My night job with the Jamaican Mafia

Many years ago, long before I was suitable for a job in which I had to interact with the public . . . or even be seen by the public, (and after the first cross-dresser, but before the discovery of the second . . . and somewhere about the time I was tormenting the library ghost) I worked for a very small, weekly newspaper as a lay-out artist and later the lay-out editor.

Because the paper was a weekly paper, the pace was mostly leisurely . . . except the night we put the paper to bed (fancy newspaper folk talk for got the damn thing finished and to the printer). During the week, the writers and editors would write the stories and type them into our decrepit computer-like machine . . . and print out copy on this thick, sort of plasticly paper stuff. I would take the printed copy, cut it to fit the designated spot in the paper, run it through a waxing machine, and then affix it to the sheets the printer would use to magically print our paper. I also cropped photos, made up advertisements for local merchants, and drank and smoked a lot on the job.

The drinking and smoking wasn't a behavior I had before this job . . . see the Editor of the paper was a fine Jamaican man and he had a real passion for employing other Jamaicans. Thus, we became known to those in the know as The Jamaican Mafia.

It was good times . . . . being an honorary Jamaican. One night, we got snowed in the newspaper office . . . so we broke out our personal stashes of booze, mixed it all together to make a "punch" and had a particularly fine evening . . . swaying to reggae music and bumping into each other.

Another time, we executed a coup d'etat upon the local radio station's staff. More or less, they were bought off with booze and we played reggae all night long. We got so caught up dancing that we would end up playing whole sides of albums and even have several minutes of dead air before we snapped back to our responsibilities as DJs.

We have all scattered . . . some for more responsible jobs . . . others for the homeland . . . I'm sure at least one has been in prison (if not more of them). I talked to the Editor a few years back . . . he left that paper but still works in publishing. He's the only one I know anything about anymore. Which is too bad . . . it was a good job with some fun people . . . but as a friend once observed . . . journalists always know the most interesting people.