Cracking Whip by Dimitris Passas
Cracking Whip by Dimitris Passas
I add the last words of the article’s concluding paragraph and then took the customary five minutes to sit back and read what I’d written once again checking for coherence and little blunders such as spelling mistakes. A single slip-up was enough to set a fire within the senior editor’s innards. His volatile temperament and his sudden whims had frequently tested the limits of the staff’s patience and poise while his austere ways of reprimanding his subordinates even for the most trivial of errors had earned him the nickname “Cracking Whip”.
His actual name, Tom Whiprush, made the metaphor all the more vivid, and during my two-year stay in the Noesis magazine, I’ve heard an infinite number of jokes and puns for the man who, despite his mercurial disposition towards the others, has left his own mark in journalism during a career time span of over 30 years. His imposing physique and towering height made the 60-year-old man to stand out while his heavy frame betrayed youthful muscles gone soft after so many years of sedentary work. The image was completed with an oblong face with a receding hairline and the permanent 3 o’clock shadow stubble providing some color to his otherwise pallid complexion. Tom was the man to whom I owed much more than my current vocation as he navigated me through the cruel and largely unfair world of publishing when I was struggling to find a home for my first short fictional stories. Always keeping me at a certain distance, he showed me that profuse amiability doesn’t always amount to truly caring for the other and that sometimes those who we so readily label as weirdos or curmudgeons can possess a heart of gold.
However, Tom’s reputation as a demanding boss who wouldn’t hesitate to publicly humiliate members of his staff if they violated his strict code of professional ethics or ignored the standard procedures which every journalist of Noesis ought to follow in their work was not unfounded. There were so many times that I saw him furious with one of the magazine’s writers and sometimes his tirades ended with him firing one of the employees. The fiery inclination of his character deemed him a man to be feared in the Noesis premises while his reluctance to acknowledge even the good work done by any of the journalists further amplified the loathing towards him as experienced by most of the staff. Even though Tom didn’t own Noesis, the top brass never dared question any of his decisions respecting his several years on the magazine’s helm and impeccable outturn as the chief editor. Thus, they gave Tom carte blanche to make all the important decisions all by himself.
I will never forget an incident that took place only a few months after Tom hired me. One of the most experienced journalists of the magazine had cut some corners in order to deliver his piece on time, probably hoping that Tom wouldn’t notice since at the time, the magazine was in upheaval due to rumors flying around regarding a possible sale to a colossal media conglomerate. However, Tom not only spotted the irregularities in the reportage but immediately contacted the people involved in the article to ask them if their opinion had been covered. I swear to God, when I saw Tom lunging towards my colleague, I believed that he would hit him, perhaps a slap in the face or something equally demeaning. Even though he didn’t, the words he spoke amounted to several powerful body blows. The elderly journalist remained seated throughout, red in the face and so embarrassed that he accidentally knocked over his cup of coffee on the desk as he nervously strived to defend his course of action. After that, he waited for the better part of a month and then resigned, eventually ending up in a sworn antagonist of Noesis. For a long time, Tom never missed an opportunity to express his resentment and contempt for his ex-employee.
Tom was the first one who believed in me and my talent in writing and that’s something I shall never forget for the rest of my life. One fine morning, I knocked at his door in the opulent offices of Noesis to ask for a job. I knew that I lacked experience and that’s a deal-breaker when applying for publications of that magnitude, but I had worked as the editor of my personal online magazine while a part of my work had been published in several respected journals. I believed that having my byline featured in magazines such as World Literature Today as well as some of the most prominent online film journals warranted a certain degree of temerity. Besides, it wasn’t like I was risking anything. If Noesis didn’t offer me a job, there was an endless list of outlets to go to next.
Tom was gentle in a formal and detached kind of way during our first meeting and as I was talking to him, I strived to discern notes of irony, scorn, or snobbism in his words, something that would vindicate his notoriety among the country’s journalists and publishers. Before I left the narrow, smoky room, which had become Tom’s second home as he would often spend many nights sleeping on the cramped red couch right next to the office’s entrance, I found the courage to tell him that I had recently started to write fiction. He instantly traced the absence of self-confidence in my voice and told me that the number one thing to always keep in mind when writing is this: be patient. He stressed that each author’s style is an acquired taste and requires countless hours of experimenting with the blank page. Since perseverance is not included among my virtues, I resolved to gradually build endurance through practice. Read and write, constantly. Since then, I’ve published numerous shorts in esteemed literary journals, owing all my success to Tom’s prudent advice. Even though Tom was much more than a mentor for me and had gradually assumed the awkward role of a substitute father, my actual one had not been around for more than 15 years, he never acted or talked in a patronizing manner. There wasn’t a trace of the nauseating paternalism in his words and actions concerning me. I didn’t dare to take it for granted but I suspected that Tom really loved me in the purest sense of the word. After working for two years under his command, I’ve learned to discern the meticulously concealed affection that dictated his behavior towards me.
