I owe Dennis Freeland a debt that would never be paid in full even if we both lived to be a thousand years old. I was working as the office manager in Flyer Sales and doing a bit of oddball freelance writing when he called me into his office and offered me a job as a staff writer.
Ed McMahon could have been standing behind me with a giant check. I wouldnยt have cared. At last I was getting the shot I had always hoped for. But all was not well. Instead of saying, “Yes, yes, God-oh-God-oh yes Jesus, YES,” like any sane man in my position would, I asked, “Are you sure you know what you are doing?” I began listing my faults beginning with congenital laziness and ending with a distinct lack of experience as a journalist. I told him in no uncertain terms that I didnยt understand the rules, or know a ยreverse pyramidยย from a hole in the ground.
ยThatยs why I want you over here,ย he said. ยIf Iยd wanted a reporter I would have hired a reporter. But I really like what you do and I want you to
do that for us full time.ย But my terror was greater than my ambition and more doubts were expressed.
ยHey, if you donยt want it thatยs okay,ย he said shrugging, ยBut I believe in you.ย And that was good enough for me. And that was Dennis. His
abundant confidence in others was always greater than the small reserve he kept for his own personal uses. It was the kind of confidence that is so complete that any betrayal would be worse than drowning of someone elseยs kittens. He never wanted by-the-numbers cookie-cutter reporting. He wanted
to nurture voices that were independent and distinct. He wanted writing that nourished people.
Almost a week after beginning my new career Dennis was on the intercom fairly shouting, ยDavis, get your butt in my office.ย I didnยt think I had been around long enough to screw anything up, but nonetheless slunk into the room riddled with reasonless guilt. I still donยt know exactly what inspired him to call me in that day, though I am glad he did. And I hope he wonยt mind the small betrayal of his trust that is necessary to relay the story.
ยDonยt ever tell Ken Neill [our publisher] that I told you this because he hates it,ย Dennis began. ยKenยs biggest criticism of Flyer writers is
that they walk around this building like they think they are the Marines.”
He went on to explain that while he felt the sense of pride, purpose, and independence that created this illusion was ultimately a good thing he had
spoken to the staff and asked them all to tone things down a bit: to at least make some attempt to ยwork and play well with others.ย
ยBut not you Davis,ย he said, ยI want you to be a Marine. No, a SEAL. Donยt let anybody tell you there is only one way to do something. Donยt take
anybodyยs crap and donยt feel like you have to answer to anybody but me. Now get out there and have fun.ย With his words bravado melted into something like real courage, and the sense of inadequacy that is part and parcel of being low man on the totem pole vanished. As a one-time college football player Iยve had more than my share of pep talks, but none more effective.
This wasnยt any empty, adrenaline building ยGo-team.ย It was a gift, and one of the best Iยve ever received. It was genuine trust. It was what every man dreams of: the ability to simply be exactly who you are to the fullest degree imaginable.
So Dennis, today I spill one on the ground for you my fallen comrade, my friend and benefactor. If there are alt-weeklyยs on the other side perhaps weยll work together again some day. I can almost hear your voice now saying:
ยSheesh Davis, thanks to me you got to spend a whole lifetime as a writer and you still donยt know how to use a comma. Useless. Utterly useless. Donยt
change a thing.ย