It felt right to dig out the old reporter’s notebook still marked up with breaking news scribbles. I reminisced on the subway, spending 40 minutes reliving my last day at The Spokesman-Review.
The last pages to see use date back to a police pursuit where the driver hid in a motel, but not before taking his clothes off in the elevator to change his appearance. He even had a neck tattoo, a physical appearance I noted with a hashtag on lined paper.
I sat on a rock later that day waiting for something - anything - to happen in a quiet neighborhood where federal agents were searching an apartment for traces of ricin. We hoped for any stragglers who may have seen something. I found this guy.
As appealing as sitting on a rock sounded - I had a date with a parade.
And then the pages were blank. It made sense to spend my commute writing notes, questions to prepare myself for my first freelance story in New York. That felt right too.