It occurred to me the other day that it would do absolute wonders to my resume if I won the Pulitzer Prize this year. Not only would it divert attention from my two-year stint as a delivery driver for Papa John’s Pizzeria, but, more importantly, I would have something on my resume that rivaled Quark Xpress. Unfortunately, winning the Pulitzer Prize is something that you actually have to do if you want to put it on your resume. Companies are much more likely to do a background check on a nationally spotlighted prize than whether or not I’m actually a "team player."
As you’re probably aware, the Pulitzer Prize is an annual honor that recognizes excellence in journalism. Specifically, this is the type of journalism that has been known in the past to topple governments, unravel corporate scandals, and monitor human rights violations. As much as I think that this prize covers a very narrow scope of journalism, the 19-member committee in charge has yet to recognize the type that begins with the words, "Dear Diary." But I can’t disagree with the prize itself, a handsome sum of $500,000. Indeed, this is the true definition of a prize, unlike the thing I normally find under a pile of Cracker Jacks. If there were a prize for best prize, money would certainly win every time. On the other hand, it is hard to quantify the true economic value of a quarter-inch temporary tattoo. Personally, half a million dollars would come in handy at this point in my life, allowing me to pay off the majority of my student loans.
And whom would I thank if such prestige, honor, and moolah as this were bestowed upon me? The man in front of the prize is Joseph Pulitzer, a 19th century publisher whose journalistic integrity laid the groundwork for such publications as the Weekly World News. He would never hesitate to run to the presses with a headline reading "President Assassinated" on Monday, and simply insert a page-three correction on Tuesday. Nevertheless, he made a fortune selling current events and had the foresight to ensure his legacy after death by giving away money annually.
Being that I now have over eight months experience as a professional journalist, I have decided to jump in the deep end of the talent pool and take a shot at glory in the investigative reporting category. Last year’s prize went to David Willman of the Los Angeles Times, who wrote about the ineffectiveness of today’s Food and Drug Administration and how this led to seven unsafe prescription drugs recently put on the market. I can understand the hours of in-depth, top-to-bottom research that Mr. Willman’s expose involved. I, too, challenged the powers to be when diving head first into the untold story of Edith Holkinski’s 100th birthday celebration at Still Breathing Apartments in Jersey City.
This was the type of story, sparked by hearsay and cloaked in can’t-hearsay, that seemed to sneak by all mainstream media outlets. Luckily, an inside source tipped me off about the centennial pizza-and-cake bonanza conveniently slated an hour before Matlock. Canceling a midday interview with a victim of police brutality, I rushed over to the 16-story high-rise building inhabited by elderly people who "can still take care of themselves." I was the first and only reporter to arrive on the scene, giving me an unprecedented advantage to gather first-hand information. A dozen women occupied the party room, a penthouse gathering area furnished with cushioned couches and fold-up chairs, to wish Mrs. Holkinski a happy birthday.
"So, how long have you known Edith?" I asked Judith Condowitz, an 84-year-old resident wearing a cone-shaped party hat.
"Who?" she fired back.
"She better not even try me," I thought to myself as Mrs. Condowitz tried to cover up her relationship with that day’s special person. I smiled and gave her another chance. "Edith Holkinski. The woman who is turning 100 years old today."
"I don’t know who you’re talking about," she replied in a gruff manner.
Committed to getting the scoop, I decided to move on to a small group of 70-somethings who were deeply engrossed on the topic of how chilly it was outside. Asking a few hard-hitting questions, I quickly learned that Mrs. Holkinski enjoyed Polish dancing in her youth, a period that officially ended during Herbert Hoover’s inauguration. As the pieces were coming together, Mrs. Holkinski entered the room to a round of applause. Despite the fact that Mrs. Holkinski was told several times that there would be a birthday party for her, she said she was completely taken by surprise. I was suspicious.
"Is it true that you love Polish Dancing?" I asked her in a take-no-prisoners tone.
"I don’t want to talk about that," she mumbled. I continued to pester her with the same question while pinching her cheeks until she came clean. Admitting to her Eastern Europe two-step, and adding a tidbit about her week-long tryst with the Tango, I knew that I had nabbed the story. Arrogantly, I turned to Mrs. Condowitz, who looked slightly odd as the rubber band on her party hat had shifted from her chin to the base of her nose, and gave her smirk that showed her who was in charge.
I left the centennial celebration satisfied with the persistence I pursued the truth, knowing deep down inside that it was all for the betterment of mankind. And if an unexpected epidemic of illiteracy guides the selection process for this year’s Pulitzer Prize, I suspect that those 19 judges will see that too. – Prescott Tolk