the Trib.

The newspaper room in the Prog Building is right next to the main offices, just off the foyer. It's a big place with low-beamed ceiling and walls done in synthetic wood panels. There was a round table in the center surrounded by hardwood chairs, but we stood the chairs along the wall and dragged up the big deep leather ones. We all would sit with our heels on the table and every chair had a groove on the table in front of it. There was an unwritten law that no shop could be talked until every groove was filled with a pair of heels. That's a newspaper man's idea of a pun.

I was surprised to find almost everybody was in. I slipped into my place and upped with my feet and then took a look around. Every sandal showed except the pair that should have been opposite me, so I settled back and shut my eyes. That was where the Trib man should have been parked, and I certainly couldn't talk without my opposition being there to contradict me.

The Post said: "What makes, Carmichael?"

I said: "Ho-hum—"

The Post said: "Don't sleep, baby, there's big things cookin'."

The Ledger said: "Shuddup, you know the rules—" He pointed to the vacant segment of table.

I said: "You mean the law of the jungle."

The Record, who happened to be the Ledger's opposition, said: "Old Bobbus left. He ain't coming in no more."

"How come?"

"Got a Stereo contract. Doing comedy scenarios."

I thought to myself: "Oi, that means another wrestling match." You see, whenever new opposition reporters get together, they're supposed to have a symbolic wrestling match. I said supposed. It always turns into a brawl with everybody else having the fun.

"Well," I said, "this new Hogan probably doesn't know the ropes yet. I guess I'll have to go into training. Anybody seen him? He look strong?" They all shook their heads and said they didn't know him. "O.K., then let's gab without him—"

The Post said: "Your correspondent has it that the pot's a-boilin'. Every bigwig in town is in there." He jabbed 

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