Jon Cohen, Cub Reporter

I am deeply pleased to announce to the community that the Swarthmorean has hired me as a cub reporter. I gave my wife, Mary, the news last evening.

“Oooh, a candlelight dinner,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “And look at you, all dressed up.” 

I was wearing my red prep school blazer and my bright orange Flyers pajama bottoms. I never attended a prep school, nor am I a Flyers fan – I got the outfit at Goodwill. Whenever I wear used clothing, which is almost always, I am ever so slightly inhabited by the chi of the original owners. Last fall, when I modeled the blazer for her, Mary noted the girls-school insignia on the front pocket. That explained the tight fit, and the faint giggling of a female teenager deep inside my brain. Now, sitting across from Mary at the candlelit kitchen table, I could “hear” the preppy teen needling the Flyers fan about the exciting violence of women’s field hockey versus the dull gentlemanly elegance of ice hockey. Or something like that. It’s hard to decipher debates between two strangers in the far corners of my amygdala.

“What are we celebrating?” Mary said.

“So, honey,” I said. “You know how I’ve been writing for the Swarthmorean?”

“Yes, dear. It’s so nice you’ve found an outlet for your emotionally fevered. . . for your delightful literary flights of fancy.” 

I chuckled. Which is what my therapist instructed me to do whenever my wife knocks me down a peg. Chuckle, chuckle. I gripped the sides of my chair, because I knew what she would peg me with next. The money thing. As in the salary I’ve never really excelled at getting.

Everyone thinks that being a writer is a super-high-paying job. In fact, as Mary will be the very first to tell you, in colorful language, the pay is . . . conservative, as in – remember when you were a kid and you had your first lemonade stand? Whatever income bracket that puts you in – I’m below that. But not anymore.

“Sweetheart,” I said. “The Swarthmorean loves my work, and they’ve offered me a job. As a cub reporter!”

Mary was sipping red wine straight from the box with her favorite straw – one of those large-bore ones they give you at Wendy’s with a Classic Chocolate Frosty. She stopped mid-slurp. 

“Yep,” I said. “Cub reporter – starting salary $150,000 a year!”

Mary spit a mouthful of wine across the table. She does that so often after something I’ve said, I know to duck. My nickname for the spattered wall behind me is “Total Wine.”

I waited for her to regroup. “That’s right, my love – $150,000.”

“That’s – wow – that’s a lot of money.”

“I’m worth it.”

“And your paycheck, will they be paying you once a month? Bi-weekly?” She took another long sip of wine, this time medicinally. I can tell when she shifts from happy hour drinking to nerve-calming drinking.

“Oh, no, no. That’s the old way of getting paid. Rachel said I’ll make my salary via gratuities.” I cleared my throat. “You know. Tips.”

I ducked. Turned and looked at the wall. It was going to be a soggy night.

“You think reporters make their money – through tips?”  

“I guess so. It’s all so new to me!”

Long, slow sip of wine. “Will you be writing, say, hard-hitting pieces?”

“I’m a cub reporter, honey. For the first year, I’ll just be doing interviews. Puff pieces.”

“And then the interviewee . . . tips you. What, you hold out your hand?”

“No. As I understand it, they put the money in an envelope. It’s all very classy.” I took a deep breath. “So, the thing is, you know how shy I am. My little . . . recluse problem? How talking to anyone but you gives me the hives?” 

“I love your hives! So colorful against your pale skin.”

Chuckle, chuckle. “So, sweetheart. This candlelight dinner . . . well, it’s kind of a – how shall I put this – business dinner.”

“Ah. So, right now – you’re at work. At your cub reporter job.”

“Bingo! I’m doing a year-long interview series called ‘Talking at Length with Mary Hasbrouck.’”

“And at the conclusion of this interview . . . I put cash in an envelope and slide it across the table to you. I pay your salary . . . out of my salary.” 

Mary blew out the dinner candles. Spoke to me in the dark. “Actually. Dear. I have another career idea for you. A real money-maker.”

The next day, I was curbside in front of our house, seated on a folding chair at my lemonade stand, wearing my latest Goodwill ensemble – a sequined feather boa, camo hunting pants, and a “Trump 2024” T-shirt.  You think it’s a tough job as a kid? Try making a living selling lemonade during a pandemic at $150,000 a cup!

Writer Jon Cohen lives in Swarthmore.