Having tomatoes in my window always reminds me of my old boss at the newspaper. Everyone knew he was growing pot out at his place, but he always claimed the plants in his windows were tomatoes.
The way the paper was set up was that there was a front office area that had been kind of updated–with a drop ceiling and drywall and carpeting. But then you went through a door and you were in the old building with huge twelve or fifteen or however high foot ceilings lined with drawers of type and old printing press parts jammed in a corner and the light tables and waxers we had to use to put the paper together (and I’m not that old, folks! That’s just how behind the paper was.) and his office was in that space, four regular eight or ten foot high walls and a door, but above that, open to the real ceiling.
And he would come in about ten or ten thirty every day, just pissed off and surly, yell and some folks, go to his office, shut the door, and we would stand at the light table and wait and watch for the smoke to start rising to the ceiling. After a little bit, we would smell that he had switched to tobacco, and he would come out of his office, all red-glassy eyed walk next door to the pharmacy and come back with two huge bags of Cheetoes, which he would then consume. And by lunch, he was pleasant to deal with, if not a very good or reliable boss.
But the funniest thing about the whole thing is how our ad manager was always “Do you think there’s something weird with our boss? I’m starting to think he might be on drugs.”
No. Really? The obvious drug use in his office every morning didn’t tip you off?
I have nothing profound to add, but I seriously love stories about your time at the newspaper.