This week 'The Chaff' is 'Charles in Charge' - The Chaff with Scott Stephenson
Once Shawn Loughlin, the editor of The Citizen, left town for a few days, ostensibly for a concert and wandering Toronto streets, The Chaff found itself suddenly in a position of absolute responsibility. Not a quiet supervisory role, but true, unmitigated, completely ridiculous authority over the entire newsroom. For the (second) first time, the phrase handle things while I am gone was not an idle warning but a summons to heroic action. The office, which normally functioned as a mildly chaotic collection of desks, keyboards, staplers and mostly-eaten sandwiches, now became a household that depended on our competence, just as the lyrics to 1980s situation comedy Charles in Charge had foretold.
We began the week by reciting the theme song quietly to ourselves. “New boy in the neighbourhood, lives downstairs and it is understood.” Yes, we were the new boy. The newsroom was the household. Every reporter, every stapler and office plant depended upon us. “He is there just to take good care of me, like he is one of the family.” That line became our guiding principle. It did not matter that there were no actual familial bonds, or that the only resemblance to a household was the slightly weird arrangement of furniture. We were there to take good care of everything, and we would do it with enthusiasm, with flair and with the occasional interpretive flourish.
By mid-morning, the office had been reorganized according to the rhythm of Charles in Charge. We stood in the centre of the newsroom, raising a hand like a conductor and instructed reporters to deliver their story updates as if they were dramatic readings in a family living room. Sports coverage became a soap opera. Arts coverage became high melodrama. Headlines were read aloud in accents ranging from medieval bard to intergalactic news anchor. The photocopier, previously a silent accomplice in printing, now performed like a loyal supporting character. Each jam was treated as an episode cliffhanger.
Lunch was no longer a meal. It became a ceremonial event. Sandwiches were prepared and distributed with the gravitas of a 1980s sitcom episode climax. Turkey represents efficiency. Cheese represents creativity. Mustard represents chaos and unpredictability. Sandwiches were eaten at random intervals, narrated aloud in the style of a game show host or a Shakespearean actor depending on mood.
By early afternoon, the newsroom had fully adopted Charles in Charge as a literal instruction manual. Meetings were performed as theatrical sketches. Important e-mails were read aloud as though they were epic poems. Reporters were required to summarize their articles using dramatic hand gestures, occasionally incorporating interpretive movements around desks. Every task, no matter how mundane, became a chance to echo the lyrics. “Charles in Charge of our days and our nights” became our mantra. Every project, every deadline, every minor crisis was handled as if it were a critical family matter.
By mid-afternoon, the newsroom had evolved into what could only be described as an experimental theatre. Even the office plants had been consulted for aesthetic guidance on page layouts. The Chaff moved through the chaos with calm authority, overseeing it all, narrating everything in line with the theme song and occasionally adding commentary like a sitcom narrator describing the absurd events of the day.
“Charles in Charge of our wrongs and our rights” became the guiding principle for addressing every small disaster. A misaligned column was treated as a major plot twist. A missing pen was treated as a two-part episode (Episode one: Lost, Episode two: Found). An incorrectly stapled report became an extended subplot. There were no moral judgments, only spectacle, absurdity and enthusiastic engagement with the lyrics. By doing this, we made the newsroom a living embodiment of the show, a space where even deadlines and office equipment participated in the narrative.
By late afternoon, the newsroom had completely surrendered to this new reality. Rolling chair races became a legitimate method of resolving disputes over printer access. Every occurrence in the office was framed as a plot development. Every e-mail, phone call or fax became a character in the sitcom that was now our lives.
As the week drew to a close, The Chaff reflected on its improbable triumph. We had become, fully, the Charles in Charge of our newsroom. The office had survived intact. Stories had been completed. Paper flew. Chairs rolled.
When Loughlin returns, we will report: The Chaff was in charge. The office survived. The newsroom operated with chaotic theatricality, and every single line of the theme song had been followed, more or less, to the letter.