure of what else to say, I finally pleaded, “I need to see you so you can sign for your food!”

Confused and frustrated, I trudged back to my red Subaru Forester and grabbed the cell phone my mom let me borrow while I was on the job. The initial idea was that the phone would serve as a safety precaution for dangerous night routes. More often than not, the small blue device was used to hold lengthy conversations with my boyfriend in New Mexico during “boondocks” deliveries, or to ask a customer why 122 Park Drive didn’t exist, only to find that it was Park Avenue, not Park Drive. This time, I was calling my supervisor at headquarters.

“Hey Doug... yeah, listen. I’m at the house with the pizza and they won’t come to the door. What should I do? … Yes, they are here. … I have no idea why they aren’t answering… Of course it’s weird! ...Okay. I’ll be right back.”

I glanced back at the house and re-adjusted my cap. Just before calling it quits and hopping back into my car to bring the pizza back to Howies to sit in the heat-box, untouched all night…

“They’ll never come out.”

The mysterious voice came from a man who was casually sitting on the neighboring porch. Dressed in slacks and a Banana Republic sweater, he seemed very “out of place” in this area of town.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“They won’t come out,” he stated matter-of-factly as he leaned back and clasped his joined palms over his knee. “I’m their landlord and I came here to evict them. I left the porch as you drove in so that you might have some luck getting them their pizza. They’re in there all right, but it looks like they’re not going anywhere for a while.”

“Umm, okay. Thanks.”

Stunned, I hopped into my car and drove back to the store. Upon telling my co-workers the story, they all laughed and gleefully proclaimed, “Well, that’s a first!” I seemed particularly prone to having “firsts” at my job. The entire scenario might have been worth it if we had been allowed to split the unused pizza, but Spencer firmly upheld the policy that unused pizzas go straight to the trash. Supposedly, this rule kept the pizza-makers from intentionally “messing up” so that we’d all get a free lunch, but we all knew that Spencer just liked enforcing arbitrary mandates in order to produce an illusion of control in his life.

An hour later, we got a call from Mrs. Care Bear Curtains.

“Where’s our pizza?”

Good grief.