Editor’s note: This is a satirical article and is not meant to be taken seriously. It does not reflect the opinions of The Spectator or UW-Eau Claire.
After my near-death experience writing about a mysterious rain in October of 2023, I never planned to take another investigative journalism story.
I had done my due diligence — “The fall of The Spectator,” “The mysterious disappearance of the Oxford comma” and most recently (and traumatically), “The secret of the Chippewa River.”
But unfortunately, investigative journalism isn’t something chosen. It chooses you.
On Tuesday, Feb. 18, I wandered through the door of The Spectator office early, ready to unwind a little before the upcoming meeting and prepare myself for that night’s print layout.
What I found alarmed and terrified me, and I realized I had no choice but to get my trench coat and magnifying glass out of storage.
Tables blocked me from getting more than a few feet into the office. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled under them. I made it to the other side, but not without obtaining some nasty pricks from staples strewn all over the floor.
I peeked out from under the table and realized the entire office had been turned upside down. Most notably, though, the couches were moved in front of the conference room door, forming a barricade.
I crawled out from my spot and moved tentatively through the room, glancing behind desks and filing cabinets and shining my flashlight into dark corners.
The curtain covering the floor-length window looking into the conference room was closed, but I could still make out a figure moving around the room. I squinted harder and realized it was none other than Editor-in-Chief Caden Fisherman.
“Caden?” I said, knocking softly on the door. “Caden, it’s me.”
Fisherman ran to the door, cracked it open and glanced both ways before opening it far enough for me to squeeze through.
“Come in,” Fisherman said. “Quick, we don’t have much time.”
I gazed upon Fisherman with concern. His usual tidy dress and amiable demeanor had been traded for an unkempt appearance and panicked-looking countenance.
Against my better judgment, I climbed over the pile of furniture and squeezed through the barely-open door. What lay before me left me flummoxed.
The formerly orderly conference room had been flipped into some sort of makeshift bunker. Bags of candy were piled on the table and Expo markers had been fashioned into something vaguely resembling a sword.
I took in my surroundings and the disgruntled Editor-in-Chief, then finally asked him what was going on.
“Doomsday is coming,” Fisherman said.
“What?” I said, visibly perplexed.
“Layout,” Fisherman said. “It’s layout night.”
Newspaper layout nights carry a layer of notoriety with them, sometimes lasting until 4 a.m. Every page of the physical paper must be meticulously laid out, checked then checked again so that it can be printed mistake-free.
Those long nights sometimes leave editors in a state of delusion, unsure of what is up or down, real or not real, confused about what qualifies as an Oxford comma or not. The pressure must have finally gotten to Fisherman.
I shook my head, assessing my options, when I felt a buzz in my pocket. I reached for my phone and looked down at a text from Opinion Editor Baylor Toggess.
“What is going on in the office?” it read.
My knight in shining armor had arrived.
“Come to the conference room. And hurry,” I responded.
Fisherman continued to rush around the room in a panic, not noticing when I opened the door for Toggess. Together, Toggess and I were able to drag Fisherman from the room and sit him down.
Toggess ran to Davies Student Center to get him an Erberts and Gerberts sub before the sandwich shop shut down for the day.
“Caden, you need to get it together,” I said, shaking his shoulders. “You need to lock in, not just for the writers, not just for the editors but for yourself. You’ve worked too hard for the first layout of the semester to ruin you.”
Fisherman looked up at me, his eyes clearing as if a fog had been lifted.
“I’ve been in some sort of trance. Thank you for snapping me out of it,” Fisherman said. “We need to get this place cleaned up before the writers get here.”
Toggess scaled the tables blocking the entryway, sub in hand, and rejoined our group. Fisherman took the sub, thanking her profusely.
“Eat, Caden,” Toggess said. “We’ll sort this out.”
By the time writers started trickling in for the meeting, grabbing candy from the many bowls laid out on the tables, the office was pristine. Nobody would have ever guessed what the office had looked like only an hour before.
Well, if it weren’t for me, of course.
Price can be reached at pricekb7791@uwec.edu.
