Papa Gino's Resembles Cardboard

Today was my first day as a Globe employee. I slept late, since it's a Saturday, of course, then ran a few errands and leisurely got ready for it all. It was a bit of a task getting there (an hour of walking to the T, waiting for the T, sitting on the T, walking from the T), but I shouldn't complain because once I get on the T I just sit and read a book. Plus, I'll be driving tomorrow night, since I get out when the paper gets done--sometime between 1 and 2 a.m.

I got a 5-minute explanation of what to do when you answer phones and that was about it. There were two other agates there, and at the busiest point of the night there were probably 5 of us. And because the slow-moving beauracracy (is there any other kind?) still hasn't processed my paperwork, I don't have an employee ID or anything and couldn't get into CCI, the software for all the editing and writing. So I spent my day answering phones, writing down scores and plays by football teams, and looking up random things for people.

Am I the only person who wouldn't really consider calling a newspaper to find out if a game was playing, who won a world championship women's basketball game, what was on ESPN tonight or how baseball playoffs work? I got questions about all those tonight. One guy wanted to know about the Florida-Tennessee rivalry and who won last year. Then he wanted to know about Clemson and Florida State. Another didn't really speak English but wanted me to read him every score from every women's FIBA game today. Here are a couple other phone conversations.

Me: Sports, this is Liz.
Guy: You said Lynn?
Me: Liz.
Guy: Alright. Hey, do you know what's on TV tonight?
Me: Um . . .
Guy: Some games. I'm looking for some games. How about ESPN? What's on ESPN:
Me, frantically getting to the ESPN website: I've got it coming up here on the computer, give me just a second. You know, the Sox are on Fox right now . . . uh, looks like Clemson and Florida State tonight.
Guy: How about ESPN 2?
Me: We've got Texas playing Rice.
Guy: Texas? And Rice? (He sounded disappointed)
Me: TCU is playing on OLN. They're playing Texas Tech.
Guy: Rice is nice. TCU? Texas Christian U?
Me: Yep. I went to TCU, so that's what I'd be watching.
Guy: You want to go to that game?
Me: I'd love to be at that game.
Guy: You want to fly down to that game with me? We can fly to the game. Let's go to the game.
Me: Sure, I'd love to, if you can get me there by kick off. Kick off was seven minutes ago.
Guy: Why don't you give me your number so we can fly to the game. (At this point I'm laughing, he's laughing, and I realize that he is, indeed, as I suspected with the "rice is nice" comment, drunk.)

Another gentleman called and asked for a score. I put him on hold, found the score (I think it was the Harvard game, although I don't remember), and picked back up to tell him. This is about the fifth time I'd had to look up and obscure score for someone. He says thanks, and then asks, "How's your sense of humor today?" I was almost expected something snarky from him after that, so I said, "Well, it depends what it's about." And then he told me the following--a recent survey asked people in the U.S. if they thought immigrants should learn English, and 47% said yes, they should, but 53% said 'no hablo ingles.' It was funny, partially because it was totally not what I expected--a guy calling and telling me a joke. I liked it.

The other agate clerks were nice, but I got the feeling they didn't have the time for me. One stringer named Brendan and I talked a bit, since he sat at a desk by me, and he talked about TCU and then left to cover a game. Another AC took that desk, and his name was Roie (Row-ee) and he sat by me for the rest of the evening, which was nice. We discussed a bit of everything, especially once things got quiet, after 7:30 or so.

And then I left when I was done.

After I filled out paperwork on Thursday, when I was walking out and talking to Dan, he pointed out that I forgot to ask how much I got paid. Whoops. But there was pizza tonight, and it was barely acceptable, but the cinnamon sticks were yummy, and since by that point it was all guys left, I could eat them without too much competition. And as long as I get some food and get to beg for a science or health brief or one teeny-tiny story, pay is secondary.

Tonight I was scratching my knee and thought about scars. I had an editor once who said mistakes in stories were like scars--they add character. I think he was trying to convince a copy editor that one of his own stories was fine. I have a scar on my left knee from my knee cap getting kicked and cracked by a horse, and a scar on my right knee from my tights when I fell in ballet. An inch-long red line on the heel of my left hand from my first cycling accident this summer. A little half-circle on a knuckle from slipping scissors when I was in elementary school, probably 3rd or 4th grade. It was in New Mexico. A pencil-top eraser of red on my right shoulder, from a not-happy end-of-the-semester worry in the spring, and a large thumbprint of light pink on my left shoulder, which I don't even want to get in to.

I like my scars, in some way, because they're me and have stories behind them; I guess I feel about them the way people feel about their tattoos. And I like knowing about other people's scars and tattoos. The markings, discreet or unmissable, of where we have been and what we have done. The whole business of it all probably came to mind because I was thinking today of how I'm happy with where I've been, what I've done, with pretty much everything right now. Like some scars, there are things I wouldn't want to explain, but . . . things are good. I'm happier here this semester. Perhaps it's because I can see the end coming. Perhaps it's because I'm still caught in the heady last bits of summer (and the weather is still nice!). Perhaps I've made some semblance of peace with Boston (until it rains again), because my classes are good, I have jobs, and I have a bike, and I know how things will work.

But right now I think I'm getting too philosophical, and I'm trying to watch the movie "My Life," a 1993 flick of Michael Keaton, a terminal cancer patient making video diaries for his unborn son, and Nicole Kidman, looking delicate and pretty and blonde and not annoying, like in Bewitched. Much like that awful movie with Brad Pitt and a skin disease, it's got a lot of pathos and funny clothing of the time, which look bad now because they were trendy then. Like Brad's flick, this has a cultural healer that's called upon to try to help a hopeless case. I have to go inventory other similarities now, and reassure myself that yes, I have chosen the path of light as journalism and pray I will never think of making a movie.