Proof of Life

Jon obliges a peepsNet reporter with irrefutable evidence of his real-time existence

I didn't notice him at first.

It wasn't that the give-or-take year since I last saw him had been unkind, but even so, he seemed like the gray man as I scrutinized the field to find the guy I was meeting for coffee.

Neither of us should be allowed to dress ourselves but I wasn't expecting quite the witness protection look -- as he would say, we kid because we love. Still, I should have zeroed in far quicker on the man who would choose to sit outside Starbucks on a cool, windy day.

The man with his head buried in a baseball cap and face buried in a newspaper is a definite prospect. And then I spy the nearly empty pack of Merits teetering on the edge of the small cafe table. Only the need to stay friends with a cigarette would coax someone away from plush seating and warmth into the arms of a flimsy, uncomfortable steel chair, and to subject oneself to an autumn sun so low and intense in the sky that even in the early afternoon an eye-level gaze is borderline painful and removing your sunglasses is out of the question.

So, the first thing we know about Jon is that he hasn't given up cigarettes. In context, that's a good sign.

"It's good to see you," I say.

"It's good to be seen," Jon replies. Yeah -- no mistaking that mixture of shtick and schlamozel.

Jon and I have had a similar year, looking for the next great thing, and we have tried from time to time to meet for coffee since we live in neighboring towns. But it has taken this long.

We compare notes and intel about places we've been and are trying to crack. We discuss strategy and tactics and how blogging has almost become a way for job-seeking journalists to extend and revise how the world sees them beyond the narrow confines of the cover letter and resume. We divulge disappointments and near misses and times we felt just plain used. We rag on Reuters for a respectfully brief but obligatory few minutes.

We talk shop: the solitude inherent in multimedia production; the craving for a creative environment; not whether, but how soon the embrace of citizen journalism by MSM will create a crisis in journalism, long after nobody noticed that the lines had irretrievably blurred.

We joke about working together again, with another former cohort or two, and it is a longing, instantly wistful remark that hangs there in the air for both of us to ponder while we try to conceal from each other -- as best as men can -- how nice we each think that would be.

We begin to figuratively rustle our papers after a little while, not long after the dregs of my grande coffee, black, have cooled -- we are, after all, outside. Time to move on since there are letters to write, bushes to beat, trails to follow.

I hope we'll have another meeting with much less time elapsed. And this time I think I'll recognize him right away.