If you’re so inclined, you can read about it here. Or you can, as we did, imagine how the conversation about publishing the story went in the form of a scene from a “Front Page”-esque 1930s film set in a big-city newsroom.
Int. NEWSROOM. Men in shirtsleeves and loosened ties pound away at manual typewriters. The thrum of a printing press and scattered conversations form the din of a typically busy night on the city desk as COPY BOYS dart in and out of the rows of desks, picking up stories to deliver to the typesetters. Half-empty bottles of liquor dot a few desks; cigarette smoke hangs thick in the air.
Zoom in on excited young REPORTER, who slams down his phone, jumps up from his desk and bursts into his EDITOR’s office. The editor stares at his reporter with a look that is equal parts annoyance and anticipation.
I got a hot story, see? The dame, Lindsay whazzerhame — you know, useta be a dish, now on the skids.
Yeah? Tell me something I don’t know.
Hold onto your hat, because it’s a dilly.
Make with the story already!
Well, this dame, see, she’s afraid of — I mean it — little people.
(Chews cigar thoughtfully for a moment) Little people, eh? Like waiters and bellmen and whatnot?
No, boss, actual little people. You know, like them Munchkins in “The Wizard of Oz.”
Stop the presses!