“What exactly is it that you request of us?”
“I need a job.”
“A job, a place to work, or a salary to sustain your material existence on this planet, in this town, for some unspecified and insecure slice of the future?”
“I have experience. I’m a Western journalist and recently served as the chief editor of Kyiv’s leading English-language weekly.”
“And this, you believe, is grounds for us to offer you gainful employment, to welcome you into our trust, to recommend you to our community of entrepreneurs?”
“Well, I sort of see this as a networking tool. You know, a way to make contacts, get the word out that I’m available for hire.”
“Network, contacts? Are you under the impression that we perform some kind of social function? Or do you see us as a collection of bright and shiny yellow pages, laid out for the convenience of your fingers to do the walking.”
At this point, Boner, Bret Boner, aka Media Man, falls silent, lowering his head not in shame or disgust, but as a subtle gesture of humility. He has come, cape in hand, before Expatriate Kyiv’s Captains of Industry, the men who make, shape and direct Ukraine’s commerce, finance and (mostly importantly) image with the West, to seek their assistance, counsel, approval. But instead of being feted as a fallen hero in the unending war against Ukrainian lawlessness, corruption and media abuse, our caped crusader has been met with smug smirks and supercilious stares from men who wear not ties, much less suspenders.
“I did get that little email you sent with the invitation for coffee or beers,” says Jorgy Judovsky, a leading member of the council with an eggplant-shaped head, saucer eyes and a toothy smile that says: ‘Hi there, fella, let’s be friends.’
“But just couldn’t get my head around the intention, Bret. You see, I like coffee as much as the next guy, and can often be seen with a cup in hand while talking to important people, unlike yourself. But this isn’t a social exercise, much less the promotion of this admittedly stimulating beverage on behalf of a local vendor – not that I would be opposed to such a shameless stunt to enhance my earning structure. In short, if I had the time, desire or material interest to take you up on such an offer, I would have shot you a response in a jiffy. But I didn’t and am not likely to, especially as you are unemployed and all.”
Boner’s not insignificantly sized head – often and correctly perceived in the shape of a thumb – droops again in submission after making what looked like an uplifting movement encouraged by Judovsky’s at least initially beaming demeanor.
“So you see, Mr. Boner, you appear to have misjudged the disposition of this council, in what can only be interpreted as an overestimation of your own now former role as chief editor of the Poster. Indeed, we acknowledge your generous sprinkling of our comments and quotes in articles of that publication that touched upon business matters – because business DOES matter to us. But, in truth, we were just as likely to receive ample coverage from your predecessors, nearly all of whom met the same fate as you. Our flattering photos, you see, will remain a fixture of any publication that purports to represent Ukraine to anyone speaking English with an eye on Ukraine.”
“Now just hold on there,” says Boner, reviving some of the former pluck that had allowed him in his last job to command a tight-knit team of teeny bopper journalists while staving off editorial interference from the likes of the paper’s CEO Boss Lard, or its owner Moe Zaire. “You can’t just write me out of the script, edit me from the text, erase me from the hearts and minds of an international public grown used to following the growth of a newly independent nation.”
“We don’t have to,” answers a third member of Kyiv’s Captains of Industry, all of whom remain seated behind a raised panel and are dressed like cardinals during a papal conclave. “You, sir, have never been an element of the narrative that is independent Ukraine. It started before you came and will continue long after you leave, which hopefully will be sooner than later.”
“Huh!”
“That’s right. You are neither actor nor author, Mr. Boner. Neither investor, nor executive. Perhaps you have been deluded by the paper’s so-called public, a tally of mostly paid-for hits on a website now pay-walled into submission. Now even the malcontent from Ukraine’s Diaspora cannot support you with his all too predictable repertoire of misguided nationalist tripe. Certainly you can’t point to the linguistically challenged expatriate who slavishly seeks his copy every Friday in almost religious observance. Students looking to practice their English – you say? I won’t go into your fondness for your Ukrainian co-eds, sir,” concludes the third member of Kyiv’s Captains of Industry, lifting his hand prophetically with pointed finger to reveal a gleaming if not entirely expensive wristwatch.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, bub,” barks Boner in desperate rejection.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” says the watch wearer, whose eyes remain hidden behind a thick layer of fog on his round glasses that reflect only the hall’s dim lighting. “You see, I’ve been in your shoes, Mr. Boner, just as you are now under mine. I walked the walk and talked the talk, clawing my way up from copy editor to managing editor, from lapdog to corporate liar, from PR supremo to published author.”
“Ok, I get the picture.”
“No, you don’t, but you will, Mr. Boner.”
Two loincloth-clad figures – one with tinsel hair and the other wearing a fedora, both fat and heavily tattooed – descend upon Boner, dragging him out of the spacious reception hall by the underarms.
A grave silence has descended on the Captains of Industry, all of whom sit stone-faced and immobile, like robots… while Welsh Losser drools.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, July 17, 2013