Working on big issues

I recall another moment of epiphany. This was in the US, around 1997. I was in transit in one of the huge hub airports, possibly Chicago, rushing from Gate 17 to Gate 53B. Suddenly I stopped and looked around, and was horrified by what I saw. There were hundreds and hundreds of people looking just like me: hurrying, hassled, with an overnight-bag on one shoulder, laptop on the other. This was no way to live your life. And it probably explains why, after I returned to Australia and a well-meaning editor tried to enthuse me with the prospect of further travel, that I told him I didn’t want to go anywhere for a while. You see so much more when you’re sitting still.

One thing was clear to me from my earliest days at The Big Issue: I was there because I wanted to be. Being an editor is like being a footy coach. You can be sacked any time. It’s an occupational hazard. If it happens to me, I’ll simply move along.

I chat with many of the vendors, but my main role, plain and simple, is to ensure that a new magazine is ready every fortnight. My job is to give them something to sell. That’s their job. And most are proud to do it. These people who have battled all kinds of demons in their lives have work, and something to do with their days. That’s no small thing.

I recall an occasion, when a conversation with a Big Issue veteran ended with him saying, quite softly, “Thanks for what you’re doing for us”. Those few words were more satisfying than any sherry upstairs with the MD. And can make mouse shit seem like nothing much at all.