Today, at my first General Assignment shift at The Missourian, I had one of those golden reporter moments where absolutely nothing could have gone better. This completely made up for my personal day, during which absolutely nothing went as it should. After getting to work on time and realizing I had no cash for the parking meter I arrived to the office five minutes late, muttering my apologies to my editor.
At lunch, my escapades continued when the pesto sauce from my sandwich splattered on the front of my pants. The red ribbon on the top of the “Worst Day Ever” package came in the form of a nice, white parking ticket for entering the wrong parking space number on my pass. Please don’t ask me how that happened.
After my beautifully awful morning, I got a call from my editor. She had received a tip from a student that a barely responsive man had been found at Stankowski Field this morning. The student said he thought that two ROTC students could have found the man. My editor told me to run down to the ROTC building to see if anyone knew anything there.
When I got to the building, I breathlessly inquired my interests to a cadet, and was directed to a secretary, who said she knew nothing at the moment. Not surprised, I gave her my information and turned to the door.
“Are you the reporter?” asked a voice behind me.
“Yes!” I quickly replied as I stopped in my tracks.
“Here’s who you want to talk to,” said the man, pointing to the office of the air force lieutenant colonel. I got my interview, my story and my sanity back.
Sometimes, just sometimes, the journalism gods align the stars and stories shape themselves.
Journalism gods, this reporter, whose pants still exude a slight odor of garlic pesto sauce, thanks you from the bottom of her heart.