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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Final Page
There isn't much news in Westlake Village. In fact the last excitement we had was when the eighteen wheeler plowed into the police car illegally parked in front of the doughnut shop. This kind of news gets around by word of mouth, over the phone, on the street or over the back yard fence. We don't need a newspaper. But that doesn't keep us from having one.
The Westlake Village Guardian is published twice monthly and carries a price tag of twenty five cents. No one has ever bought one. Instead, you will find it stuffed in your mailbox by a small boy or it may fall out of your shopping bag when you get home from the supermarket. The shopkeepers keep stacks of them by their cash registers. It's been my experience that when something costs a quarter and is given away for nothing you really can't take it seriously. Whatever it may have to say, whatever political position it may espouse, is subject to skepticism. It's ninety percent advertising and Lucas Crosby, its editor, would unquestionably pay you a quarter to take it. Any news it does contain comes from the police blotter, the departments of births and deaths and the occasional town hall meeting.
Its final page is devoted to the senior citizens of Westlake Village. My friend, "Old" Dick Donahue and I are the editors of this page. A word about "Old" Dick Donahue. Dick and Edie Donahue's only son was also named Dick. To distinguish between them, young Dick was called "Little" Dick, and the elder Dick, "Big" Dick. This will exhibit the summit of our sophistication in Westlake Village. "Little" Dick left home after college never to return, leaving us no alternative but to call the elder Dick, "Old" Dick.
It was "Old" Dick's idea to create a senior citizen page in the Westlake Village Guardian. He is one of these people who find it easy to organize things but impossible to do them, so he talked me into helping. Lucas Crosby finally broke down and gave us a page at the back of the paper, but insisted that it must carry one column of advertising and he wouldn't pay either of us a nickel for working on it.
"What do you want to call it?" Lucas asked Dick.
Dick turned to me and shrugged, 'What'll we call it? I'm no good with words."
"How about "The Final Page"? I answered brightly.
"Jesus, you got a weird sense of humor," Lucas shook his head. We thought about it for a while and nobody came up with anything better. Lucas called his wife Muriel and she didn't like 'Final', "I like 'Golden' better," she said. I didn't think 'golden' was any better than 'final', but, being in that age bracket myself, I may be prejudiced. I was sick of the idea anyway. I knew I'd never get a lick of help out of Dick .... I'd have to write the damn thing myself for nothing.
We ran that page for almost a year, and sure enough, after a month, "Old" Dick lost interest in the "The Golden Page" and left it in my hands. I found myself checking into the senior citizen center every week to find out what they were up to. You wouldn't believe the debauchery that runs rampant in senior citizen centers these days. I would meet the bus when it got back from Atlantic City to see if anyone hit it big. I even developed a cozy little 'necrology' corner to re-kindle the memories of the dearly departed.
The percentage of elderly folks in Westlake Village is somewhat higher than the national average and the page became very popular in a short time. With so many people reading it, the advertising revenue began to climb. A few people even subscribed to it. I thought it might be a good time to get Lucas in a corner.
"Hey, Lucas, I want a word with you!" I had picked a good time. His secretary, Stacey was on the phone quoting advertising prices to a prospective client -- a manufacturer of motorized wheelchairs.
He eyed me warily.
"Bullshit!" he shouted when I suggested it was time to take me on
as a member of the staff. "This is a throwaway neighborhood newspaper,
we don't make no money .... it's just a place for local stores to advertise.
Stacey, hang up on that guy, you're makin' me nervous."
He started to pace. If there's one thing I've learned from putting the squeeze
on people, when they start to pace, you know you've got them in a corner. He
started to mutter too, "I should'a had my head examined .... I knew I was
gonna have trouble with you and that friggin Old Dick."
Dick, of course, had forgotten all about "The Golden Page," and Lucas knew it. Old Dick was working on a time-sharing scam with two of his old friends in Orlando, Florida. I had lavished loving care and imagination on this pitiful little attempt to make Westlake Village more meaningful to our growing army of the elderly, and I don't mind telling you I was about ready to put the screws to Lucas.
"If that's the way you feel, Lucas, you leave me no alternative."
"What's that ....?" Like a deer caught in the headlights of a Jeep "Cherokee", he sensed the worst.
"I'm going private, you can subscribe .... it'll cost you $500 a pop .... it'll be cheaper to take me on as a partner, Lucas."
"I'll take you on at ten percent of gross," Lucas countered.
I am not a mercenary
man. I cannot take it with me. With my meals now on the
house -- courtesy of "High on the Hog," it seemed to me my immediate
needs were satisfied. I readily agreed.
Old Dick was in
town the other day. He wanted to know how the team was doing.
Stacey answered the phone and asked me if I knew an "Old" Dick.
"No .... " I could hardly keep from lobbing the question back to her…but you've got to be so careful these days.
©Harry Buschman 1999
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