The Pulitzer and the importance of showing up

As a veteran journalist, I’ve had lousy luck landing a Pulitzer Prize, that Grand Master Flash of my very competitive profession.

And yesterday was no exception.

Yet I have come close.

Twice, in fact.

Sigh, all I had to do was show up, report for duty, give it my all, and most likely I would have joined in the high fives.

But, nope.

I was a no-show, nowhere to be found, including when my colleagues lined up to accept their coveted award.

Let me explain.

Pulitzers are awarded in all kinds of categories, from criticism and explanatory writing to stellar photography and public service.

They’re also given for breaking news coverage in the wake of riots, earthquakes and mass shooters, a coveted prize often garnered by teams of reporters and sometimes entire newsroom staffs.

And it is under these last circumstances where I have stumbled and fallen, snoozed to lose, unable and yes, even unwilling, to answer the call.

But you know what? I’m cool with that. 

Very chill, in fact.

Because there are times in life when you need to experience trauma and tragedy as a victim rather than any recorder of history. You’re compelled to lick your wounds, to follow your primal urge to run away from the fire along with everyone else, as those brave first-responders and intrepid journalists go barreling in.

It is by no means noble and, some will no doubt argue, hardly professional.

Quite the contrary. 

And I admit that. 

Because, at my core, I am indeed a flawed journalist and human being.

My first failure to report began with a jolt.

As in earthquake.

The year was 1994 and I was living with my younger brother in a seedy rental house in Sherman Oaks, in the vast San Fernando Valley.

It had been a very crappy year for me personally. My first marriage was failing. My wife had left me alone, taking an extended trip out of the country.

I feared the worst.

And then the worst happened.

On January 17, at precisely 4:31 a.m., the Northridge earthquake struck, a 6.7-magnitude monster that changed LA forever. I recall the shaking — both up and down, back and forth - tossing my kingsized bed around the room like that spinning tornado-tossed Kansas house in “The Wizard of Oz.” 

And then, suddenly, it stopped, and everything was still, like when Dorothy landed among the Munchkins, killing the Wicked Witch of the East.

Outside, car alarms already blared. 

My brother, whose room was just down the hall, called out.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I come get in bed with you?”

It was that traumatic.

Pretty quickly, we were both up, feeling our way in the darkness without electricity or flashlights. My first job was to find my two house cats — the Garbages, Mr. and Mrs. — whom I knew were hiding someplace, absolutely terrified and perhaps even injured.

The living room had been trashed. Pictures had fallen from the walls. My two CD towers had toppled, with discs littered all over the floor, going crunch-crunch under our feet.

The kitchen was even worse.

Cupboard doors, even the refrigerator, had been violently swung open, their contents emptied onto the floor, which now held a reeking concoction of broken glass, spilled vinegar, hot sauce, yesterday’s fish, pasta arrabiata …

You get the picture.

We found the cats and deposited them inside my car. Then we noticed that our neighbor’s chimney had collapsed onto his vehicle, which now completely crushed, its alarm yelping.

Together, my brother and I stood in our backyard, talking, trying to figure out what on earth had just happened.

It was still dark, and we could hear helicopters thumping overhead. But we had no clue of the overall devastation the quake had caused, where it was centered, how many were now homeless or injured or dead.

We did know that our own lives had been rudely interrupted.

“You know,” I told my brother, standing there in the blackness, barely able to see his face, “with the year I’ve had, I wouldn’t be surprised if the epicenter of this quake was right underneath this house.”

My brother, as usual, had other thoughts on his mind.

“I’m hungry,” he said. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

We hopped into my 1990 Honda Accord and set off in search of food, two accidental tourists in the apocalypse. We turned left onto deserted Ventura Boulevard.

My brother had the nearby McDonalds in mind.

When we arrived, it was in flames, as was a favorite haunt, the Chimney Sweep bar, just around the corner.

That’s when it hit home, and hard.

This was bad, really, really bad.

We turned the car around and headed toward Studio City. All along the way, there were fallen lamp posts, gushing fire hydrants and garbage in the street.

Then we saw it — the thing that woke me to the fact that my brother and I were not the only victims to this devastating earthquake.

Outside a grocery store, the line for food and emergency supplies was around the block. My reportorial instincts told me to grab a notebook and start interviewing people. 

Instead, I looked at my brother.

“I can’t do it,” I said. “I can’t be a reporter today. I’m a victim.”

Even now, I can’t say precisely why I felt that way. The disaster had suddenly bonded my brother and me, causing us to immediately lay aside any petty grievances that might have separated us. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t want to break that spell.

I went home and got on the phone. (At least that was working.)

By then, reporters from all over the San Fernando Valley edition of my newspaper were calling in for duty. There was an older worker, a switchboard operator named Shirley, who’d hurried to the office to woman her post, marshaling reporters to this scene or that.

Later, bragging rights went to those who’d managed to call in first.

(“Well, I called in two minutes after the quake hit.”)

I, instead, called in to say that the damage to my home had been too catastrophic.

I wasn’t coming in.

Nobody questioned. That’s just how it was.

I don’t remember much of what happened that day. At one point, my brother and I walked over to our corner liquor store to buy a case of beer to drink in the backyard.

The owner had no power, but he did have a handgun strapped to his shoulder.

I went back to work the next day, my bubble of victimhood finally burst.

Actually, the newspaper’s top editor called me at home that first evening. He had a story he wanted me to tackle: Go out and find a crack real estate agent and find out what’s it like to try and sell homes the day after a devastating earthquake.

The story landed on the front page, but gave me no particular pride.

Months later, when that year’s Pulitzers were announced, the entire edition was awarded the prize for breaking news.

People were proud and they had every right to be.

But I did not take part, because I had not answered the call.

I lost no sleep.

Fast forward more than 20 years.

By then I’d taken a buyout from my LA newspaper and was living in Las Vegas, freelancing for several magazines and national newspapers.

On the evening of Sunday, October 1, I was in San Francisco, enjoying the last of several days spent with my wife before heading home.

At 10 p.m., my cell phone rang. I didn’t get to it in time, but replayed the message.

It was an editor for a big newspaper for whom I had done work, the first of several clients to ring, each wanting to know if I was in town and whether I could respond to a major breaking news story.

A gunman had opened fire from an upper floor of the Mandalay Bay hotel and casino, spraying high-caliber bullets, death and destruction onto thousands of concertgoers down below. They were sitting ducks. Scores died, more were injured.

Well, I was not in town. And the last flight out to Las Vegas was long gone. 

I knew that these newspaper editors wanted me there for the first crucial hours, and that they would have their own troops on the ground by the following morning. 

By the time I would get back Monday night, I would be of little use to them.

So I made a decision.

I turned off my phone and turned on the TV, traumatized at what I saw.

A few days later, I got an email from an editor at a major newspaper. He wanted me to join their extended coverage of the event.

I was torn. 

One reason I had left daily journalism was because of this kind of story. In my last years, I had been jettisoned to more school shootings and mass kill-offs than I could count.

I was weary of chasing death, knocking on doors to interview grieving widows, traumatized mothers and fathers, not to mention baffled relatives of a troubled gunmen.

So, at this point, you know what I did, or did not, do.

I dropped the ball, lost the race, threw in the towel. I was that troubled would-be groom who just doesn’t — can’t — show up at the church for his wedding day.

I never contacted the editor.

Months later, the major newspaper’s staff that had been dispatched to cover the tragedy won the Pulitzer Prize for breaking news.

That night, like all the others since, I slept like a baby.