Paxety Pages

It was a night assignment editors dreamed about. Faxes poured into the newsroom from the national organization reminding them of the date. Only work required of the assignment editor - clear the fax machine and put the piece of paper in the file under the right date. Faxed poured into the newsroom from the local organizations giving details of what, where, who, when. Only work required of the assignment editor - clear the fax machine and put the pieces of paper in the file under the right date.

One the big day, pull out the pieces of paper, attend the newsroom morning meeting and present the National Night Out story as the most important since Iran freed the hostages. Only work required of the assignment editor - talking.

I remember well one of the National Night Out stories I was assigned. It was in Macon, Georgia - it must have been 1986-87. I was a one-man band (TV speak for sending out one poor goober who has to be both the reporter and photographer - it's the cheap way to do things.) The story was in either Alphabet City (so-called because all the streets in the neighborhood were letter named) or Bird City (so-called because all the streets were named for birds.) Both were working class black neighborhoods filled with mostly good people who were doing their best to get ahead, just as I was.

I went to the National Night Out - met and talked with the woman who was organizing the neighborhood event. The ladies of the neighborhood had cooked table loads of wonderful food, kids were roller-skating in the street, and the men were smoking and trying to out-preach one another.

After doing some interviews, the organizer suggested I talk to Mr. Williams, who lived on the corner. She said Mr. Williams had set up a bench in his yard only a few feet away from the street. She said Mr. Williams sat outside every night watching the neighborhood. She said Mr. Williams's presence helped the children feel safer.

I lugged my camera and deck down to Mr. Williams's bench. He appeared to be asleep. I said, "Mr. Williams, can I talk to you about National Night Out?" "Sure," he answered as he cracked open his eyes.

I straddled the bench, sitting the heavy tape deck on the ground. I framed him up in the viewfinder and asked some innane question about National Night Out.

Mr. Williams snored. He blew a smell in my face I had not smelled in years. Corn liquor. Mr. Williams sat on his bench in his normal nightly state - dead drunk.

A new story is here. It's about music - a song that made me want to listen.