old people + founders
everyday, at 4:30 p.m, the Boston Globe’s breaking news desk gets a call. a grumbling voice asks about the stock prices. you answer. and then it hangs up - until the next day, at 4:30 p.m.
dealing with this phone call was a part of my daily routine as a business intern at the Globe, a chore previous interns warned me to not take personally. they told me to answer the question, and move on.
and of course, the first call came as expected.
“what’s the Dow Jones for today?” a cranky voice said. as the last number rolled off my tongue, the phone slammed down.
this daily routine continued for months on the sidelines, while i ran around the town that we all treated like a city. for stories, i chatted about french toast, and went to yoga classes, and even interviewed exterminators. i ran back and forth between the office and city hall, learning how to talk (beg?) officials to help me navigate confusing paperwork and processes so i could meet deadline.
and then one day, after another deadline passed, i picked up the Ring with a new found confidence.
more later, including , but first my words + reads.
my words: my humble first home-away-from-home was defined by something 18.5 inches wide and 32.5 inches tall: a mini-fridge tucked tightly on one side of my freshman-year dorm at Boston University. so i wrote about that in october 2017.
etc: i’m bringing this story up because this past week it’s been on my mind a lot that for someone who loves writing, i don’t journal enough. this essay has kind of served as a keepsake, and a nudge to be better at that. i’ll probably blog about this at some point (if people care, and even if they don’t) but i think we all need to write more even if it’s not for work or if it’s not our living or if it’s not for anyone except for our notes section on our phone.
learning lesson: i submitted the draft for this story within my first two weeks of working at the globe, after the real estate editor e-mailed the whole newsroom asking for submissions on “stories from your first home.” how does that line go, “dress for the job you want not the job you have?” somehow apply that to journalism. push yourself, etc. truly though, i think it was just pretending i wasn’t an intern and raising my hand anyways that gave me a lot of the “luck” i look back on.
song of the week and yes, her name is tash:
unorganized tab time:
my weekend newsletter for crunchbase news (this time, with an alex collaboration)
i’m good at writing, but no one at parties ever asks you, “can you quickly compose me an essay?
PaaS, or Pessimism As A Service
my first ever SEC filing scoop
anyways,
with the desk phone in my right hand i remember blurting out: “hi, i’m Natasha, the reporter who gives you the Dow Jones number, what’s your name?”
the voice stammered.
“Mark, i’m Mark, hello Tasha” he said warmly.*
i stammered myself. suddenly, my simple question transformed the grumpy voice into a person.
over time, Mark’s ring became solace during tense news cycles, from the #MeToo movement to the Charlottesville riots. with persistence, i pried for details that would give me a one word window into his life.
the voice got warmer as weeks passed: I learned that he’s been tracking the Dow Jones for years, for fun. he told me rainy days make him sad, and that we need to write about “Eastie”, a neighborhood in Boston. he had good days and bad days, quiet days and chatty days. just like me.
we wished each other happy birthday. he wished me good luck on my last day at the Globe. he told me i would love california, but to come back soon.
one time, when i missed his call, he called back the next day a few minutes past our usual 4:30 p.m. date.
“i called the Herald,” he laughed, referring to the rival Boston newspaper.
here’s where i’m going with all of this: i’m about 5 months into this new gig, and every day i’m learning something new about how businesses and people work. daily, i meet people that casually have people to make sure that other people don’t make their people look bad. sometimes, it feels big and flashy, and not directly about a sweet old man that called once a day because he mistakingly thought the local newspaper was the right place to ask about the Dow Jones.
but still, i’m loving and thriving in this big new world. and yes, here’s where i begin trying to convince you that tech could (should?) be compared to a sweet old man.
Mark was the first source i ever built - little by little. he showed me the power of details in journalism. he admitted i was the first reporter in years to ask about his day or his name. he taught me that it’s okay if you don’t get all the details on first chat, but instead chip away a person to learn their true stories. he reminded me that grumpiness on first glance doesn’t mean much, and we should all push people to higher standards. Mark taught me how to be a better journalist -- to ensure that the voice on the other end of the line knows that they are more than just a character for a story. and that sometimes, with time and distance, they can be the story themselves.
it’s a baseline to remember regardless of if i’m interviewing a public company, or pre-seed seed seedling yung earth startups. everyone wants to be asked about their day, and if you wait long enough and stay patient, they might give you a real answer.
all of a sudden, your simple question will transform the grumpy voice into a person.
so i’m not sure if i’ll find someone here that reminds me of him exactly, but i think that i’m finding moments that do the job. and as for back in Boston, i hope that Mark is still calling the same desk, and someone isn’t picking up to answer but to ask.
to more Marks,
N
*i took out his last name because i didn’t ask him permission
my old desk at the globe, the desk phone i used for those calls is peeking out on the right