| Welcome | Contents | Submissions | Contact | Privacy | About | Nom de Critique by David Breeden Little praise falls to men brilliant at reading the newspaper. That's why no one has heard Omar Hardesty praised. Well enough. Truth to tell, no one has heard of him at all save the editor of The Banner News of Summit, a weekly newspaper in a backwoods town. The editor, Jerry Hendrickson, knew Omar Hardesty only by his return address. The two met, over the course of thirty-seven years, only by way of the neatly folded newspaper which appeared forty-eight hours after The Banner News had hit mailboxes across the county each week. From the fact of its being mailed rather than irately thrown on his desk, Jerry assumed Omar Hardesty, the most excellent reader of his newspaper, must live in the county thereabouts. The postmark read "Summit." But where in the county Jerry could not surmise, the return address being merely "Rural Route 1." All the county had only one mail route, snaking through the isolated hill farms, sometimes in gravel, sometimes in dirt, so that wasn't much of a clue. More strangely, for Jerry had checked, no Omar Hardesty existed on the subscription list. This most excellent reader either went by a fictitious name or read--and corrected--someone else's paper. Jerry could not decide which of these possibilities he preferred. In any case, he had decided about fifteen years ago against "fictitious name" as the proper term. He preferred "nom de critique."

The first salvo from Omar Hardesty struck March 27, 1953. Jerry remembered it well. He'd been a young man then, fresh out of college with a degree in journalism. Actually, he hadn't quite finished the degree in journalism, but he could have made a comeback. He could have finished. The Banner News should have been a stopgap measure. That first year, 1952, he had laughed at the local yokels and their incestuous school board and city council meetings, their ridiculous boosterism. But he covered them, by golly, first as a summer job, then full time, and he made himself indispensable. In December of '52 the publisher, owner, and sole stockholder heaved his last sigh into the void. His alcoholic only son gladly unloaded the sad storefront, press, typewriters, and debts onto Jerry, who had really believed, at least at first, that he could make a difference in American journalism were he to actually own a newspaper. Of course it was only vanity. Jerry had been too young for the war, so he needed a crusade. In le grande crusade, Jerry couldn't pay both columnists and the electric company. Thus had begun his cat and mouse game with the county. Jerry Hendrickson, editor and publisher, was also Tony Robertson, staff writer; Ordin Howard, staff photographer; Roy Cobb, sports editor; and Sally Holbrook, features editor. Jerry enjoyed the game--a whole paper produced by one man using many masks. Tony Robertson was a bit of a Hemingway. Ordin had been a war photographer of sorts. Roy was a terse man, uncomplicated, a real man's man. Sally Holbrook loved propping beautiful filigree against the horror of existence. And Jerry loved the game, all of it. Thinking about his characters. Studying their writing style. Making up excuses for why he always appeared in public in their stead. Sadly, much like the obtuse police investigator in Crime and Punishment, no one in town figured it out. Except Omar Hardesty. From the time the first overstuffed envelope had appeared, Jerry knew he had one soul mate. Someone who cared about writing. Each edition appeared in the mail edited--really edited. Every misspelling, every misplaced comma, every misused word. No other comments. Just marks done with a sharp lead pencil. But on June 11, 1971, when the usual marked paper arrived, one thing proved different. At the bottom of the last page, just above the rough-cut edge, a child-like series of words read, "I know you are all of them." That was it. That was all. Yet Jerry read those words and felt a weight fall away. Years of meaningless work, ridiculous games, and posturing fell away. Someone had found him out. Someone could read well enough to see the truth. Jerry had been sent to Siberia for his crimes. The next week, the paper again appeared with only marks. No comment. No questions. In fact, never again had Omar Hardesty added a comment. What had he thought of Eisenhower? The missile gap? The space race? Vietnam, the oil crisis, or Watergate? How had he felt about living life in a dying rural county among the egregiously dispossessed? Jerry had no clue. Omar Hardesty's brilliance only revealed itself in grammar. Yes, investigative reporter Jerry, in his Tony Robertson mode, had searched the subscription list for clues, had tried to write to Omar Hardesty at Rural Route 1. Had tried to find answers from the mail carrier and farmers who lived down the lanes. Evidently, no such person as Omar Hardesty existed. Still, on May 18, 1990, when, for the first time in thirty-seven years, no edited paper appeared, Jerry felt a vast emptiness. No longer did he learn of his mediocrity and vanity through the graphite slashes of Omar Hardesty. No longer did he feel that mystery lurked somewhere out there in the farmland. Silence. That week and the next and the next. Jerry made egregious errors quite on purpose, trying to smoke Omar Hardesty out. Silence. Nothing. Raskolnikov committed his murder and no one cared. Jerry searched the obits but no one had died. No one. Omar Hardesty had disappeared into thin air. Little praise falls to men brilliant at reading the newspaper. Less still falls upon the mediocre who write passably. Jerry wrote an obituary of Omar Hardesty saying this, more or less. No one noticed that, either. Please send us your comments, including the name of the work you are commenting on. | Welcome | Contents | Submissions | Contact | Privacy | About | Copyright © 1999-2003 by Amarillo Bay. All rights reserved. Individual works are copyrighted by their authors.