I am writing this on a computer running Windows 7, sitting in an office I’ve had since my college-freshman son was in kindergarten. It looks from 16-stories up out onto downtown Rochester, and is today full of litter and trash, the leavings of a move driven by a remodeling that will see offices replaced with work stations, temporary places to sit while you clack on a smartphone or peck on a laptop, the production centers of the modern workplace.
When I get this column done, I’m going to unplug the wires and disconnect the screen and keyboard and put them in the last tote, confident the company won’t miss them, or charge me too much if they do.
It’s moving day.
And I feel like it’s moving-on day.
I’ve been in an odd funk the last several months, since passing my fortieth anniversary in the news business. I had looked forward to the milestone, to cheer about it and pat myself on the back. It’s been a great run, and I wanted to stop and count the awards and the places and the people, to catch my breath and enjoy the view.
But it was too emotional. And I felt too insecure. Because while I’ve had a successful career, in newspapers and radio, and a little bit in television, I’ve never really fit in in any of those fields. I’ve always been the outsider, usually outperforming my coworkers, but not truly one of their peers. I’ve always been the necessary savage, someone they needed around but didn’t want around.
I don’t mean that as a criticism of anyone, or as a complaint. I’ve been doing this for 40 years. I know the score, and became comfortable with it a long time ago.
But cleaning out the office kind of punched me in the jaw, and it’s taking a bit for my head to clear. As I’ve gone through drawers and taken down wall hangings, leafed through piles of books and old mail, seen the notes of interviews long forgotten and clippings of calls for my firing, it’s taken me back to places that you can’t really go back to, to a portion of a professional life that, like any working person of a certain age can tell you, is so big and yet so small.
It consumes so much but leaves so little.
I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for work. I find purpose in work and believe I am useful when I work. During the week, literally every waking hour of my day is dedicated at least in part to some essential work task. I love to work, and I need the paycheck. But 40 years in I’m beginning to realize that ultimately all it leaves you is wrinkled and tired.
That’s not a bad thing, or an unfair thing, but it is a hard thing.
And for whatever reason I’ve grasped it more clearly as I’ve had to haul my stuff out of the office. It sits now in the back seat of my truck. Six totes and four bags, some framed pictures I’ve moved into the studio, and this antique desk top computer.
And I am blue as hell, and I can’t really tell you why.
Because I am grateful for every minute I’ve sat at this desk, and every year I’ve been in this business. It has been a joy and a privilege, a gift given to me on a daily basis by the people who have listened to my show or read my stuff. And it’s not stopping, at least not by my choice. I’ve got another 10 good years in me, and when those years are done my goal is to slow down, not stop. I’m going to figure out what the hell a work station is, and I’m going to use mine to keep my shows and my stations in the black, and I’m going to keep looking for new tests and new adventures.
While I miss this old place.
The way some people miss Midtown and Kodak Park and the Xerox Tower, other offices and other workplaces and other changes. They carried their boxes into unemployment, I just carry mine into a new remodeling. My loss is nothing like theirs, and I am wrong to whine.
But these are the last words I will write in this office, where I have written three books and hundreds of columns, and I wanted to write something as my last act in and use of this cherished space.
And the column is now done. So I will turn off the computer and disassemble it and box it and turn off the lights as I walk out the door.