Stuck On 75

God, what a gorgeous morning!

Then this fricking fuel tanker blew by me, one of those huge 18-wheel jobs. The guy passed so close that his wake pushed my tiny Toyota into the next lane. That prompted a power bitch in a black Jag to lay on her horn. She had come up on my tail like a racecar driver in the Daytona 500.

Suddenly, I had my ass in a jam.

Out of desperation, I tossed the Egg McMuffin onto the passenger seat. I grabbed the wheel with both hands and struggled to regain control. As cars whizzed by angrily, I gingerly resettled back in my original lane. At least my coffee didn't spill out of its holder.

Leaning out my window, I shook a fist at the tanker driver.

"You miserable mother trucker!” I yelled.

Even though he had surged ahead, I still caught a glimpse of the jerk in his large, side mirrors. He was giggling.

Jesus, talk about tinkling in your bowl of Cheerios. I was ticked. But I quickly cooled off. I had too much business to conduct that day, too many hands to shake. I couldn't afford a foul mood. Slowing down, I picked up my half-eaten Egg McMuffin. While keeping an eye out for other maniacal drivers, I resumed munching. I also sipped my McDonald's coffee laced with three creams, just the way I like it.

Eventually, I re-found my morning reverie.

The name is George Leon, president, publisher and editor of GoWeston, a bimonthly community magazine. Our offices are based in - you guessed it - Weston, an upscale city of 75,000 people sitting fifteen miles west of Fort Lauderdale on the edge of the Everglades.

Though a small operation, GoWeston is flourishing while journalism in general is struggling. The reason is simple. We give readers exactly what they want, happy features about everyday people. Our presentation is always colorful with lots of glossy photos. Hell, we've blown up a sixth-grade softball game into a splashy, front-page display. Murders and mayhem? Not our style. We let newspapers and television blitz people with bad news.

Everyone on my small staff wears a couple of hats. The circulation manager also sells classified ads. My receptionist doubles as the office manager. Our graphics artist draws illustrations and lays out the magazine.

Me? Most of my time is spent on administrative chores. But I also edit copy, write an editor's column and sell retail ads. At age thirty-two I can multitask like nobody's business.

On that pretty Thursday morning, the third day of March, I was looking spiffy in a blue Armani suit. My black Florsheim shoes were spit-polished. I was going to hit two existing accounts to keep tabs. Then I planned to make a few cold calls, which almost always turned out to be fruitful. I can be very persuasive.

As I navigated through heavy traffic my cell phone rang. I carefully put down the Egg McMuffin and pulled the phone from its holster on my belt.

"Hey, George, it's Mersedes.”

Mersedes Delgado was the sole reporter and photographer - remember the two hats thing? - on my staff. A lovely young woman, she had a feisty Cuban spirit, always raring to take on the world. She was also fresh out of journalism school and unable to land a job anywhere else.

"'Morning, Mersedes. You're up early.”

"Yeah. And it hurts. Listen, I'll be over at Regional Park this morning to interview that grandmother who runs marathons. She's training there today.”

It was one of the more interesting assignments I had parceled out to Mersedes. A grandmother in her mid-seventies was able to run 26.2 miles under five hours. It was a sure-fire cover story.

"Shoot lots of nice photos,” I instructed, mother hen that I am.

"Yes, George,” Mersedes said tolerantly. “I won't be back until mid afternoon. Okay?”

I could have asked her why she needed five hours to undertake such a simple story. But I knew why. It took Mersedes a long time to do anything because her skills were so raw.

"Yeah, sure.”

"George, can I ask you something?”

"Shoot,” I said, hungrily eyeing my Egg McMuffin.

"Do you think there will ever be a time when I can write a story that has more substance? I don't mind doing all these silly little features. But I want to do something newsier at some point, okay?”

Admittedly, since joining the magazine five months earlier, Mersedes had written about pet stores, bridal shops and ballet classes. But I felt no sympathy. Our readers ate those stories up.

"Perhaps,” I responded patiently. “But you knew the deal when I hired you, Mersedes. We're a community magazine, not a newspaper. Those `silly little features' are our bread and butter.”

"I guess. When will you be back?”

I glanced at the fancy, silver Omega wrapped around my wrist. It was still shy of 7:00 a.m.

"Probably before you. I've got appointments with the Marlins and FedEx. Then I'm going to cold call Doral Country Club. See you later, okay?”

"Okay. Hablamos.”

I forgot to mention that Mersedes was bilingual and would occasionally break into Spanish, even though I could barely speak a word of that language.

“Right.”

I snapped the cell phone shut and sighed. Although she had a lot to learn, I knew Mersedes would soon seek a more challenging job. She was already bored with stories about granny marathoners.

I picked up my Egg McMuffin and prepared to take a bite when the fuel tanker that almost knocked me off the highway exploded about a quarter mile ahead.