A comeuppance

A couple of weeks ago, I was out in the southeast burbs visiting my pal The Shervinator when she told me a story that left me seething with jealousy. A woman who had once been her "nemesis" had finally gotten her just dessert.

The Sherv leaned back in her chair and said, with a touch of pride and smugness, "My nemesis was brought down. How many people do you know who get to say that?" And she laughed.

I love schadenfreude. It is at once among the most cynical and the most delicious of emotions. So complex. So thoroughly against my Catholic upbringing in a way that's a little frightening ('cause God might be watching you take pleasure in the suffering of others) and absolutely yummy ('cause, shit happens and sometimes it happens to those who deserve to suffer).

So as The Shervinator leaned back in her patio chair and raised her wine glass to poetic justice before she sipped, I felt the sting of envy.

I have a nemisis or two I'd really like to see get their comeuppance, I said. It might happen, but I don't think I'll ever see it because I don't even know where those people are anymore.

This afternoon, however, an e-mail arrived that proved me wrong. There apparently is some such justice for one of the two people who played the lead roles in a very troublesome, painful, dark and absolutely wretched experience that crossed the boundary between my professional work and my personal life.

I cannot bother with the details here. Suffice it to say, I had an Evil City Editor who was trying to fire me and was using my sexual orientation as a component in an attack on my mental health and my personal character. (And this was actually in a workplace that actively recruited gays and lesbians.)

I was powerless in the situation, and because I was in actuality dealing with some depression (which was neither the source nor cause nor reason given for my predicament), I was not finely organized enough to fight for myself effectively. And even if I hadn't been depressed, it was not a battle I was going to "win," per se.

In the end, it was my personal fortitude and persistence that kept me from losing my job, my ability to do exceptional journalism under tremendous personal duress that kept this particular son-of-a-bitch from having his way.

It so happened that the Evil City Editor who was gunning for me was also going after another colleague, God-Eye, for reasons that too complicated to discuss here but were, as with me, unjust. Our mutual experience of being so vigorously attacked cemented quite the bond between God-Eye and myself. He became, over the years, one of my most ardent professional supporters and wrote a more glowing letter of recommendation for my graduate school application than I could imagine. He stayed in the news business, and I left.

This is where my love of shadenfreude comes into play. The Evil City Editor is out of work, having been forced out of a job up here in Oregon for what *he* claims is an unfair bit of office politics. What goes around comes around! ... And now the guy is having difficulty finding work.

So who does he contact today and from whom does he beg assistance? From God-Eye! Who is now in an influential editing job down in California at a paper where the Evil City Editor has been applying and applying and applying, to no avail.

God-Eye immediately forwarded it to me and to the Managing Editor who eventually saved our hides by asking the Evil City Editor to find work at another newspaper in our corporate family.

At the beginning of a lengthy e-mail stacked with a litany of complaints about his difficulty finding work, the Evil City Editor wrote, "We haven't communicated for many years, but I hope you remember me. Of course, I remember you!" (I once had a journalism professor who claimed you only get to use an exclamation point five times in your writing career. This does not seem to be a good use of one of them.)

I asked God-Eye how he intended to respond. He replied, "I think the best way to respond is to simply say: 'I'm sorry, I don't remember who you are. Good luck in your search for employment. Have a nice day.' I think that would be a huge blow to that Titanic-sized EGO of his."

It's interesting how long pain can linger. I have never had my character called into question in so wretched a fashion as what happened with the Evil City Editor. It was nearly 15 years ago, and the thought of this man still turns my stomach.

Up until this experience, I had been in the closet -- I was still going through the process of coming out to myself at that point. His tactics were so aggressive, I had to out myself immediately to most of my colleagues and to the management just to protect myself. He created such a climate of misery for me in the office that I could feel my heart race every time I got out of my car in the parking lot and headed toward the newsroom.

The reasons I didn't immediately get another job are myriad. I still believe the best choice was to weather the storm. But it was a hellish one.

It took nearly 15 years for some payback. But I finally got a little of it today. And goddamn, that schadenfreude feels good!

I'm sure The Shervinator will be happy to have company in her elite little club.