The reason(s) lurking behind the special relationship that developed between me and Tom remains largely obscure to me. I was literally a nobody, a nameless aspirant writer who took his first hesitant steps as a journalist in a rather advanced age and after spending several years working as a freelancer. Tom was living alone; he had never been married or had any children. The job was his life and the malicious gossip wanted him to be an involuntary celibate who wasn’t worthy of a woman’s love, given his cantankerous personality. I always resented this kind of small talking and I never believed for a second that Tom was one of those men who knew nothing about the complex machinations of love and intimacy. He had spirit and that was more than I could say for the majority of the people that I’ve met during my life so far. His blazing intellect shined in the magazine’s editorial articles in which he introduced his arguments concerning scorching and timely socio-political issues. His arguments were solidly founded on the teachings of history, philosophy, and political sciences. This combination gave birth to some iconic opinion articles that showcased the author’s penetrating thought process and expertise in contemporary politics. I was an ardent fan of his style and I must confess that my own prose has been heavily influenced by Tom Whiprush’s texts.
Our shared rapport made many of my colleagues whisper atrocious things about the two of us; Tom was gay and I was his trophy lover, 25-30 years younger than him and sporting decent looks, the wet dream of all dirty old men. When I became aware of this gossip, I was so mad that I avoided contact with any other member of the staff for a considerable stretch of time. However, it was Tom himself who talked me out of it. One night, I was working late as I had to deliver an article on an upcoming TV show, I was working the culture beat in Noesis along with a team of more seasoned journalists, and Tom came out of his office looking sad. Even though I observed his melancholy, I didn’t have the nerve to approach him and ask if something was the matter. Imagine my surprise when he came towards my desk, took an empty chair, and sat right beside me. He told me:
“Listen Dim, I know that people can be really cruel at times and say the most despicable of things when someone leads a life that deviates from their norms. You’ve got to shield yourself from the malice of the others. I know that it’s not an easy thing to do but it’s absolutely essential, especially if you want to make a difference. Pay no heed to their drivel. Remember Nietzsche and the ‘The Flies in the Marketplace’.”
Tom had profound knowledge of contemporary philosophy and he sporadically quoted passages from the work of major intellectuals. Not your average philosophy 101 platitudes, but insightful extracts that stimulated the mind and the heart. That particular extract from Nietzsche talked directly to my soul and spirit. I retorted:
“I remember this passage. It ends like this: “It is not your job to be a flyswatter.”
“Exactly. I see you know your Nietzsche well. Keep his words close to your heart. They are nothing else than buzzing venomous flies who feed from your benevolence.”
“What about you Mr. Whiprush? How easy do you find it to embrace such a philosophical stance in your everyday life?” It was the first time that I asked him directly something that was not work-related.
“Call me Tom. I’ve learned to disregard people’s meanness and ill will. It stems from knowing who I am to the slightest of detail. It’s the lack of self-esteem that makes you vulnerable to such rubbish.”
I was stunned. “Call me Tom”? I guessed that I had to be the only employee in Noesis who was allowed to call the boss by his first name. While it was definitely an honor, I felt a pit in my stomach considering that this kind of intimacy could prove to be a double-edged sword that would maybe hurt my prospective career.
“I’ve had my fair share of rancor directed at me and it happened at a period in my life when I was literally lost with no one else around to show me a way. I can and will deflect the vile words of those rascals. I promise you.”
“Good.” This was the only thing he said and stared into my eyes for what seemed to be a long moment. Then, he got up and walked towards the exit. It was time to call it a day.
I worked hard in Noesis as I was driven by a newfound ambition to make my own name in the field. Tom’s trust further fuelled my creativity and my first years in the magazine coincided with an atypical “promotion” as I was now assigned to take interviews from artists and cultural celebrities. It was a step up and, one more time, I felt grateful to Tom for acknowledging my hard work. The following year felt like cruising as I encountered people from the world of arts that I’ve admired since my childhood. Tom and I held our regular one-to-one sessions mostly in his office but on one occasion, he invited me to my house. At the time, I had the growing suspicion that his whole existence was occupied by something dark and heavy, a burden that manifested in Tom’s body as an increasingly hunched back making him look little despite his 196 cm of height. I must admit that I was nervous before ringing his bell in his two-story apartment near the city center. He welcomed me wearing pajamas, an image I couldn’t fathom if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. We sat in the chairs around a massive table that dictated a certain physical distance between us, an apt visual metaphor for our relationship / bromance.
