CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST

Nothing. One week of hitting 3-4 newspapers a day and nothing.

My rules didn't help, since they did not scream of desperation. I applied only at small and medium-sized dailies (working for a weekly was too depressing, since they typically had a staff of three who covered city meetings, took photos and designed the pages – fun, but earning just slightly more than minimum wage, and they day they're hired, they are looking to move up). When in Denver, I didn't bother dropping in at the Denver Post or Rocky Mountain News. Each, I figured was out of my range.

Each day was the same, only the highway was different (and sometimes that was not the case, since I often had to double-back to resume my journey; Colorado's roads are not conducive to streamlined job searching). I started in the northern part of the state, working my way down south. Since this was 1979, I had to do it the old-fashioned way, with maps and lots of pulling over to the side of the road to figure out where I was. Kids today don't have any idea how easy they have it with Google Maps and GPS systems. Oh, that assumes a physical job search with, with the Internet, makes about as much sense as me riding a horse and buggy 30 years ago.

I'd rise by 8 a.m., shower, shave, skip breakfast, pay the hotel bill and hit the road. Typically I ended the previous day's trip in the city of my next stop, and so it was I woke up in Colorado Springs on my last full day in the state.

It had been disheartening. My dream job would have been in Boulder, but odds were heavily against me. The editor in Fort Collins was encouraging, suggesting an entry-level job might be opening in a few weeks, promising me I was first on the list (showing me a file cabinet filled with resumes, and pointing out mine was the only one accompanied by a personal visit).

Other than that, nothing. After making my stops today, I was going to stay the night in Fort Collins, stopping in at the newspaper there the next morning before resuming my search in Oregon (No. 2 on the dream-state list; not sure why, just seemed a helluva lot better than anything in the Midwest).

But first, I was going to visit two newspapers in Colorado Springs, the Sun and the Gazette Telegraph. The GT was by far the biggest of the two, thus decreasing my chances. I started at the Sun, walking in the door at around 9 a.m.

The two-story building obviously was new. Its open and airy layout revealed an atrium in the middle, ringed by the wade balconies of the second floor (and home of the newsroom). Downstairs people were busy at their desks, low partitions separating them (I assumed) into departments.

The receptionist asked me to take a seat and picked up her phone. After 30 minutes or so (typical of the waits I experienced while waiting to speak with an editor; if I was sent to a human resources employee, I knew I was doomed), an older gentleman descended the stairs, walked over and held out his hand.

“”Hi, I'm Frank Boggs,” he said. “Sports editor. Would you like to come up?”

Sports editor? I wasn't looking to work in sports, nor was I in any position to say no. I accompanied him up the steps and was amazed by what I saw.

There were no walls, save for a few offices around the perimeter. A picture window near the southwest side revealed a view of snow-covered Pikes Peak, a landmark on the Front Range. About half the desks were occupied by reporters either on the phone or tapping away on their stories.
Yes there was not a typewriter to be seen. A computer monitor was on every desk, showing pale letters on a glowing green background. Every few desks, a narrow metal column ran ceiling to floor. Wires burst from the bottom of each one, bundles of which snaked to the back of each computer.

I stared at each monitor as we walked to Frank's office.

“You should have seen the old building,” he said, noticing my reaction. “This place is heaven. I can't tell you how much easier that his made everything.”

“When did you move in?” I said.

“About two months ago. We're still getting used to it.”

He ushered me into his office. Photos of athletes shared space with framed sports pages on his walls. A couple of awards stood high on his shelves.

I handed him my resume and clips, and he took a few minutes to glance at them. Luckily I'd included a sports story or two, since I had covered sports during my sophomore year at the college paper. Sports was fun, but I'd outgrown them, wishing to pursue something more serious. I wanted to be Woodward and or Bernstein, as with any other journalism graduate at the time. Watergate was still relatively fresh, and had lost nothing when it came to inspiration.

Frank asked me how I had come to Colorado Springs from California, and I explained I wanted a change of scenery and though Colorado worth visiting (not telling him of my car in parking lot filled with my worldly possessions, as it smacked with desperation.)

“Well, look, I'm going to be honest,” Frank said, flipping my resume onto his desk. “We may have something coming up, but it's probably not for another week or so, if it happens at all. And it may not be for a month.”

“Well, that's fine, I'm open to just about any possibility,” like staying in a hotel for a week because, as I had decided this morning, Colorado Springs was second to Boulder when it came to fitting in with my perceived Colorado. Razor-sharp granite cliffs rose just to the south (Cheyenne Mountain as it turned out, hollowed out years ago to house NOTAD headquarters). Directly to the west, pine-covered foothills gave way to mountains, and lord over it all was majestic Pikes Peak, snow covering its stony pinnacle most of the year.

“There's more. If the job does open, it's only part-time. And there are no benefit, unless you go full-time, but that would be at least a year. And there isn't any writing involved. It's on the desk, where you'd gather scores and take dictation, and move wire copy. I have to be honest, it really isn't much.”

“No, sounds great.” Damn, desperation snuck in without me noticing.

“Oh, well, OK. Do you have a phone number in case it happens?”

This being the pre-cellphone era, I gave him my parents' number, as I did at all my stops. Each evening I checked in with mom and dad, not just for their peace of mind, but to see if anyone had called.
We shook hands, and I was on my way to the Gazette Telegraph just a few miles down the road. The building was more cramped, darker. At least from what I saw at the reception desk. No one had time to see me, and I left my resume at the front desk.

