From Breadlines to Deadlines

Like my god, I'm not an unkind man, nor am I without compassion. It's just that I've little patience for the blatant lies and insulting affronts put forth as acceptable behavior by the everyman. Unfortunately, that can make me appear hard, or callous or cold. As a rule, I'm none of those, but I suppose that appearance is reality, so if I seem callous in all of my interactions with you, then I suppose I am by your definition callous.

For better or worse, my job supports, and even requires, that I be this way. I am rewarded with money, responsibility, power and satisfaction for being so callous.

I find myself in an odd position, sitting here at the keyboard with a brain full of work stories and a gut full of tension, each waiting for a chance to explode onto the page in a cacophony of on-the-job bitchslaps. For the first time in the history of Crank, my coworkers and my boss are familiar with this project; I'm known and, with some, defined by this rag. So I can't discuss my job too much. I could talk about the demands, the pressures, the terrors that come in the middle of night, four hours before the weekly production day begins. I could bitch about sales reps who constantly antagonize, underestimate and patronize me and my staff. (But no one really likes salespeople anyway, so where's the challenge in that?) I could even complain about my boss for his Republican leanings, but I won't because, frankly, it's his fucking paper and he can do whatever the fuck he pleases.

I could, but I won't. I also won't talk too much shit about specific people. I won't tell insulting anecdotes about individuals who would otherwise, as in my previous jobs, never even know of Crank's existence. Some of my current coworkers will read this magazine. Some will foolishly search for their names, thinking that since it appears that my job defines me, it would be only natural that my job would define this magazine. They will be disappointed. Others will search for complaints and grievances. Dirt, perhaps, about my boss and their coworkers. They, too, will be disappointed. Those who don't know me well--there is a tremendous turnover in the sales departments--will be surprised to discover this publication.

After this issue of this magazine makes the office rounds, I fear that those people who work directly for or with me will wonder why exactly they listen to me. I fear they'll see through the facade of responsibility, and wonder why our boss has placed such power in my hands, considering my incredible mood swings (which they witness daily) and admitted neuroses (which they'll witness in these pages). But, then again, if they haven't already seen those character flaws during our countless nights of working and drinking together, then they're coming late to the party.

I am the production manager at New York Press, a weekly paper that competes with the Village Voice in New York City. We're often accused of being a conservative paper, but we're not, when seen overall. Sure, our editor-in-chief and owner is quickly sliding down the right-wing slope toward a keep-the-trains-on-time brand of fascism, but there's more than enough liberal sentiment in the office and on the pages to keep the grey well-balanced. But, because I hate this kind of rah-rah bullshit, I won't belabor the topic any longer.

As you might guess, I'm in charge of production. Put simply, we put the paper out. We take everything from the editorial department and match it up with all the advertisements which we design and produce. We also built the website, which was accomplished for less than the price of a new Jeep (and I didn't hire any people to run it: we do it ourselves). I've got a couple people working for me, a studio at my disposable and enough flexibility in schedule and task to keep my non-linear brain stimulated.

For the most part, production is a great place to work, very often the envy of the sales departments. Anything goes on my turf--Giselle smokes, I drink, Gabe (before he moved on) played bad hardcore and metal loud enough that we needed to close the door. Others have come and gone, but the three of us were the core of the misfit department. Now we've got Orianne (who isn't my employee), Roxy (handles the art direction duties) and Heather (one of my assistants) also working in the same space, each bringing their own bits of quirk and personality to the stew.

Mondays are the burden. It's the production day, lasting from nine in the morning until, quite often, midnight. It's a gruelling, unforgiving day, 52 times a year, no holidays, no breaks. Few people outside of production and editorial understand how incredibly draining it is to close the paper. I work just about every Saturday; Giselle and Heather work either Saturday or Sunday. Roxy on Sunday. We all work seven days a week whenever necessary. While the department is generally closed on Tuesday, it's more than just an inconvenience to not have two full weekend days off from work; it's a change in lifestyle. It's impossible to plan weekend getaways. It's impossible to drink all night on Friday (well, not impossible, but usually not worth the Saturday-at-the-office pain).

While I'm very friendly with a few of them, I tend to think that salespeople are scum. Bottomfeeding, self-serving scum; one coworker calls them the Sales Rep'tilians. I know that everyone needs to work; I know that sales can be, um, challenging and rewarding. Spare me. When a salesperson's success comes at the expense of my department--as it so often does--and that person fails to meet certain obligations that would make our lives that much less difficult, then that person is a scumbag. At least five times every week, in an effort to make a sale or blow a client or just go home early, some salesperson slacks on an obligation and expects production to cover their work.

