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The Final Page
by
Harry Buschman
From the Westlake Village collection.
There isn't much news in Westlake Village. In fact the last excitement we had
was when the eighteen wheeler plowed into the police car illegally parked in
front of the doughnut shop. This kind of news gets around by word of mouth,
over the phone, on the street or over the back yard fence. We don't need a
newspaper. But every town has one and we have to have one too.
The Westlake Village 'Guardian' is published twice monthly and carries a
price tag of twenty five cents. No one has ever bought one. Instead, you will
find
it stuffed in your mailbox by a small boy or it may fall out of your shopping
bag when you get home from the supermarket. The shopkeepers keep stacks of
them by their cash registers. It's been my experience that when something costs
a quarter and is given away for nothing you really can't take it seriously.
Whatever it may have to say, whatever political position it may espouse, is
subject to skepticism. It is ninety percent advertising and Lucas Crosby, its
editor, would unquestionably pay you a quarter to take it. Any news it does
contain comes from the police blotter, the departments of births and deaths and
the occasional town hall or school board meeting.
Its final page is devoted to the senior citizens of Westlake Village. My
friend, "Old" Dick Donahue and I are the editors of this page.
A word about "Old" Dick Donahue. Dick and Edie Donahue's second son was also
named Dick. To distinguish between them, young Dick was called "Little" Dick,
and the elder Dick, "Big" Dick. This will exhibit the summit of sophistication
in Westlake Village. "Little" Dick left home after college never to return,
leaving us no alternative but to call the elder Dick, "Old" Dick.
It was "Old" Dick's idea to create a senior citizen page in the Westlake
Village Guardian. He is the kind of person who has no trouble finding things for
other people to do, but hasn't the vaguest notion of how to do them himself --
so he talked me into doing it for him. Lucas Crosby finally broke down and
gave us a page at the back of the paper, but insisted that it must carry one
column of advertising and he wouldn't pay either of us a nickel for working on
it.
"What do you want to call it?" Lucas asked "Old" Dick.
Dick turned to me and shrugged, 'What'll we call it? I'm no good with words."
"How about "The Final Page"? I answered brightly.
"Jesus, you got a weird sense of humor," Lucas looked at me and shook his
head. We thought about it for a while and nobody came up with anything better.
Lucas called his wife Muriel and she didn't like the word 'Final,' "I like
'Golden' better," she said. I didn't think 'golden' was any better than 'final,'
but, being in that age bracket myself, I may be prejudiced. I was sick of the
idea anyway. I knew I'd never get a lick of help out of Dick ... I'd have to
write the damn thing myself for nothing.
We ran that page for almost a year, and sure enough, after a month, "Old"
Dick lost interest in the "The Golden Page" and walked out on me. I found myself
checking into the senior citizen center every week to find out what they were
up to. You wouldn't believe the debauchery that runs rampant in senior citizen
centers these days. In addition, I would meet the bus when it got back from
Atlantic City to see if anyone hit it big. I even developed a cozy little
'necrology' corner to re-kindle the memories of the recently departed.
The percentage of elderly folks in Westlake Village is somewhat higher than
the national average and the page became very popular in a short time. With so
many people reading it, the advertising revenue began to climb. A few people
even subscribed to it. I thought it might be a good time to get Lucas in a
corner.
"Hey, Lucas, I want a word with you!" I had picked a good time. His
secretary, Stacey was on the phone quoting advertising prices to a prospective
client,
(a manufacturer of motorized wheelchairs.)
He eyed me warily. "Bullshit!" he shouted when I suggested it was time to
take me on as a member of the staff. "This is a throwaway neighborhood
newspaper,
we don't make no money ... it's just a place for local stores to advertise.
Stacey, hang up on that guy, you're makin' me nervous."
He started to pace. If there's one thing I've learned from putting the
squeeze on Lucas, when he starts to pace, you know you've got him in a corner.
He
started to mutter too, "I should'a had my head examined ... I knew I was gonna
have trouble with you and that friggin Old Dick."
Dick, of course, had forgotten all about "The Golden Page," and Lucas knew
it. Old Dick was working on a time-sharing scam with two old friends in Orlando,
Florida. I had lavished loving care and imagination on this pitiful little
attempt to make Westlake Village more meaningful to our growing army of the
elderly, and I don't mind telling you I was about ready to put the screws to
Lucas.
"If that's the way you feel, Lucas, you leave me no alternative."
"What's that ...?" Like a deer caught in the headlights of a Jeep "Cherokee,"
he sensed the worst.
"I'm going private, you can subscribe ... it'll cost you $500 a pop ... it'll
be cheaper to take me on as a partner, Lucas."
"I'll take you on at ten percent of gross," Lucas countered.
I am not a mercenary man. I cannot take it with me. With my meals now on the
house -- courtesy of "High on the Hog," it seemed to me my immediate needs
were satisfied. I readily agreed.
Old Dick was in town the other day. He wanted to know how the team was doing.
Stacey answered the phone and asked me if I knew an "Old" Dick.
"No ... " I could hardly keep from lobbing the question back to her, but
you've got to be so careful these days.
©Harry Buschman 1995
(1050)
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