I could have searched in easterb Colorado, out of the mountains' shadows, but what was the point? I was there to experience a Rocky Mountain High, not land that could have been western Kansas.

I headed to Fort Collins, the miles and time meaningless at this point. I was spending as many as 10 hours on the road each day, so I had lost all sense of distance. I stopped at the same Motel 6 I stayed in at my earlier stop, roughly five days before. That night I spread the road atlas over the bed, charting the best way to Oregon. I figured it to be a two day trip, but this time planned on an overnight stay rather than pulling off to the side of the road.

But here is what I was really thinking, when I allowed the optimist to come in – tomorrow morning, the Fort Collins editor would have promising news. Not enough to make me stay, but at least with something hopeful to get me to Oregon. And perhaps just as I was leaving Oregon to, well, I hadn't planned that far – Washington, maybe – I would hear from Fort Collins.

Another week on the road, perhaps, and I would have a job. I had to think that way, or else there was little motivation to continue. I was already questioning my credentials, thinking perhaps it wasn't my timing, it was me and what I (didn't) have to offer. If I were a more qualified candidate, I'd have a job by now.

At around 8 p.m., I went to the Motel 6 lobby and the pay phone (opting not to spend the money needed to activate the room phone). Slipping in 50 cents, I dialed my parents, taking a big breath first because there could be no disappointment in my voice when I told them Colorado was a bust, and I was heading to Oregon.

“Hey mom, how is everything tonight?” I said. I was still plotting how I was going to break the news, and that I may need more money. Would they continued to fund this folly?

“Scott, where are you now?” she said.

“Fort Collins,” I said, wondering if she would remember I'd been here before.

“Oh, well, do you know a man by the name of Frank Boggs?”

“Frank Boggs? Uh, Frank Boggs, yeah, Frank Boggs, he, uh, he was at the, uh, yeah ...”

My heart was beating so loud my brain couldn't get its shit together. Frank Boggs would only call for one reason.

“Scott? Frank Boggs? He called.”

“Yeah, right. What did he say?”

“I think he wants to offer you a job. He said you talked this morning.”

“Yeah, we did, but he said he might have something but not for, something, or a week, or maybe longer … are you sure? Frank Boggs?”

“Yes, I have his number. He said to call as soon as you got the message.”

“When did he call?”

“Oh, I don't know. This afternoon sometime. Hon, do you remember when Frank Boggs called? No, it was after lunch. Maybe around 3? Yes, around 3 I think.”

Christ, that was 5 hours ago. Was the job still open or did someone else grab it? Or was it a job at all? Maybe he just wanted to update me on the possible offer. Maybe he just wanted to say hello.

Scratch that last one. Brain still having hard time engaging.

“You have his number?” I said.

“Yes. Do you want to write it down?”

Yeah, I think I want to write it down. No pen or paper. After having them ready over the last half-dozen calls home, I didn't bring them with me. “Let me go get something to write with, two minutes, call you back.”

Optimism snuck in again. I won't have to go to Oregon after all. I will see the mountains from my window. Boulder will be within driving distance.

I will be a resident of Colorado. Rocky Mountain High, baby.

I dialed Mom again, pen and paper in hand. She gave me his number. I said a quick “Bye” and dialed.

And got no answer. Of course (pre-voicemail; the things we take for granted today).

I don't remember how much sleep I got that night. Some, I am sure. Starting at about 7:30 a.m., I was in the lobby callng him. No answer. Returned to my room. Ten minutes later, back in the lobby. Same thing. Back to my room. Back to the lobby. Dial. Back to my room.

At 9:30.

“Frank Boggs.”

“Mr. Boggs, hi.” I identified myself. “We spoke yesterday morning. About a job. At the Sun. In the sports department.”

“Yes, I remember. May be old, but not that old. So, are you interested?”

“I am. Definitely.”

“OK, it's like I spelled out yesterday. Part-time, no benefits for about a year. No writing. But it's a start, and it's the kind of job you can make the most out of.”

“Yes, I'd like to take it. Definitely.”

“Definitely. Sounds good. When can you start?”

“I'm in Fort Collins right now, but I can start as soon as I get there. Ninety minutes or so?”

“Not unless you're taking a plane. More like 2 ½ hours, son, if you follow the speed limit. Which I highly suggest. Are you sure you can start that soon?”

“Yes, I pretty much have everything with me. I can starts whenever you want me to.”

“Fine, then. Come see me when you get in and we'll set you up.”

Goddamn, it's a Rocky Mountain High after all. Not a bad outcome for something that went back to a conversation at a urinal.

Not bad at all.

EPILOGUE – Turned out that the day I walked into the Sun, one of their sports guys had just submitted his resignation. He was on the slot, meaning he did all the stuff Frank Boggs told me I would do. I lived in a hotel for a week before finding an apartment – the live-in attic on the fourth floor of a three-story Victorian home just 5 minutes from the Suns' building (which I would come to find lacking two very important things – heat and insulation. I survived winter thanks to a space heater that was my constant companion). The official job was 39 hours and no benefits, though I often worked 60-hour weeks and volunteered for as many reporting assignments as possible. Within a year I was made a full-time
reporter, and within another year was covering Air Force football and the USFL (a league started to compete against the NFL and … oh, never mind).