Looking Out: Cliffhangers aren't just for TV dramas

A few weeks ago, I wrote a true story. That actually happens sometimes, even though it flies in the face of my personal motto: “I’ve never met a true story that can’t be improved.”

This particular story had to do with a barn fire and the sudden and urgent removal of many, many mysterious boxes the firemen found in the hayloft.

I made a mistake when I sent the story out for publication and, when I copied the text into an email, failed to include the last sentence of the story. It appeared in print that way in some papers, if they didn’t use the file I also attached.

People complained. My normal load of bags and bags of fan mail was overflowing with The Question.

“What was in those boxes?”

“My mistake,” I tell my friend Reedy over the phone. “I cut off the last sentence when I cut and pasted the story for distribution.”

“What about those bags and bags of fan mail you said you received from other readers asking the same question?” says Reedy. “How are you going to tell them? A follow up column — a sequel of sorts?”

“I just answered all my fan mail,” I said. “I’m glad you called. Let’s have lunch.”

An hour later, we’re sitting in a café enjoying lunch and conversation.

We talk about books. We talk about music. We talk about the current state of political discourse in the United States until we feel too ill to eat. Our conversation goes on to cover kayaking, bicycling, gardening and cooking.

Then, we turn back to unfinished stories.

“I really think you should do that more often,” says Reedy. “Leave ’em hanging and then deliver the punch line the following week.”

“What if they don’t read my column every week?” I say. “They’ll never get the ending, or they’ll get the ending but won’t get the lead-up from the week before.”

“That’s their problem,” he says.

“No,” I say. “That’s my problem. Frustrated, they’ll quit reading entirely. The vast riches I earn by writing a newspaper column will disappear. I’ll be homeless. My children will starve. The entire nation will become illiterate.”

“Your children are grown up,” he points out. “You’ll always have Social Security. It’s worth the gamble. Speaking of income, how much do you earn from your writing?”

“Can you pay for lunch?” I ask. “I’m a little short this week.”

Reedy pays for lunch. We continue our conversation as we stroll about town.

“Here’s what will happen,” he says. “You write a story and leave the mystery at the end. The next week, you reveal the ending but leave a new puzzle at the end of that story. And so on and so on,” he says.

“It sounds like work.”

“Yes, but it’ll start a buzz. People will talk about it. You’ll attract more readers. More and more newspapers will want to publish your columns until all six remaining newspapers in the country are running it. Riches? Bags and bags of fan mail will turn into bags and bags of money.”

“And maybe free newspaper subscriptions?” I say.

“Perhaps.”

In the end, I decide to reject his idea. I don’t tell him, because he paid for lunch.

We walk along enjoying the beautiful day.

“Hey!” he says. “You never did tell me what was in all those boxes in that burning barn.”

“World War II ammunition,” I say.

“Good grief!” he says as we are crossing a bridge over the river. I look down just in time to notice that someone has stolen a manhole cover. The very second I see that gaping hole, Reedy steps into it and disappears into the swollen, muddy river below.

I run to the downstream side of the bridge and…

I’m out of space. See you next week.

Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.

This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Jim Whitehouse: Cliffhangers aren't just for TV dramas