(The philosophy that production will catch their mistakes just absolutely kills me. From my perspective, the thought process is crystal-clear, and the consequences are quantifiable. If salesman A doesn't feel like doing B amount of work that would take C amount of time, they skip it. But unlike so many other businesses, most times that work can't sit until the following morning. Rather, Production Manager J and his assistant G get fucked in the ass: We now have to take on the responsibility for work B, but for us it will take 2C amount of time: C1 to do the work, and then C2 to track down Fucker A to make sure everything is covered with, say, the business department. It kills me, such a blatant lack of civility and consideration.)

They'll lie to my face, claiming that their customer must've misunderstood the instruction. Or the e-mail mysteriously "bounced." Or the FedEx guy couldn't make out the address. Or--my favorite: "When's the deadline?!?"

It's all bullshit, and they know it. And they know I know it, so I remain civil with most, friendly with few. Close with even fewer. But such is my chore. They're forced to suck cock for a commission; I'm forced to wipe up after them in the interest of the paper. It's part of the job.

Those Mondays, though. There was a time when I thought they were killing me. When there were certain personalities working there who were nasty, petty and spiteful. Or megalomanical, short-sighted and simply wrong. (Where are they now? Where are you now M.O.? Hopefully tied up to a tree somewhere watching a gang of syphilitic hoodlums rape your wife, daughters and dog.) Every week, after we ship the last boards, the Managing Editor Lisa and I hit the bar. (Don't even ask about the boards--no, we don't go out on disk. No, we don't e-mail PDF files. And no, unless someone hands me a reasonable justification for the investment and training, we're not going to be adopting an automatic pagination system any time soon. This isn't the goddamn Times. Ask all the other weeklies in the country--they do it the same fucking way.) Years back, before the owner and the then-art director went on the wagon and there were some more boozers on the editorial staff, drinks were a nightly occurrence. Now, we only hit the bar two or three times a week, and it's left to Lisa and me to save face for the paper at the old favorite downtown hole on Mondays.

So we go out for a couple hours, put down a few and bitch about the day's work. I'm usually home by 1 or 2, mildly drunk and asleep five minutes later. Every other week, on average, the printer's prepress manager calls with a problem; when the phone rings, I jump awake, force a little coherence and mumble some instruction.

Tuesday, I wake at nine, walk the dog, make a pot of coffee, let the dog run around the backyard. Sometimes, I write. Oftimes, I don't. A couple times a month, I'll go to work late on Tuesday and meet up with John and Lisa for drinks; usually when there's no problems with the paper, though. If there's a problem--bad color, fucked up advertisement or a typo I was responsible for--then I stay home and drink alone, or meet up with friends.

Wednesday, it all begins again. I spend the day handling paperwork, humoring sales reps' complaints and getting ready for the next issue. While I do enjoy it--and that should be clear--the job is aging me. Week by week, issue by issue, I am growing older. I've only been doing this for about three years, yet I already feel like a five- or ten-year veteran. I know every piece of type, every advertisement, every illustration that goes onto the page. I mourn every mistake; I feel every fuck-up as a punch to my gut. When the paper sings, I sing; when it wanes, I wince.

Perhaps I take the job too seriously. But, considering all the other shitty jobs with cocksucking bosses I've held, considering the blood and sweat I've given to other jobs without reward and considering how miserable I've been when all I contributed to this world was another direct-mail brochure for some bullshit conference organizer, then I realize I'm happy to take my job so seriously.

I will move on, of course, but probably later than sooner. I've got a new lease on life, as they say, and as of April, 2001, I have no more financial obligations to anyone. Amy and I will have squared our accounts; my outstanding loan that paid for my flight and relocation in January will be paid off. I'll keep working for as long as I'm doing what I enjoy. I'm not interested in running an ad agency studio. I'm not interested in turning New York Press into a high-tech, model weekly newspaper. I'm proud to produce the product with minimal staff, maximum flexibility and a tangible spirit of iconoclasm that I've adopted from those above and before me.

So when I leave, it won't be for more money, or more power or more challenge in the same industry. Maybe I'll move to Singapore. Maybe Prague (which I'm told is now post-ex-patriot, if that makes any sense). Maybe Paris. Maybe I won't move at all. Point is: I'm doing what I want, and will always do so.

And that, my last batch of readers, is yet another reason for why it has taken me so long to produce this issue. No apologies, mind you; just explanation. Further, that's why there will never be another printed issue of Crank. With this six-year project at its end, I will move on to other things. I will put my words on other pages; I will see my work produced in other forms. I will move on and forget you, though I will never forget the pain of expectation, the frustration of lacking opportunity and the agony of unfulfilled ambition.

I have done what I came here to do. And with that, I'm gone.