He offered me some freshly brewed coffee and Belgian pralines. He had a sweet tooth, just like me. We chit-chatted about the magazine as I waited for the big reveal. There had to be a reason for him to invite me to his sanctuary. I only hoped that it would be a good one. We stayed silent for a bit, and I tried to smell his intentions. He lit up a cigarette and said:
“It’s the first time that someone from work has set foot in my house. I don’t mean that you should be grateful, I just felt the need to say it. Only my sister, with whom I seldom talk, visited me here. I received some terrible news recently and you were the first person that came to my mind when I heard that I have only 6 months to live.”
I instinctively sat up from my chair, I wanted to touch him, caress him, show my affection with no restraint. But I immediately sat back again and stood still. I had nothing to say. There is no protocol for such occasions, is there? Anything would ring so hollow and pointless, so silence was the only way to deal with the situation. He took his time to talk:
“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. It’s not egoism. I’ve long since reconciled with the idea of death, it doesn’t scare me one bit. The thing is that since my time is so strictly limited, I want to make amends and set things right with certain people. I spent my whole life alone, coming across as grumpy or even a misanthropist. I know what they say about me in the magazine. However, this is the first time that this realization hurts me deep inside. Who? I, who never gave a toss about the opinions of others. My path had been solitary throughout and I thought that this was a conscious choice. Now I’m sure about nothing anymore.”
I had to say something.
“Listen, Tom, I would like to thank you with all the might of my heart for trusting me with this tragic news. You’ve been something akin to a father to me and I owe you so much. I’m not talking about the job. It was the generosity of your heart that cured me from past traumas even if we hadn’t ever discussed them directly. I didn’t need to talk. I needed to listen. And I heard you so loudly that something big was set in motion day by day inside me. I found myself under your guidance. I feel so relieved and blessed for finally confessing this. People should always express their affection to their loved ones. And you are a loved one for me from the beginning of our acquaintance.”
And then I saw something I couldn’t imagine: Tom’s eyes welling up and soft tears started running from his hazel, deep-set eyes. He was seeking catharsis and what I could only offer him was my truth. He had treated him as if I was family, redeeming me from my childhood years spent with a disappearing father and a neglectful mother.
He started coughing, a violent bark. Lung cancer perhaps? I didn’t even want to think about it, never mind acknowledging this as reality. He kept coughing and stood up to head for the toilet. He closed the door, and I was left alone in an unfamiliar environment, listening to him suffer.
Tom’s disease progressed rapidly and after two months the cancer had spread to major organs, his whole body under attack from an invincible enemy. He was transferred to one of the city’s largest hospitals and he spent his days in excruciating pain while he rarely had any visitors. While I was initially reluctant to see him like that, I decided that this line of thinking only led to the abandonment of those closest to us. I wouldn’t desert Tom in his final days. Thus, I mustered all my courage and as I entered the door of the critical care unit with all my senses on high alert, I felt Tom’s desperation as if it was a tangible entity occupying the room’s space. I pushed the only chair I found as closest to his bed as possible and told in a soft voice:
“Tom, I’m here. Tell me if you need something from me.”
He mumbled something indecipherable, keeping his eyes closed and both his hands locked on his chest as if he struggled to soothe the searing pain within. Then, he started uttering some syllables that made sense. It all made sense. I was expecting that. I was even ready. Using my connections as an ex-drug-addict, I took hold of a large quantity of barbiturates which I now had in my cardigan’s pocket. This was an act of mercy, an act of love. Or at least that’s how I rationalized the whole thing in my head. I dissolved more than fifteen pills in a large glass of water and then stirred. The content acquired a milky coloring that slowly settled all over the transparent liquid. I lifted Tom’s head off the pillow to help him drink. Oh, how thirsty he was. When the glass was empty, I let his head rest again and close his eyes for the last time.
I read my article for the second time. I’ve never written an obituary before in my life, in fact, I resented them as well as eulogies, but this time was different. I wanted to write something beautiful for Tom. I felt obligated to do so, not in the sense of an external imposition but out of love and gratitude. I wrote the text as if it would be later checked by him, I couldn’t accept that he was gone. I can still hear his voice saying: “the maggots get us all in the end”. He used that phrase each time he wanted to make a point about the futility of human action. The obituary will be featured on the first page of the 119th issue of Noesis. After proofreading the text, I will head to the cemetery for the funeral. I expect a frugal ceremony and an austere tombstone bearing his name for eternity. Rest in peace Tom Whiprush, I shall never forget you.
* * * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Dimitris Passas 2024
