Trash – every kiosk within a three mile area, nothing but garbage. Feverishly, I yanked open doors, praying for the one thing that would make me happy. In all directions, empty corners where newsstands once stood.
February wind slashed my face, smothering a cry of despair. It had been months since I’d spotted that paper on a subway seat, pouncing on it, devouring its contents, page by precious page. I reread it for weeks, never ceasing to search for others.
All these empty stands left to mock souls like me – desperate for columns of words and pictures. At least people should respect what these containers were, not stuff them with paper cups, empty cigarette packs, vomit and crumpled McDonald’s bags.
He must have seen me looking. Maybe he followed me. I was sitting on the curb, clenching and unclenching my fingers, unable to form a new search plan. Wearing battered dungarees and a black hoodie, he leaned over and I got a good look: mid-thirties, stained teeth, unshaven, needing a haircut and bath. His close-set gray eyes were holes where pirates went to die.
“So you want a newspaper,” he rasped.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” My breathing quickened. I’d heard about guys like him – guys with information.
“Twenty bucks, I tell you where you can find one.”
“How can I trust you?”
“You can’t.” he said. “It’s up to you. How badly do you need your fix?”
“Would it have comics? A crossword puzzle? Horoscope?”
“I don’t know, my friend. But you have my word. It is a newspaper.”
I hesitated; he shrugged and began walking away.
“Wait.” I rose, dug into my wallet, handed him a bill. He gave me a traitor’s smile along with directions. I sprinted down the street, feeling more excited than foolish.
Ten minutes later I stood in a fetid, dingy alley before a gouged wooden door. I knocked six times, three fast, three slow, just as instructed. An eternity passed before the door opened a crack.
“Beowulf sent me,” I whispered. The craggy man stared at me with watery eyes, his bumpy chin finally nodding to me to follow him.
He locked the door behind me. I took a deep whiff and fell to my knees. INK! The smell of ink. The machines were silent, but several small piles of newspapers lay around. I lunged at one and was met with a knee to the rib cage.
“Not yet,” he growled. “First we have a brew. Then we negotiate price. And if you breathe a word of this, I kill you.” His fierce expression left no doubt in my mind.
We sat, drank, tossed around some numbers. I said I wanted backdates, as many as he had. I didn’t care how old the news was, I needed to finger and fold a goddamn newspaper. He said I get one copy; that’s it. He told me nothing of who his reporters were, only that he published a run every few days.
Glaring, he asked if I owned a computer, if I browsed the internet. I spit on the floor. He got up and hugged me. I let my gaze lovingly roam around the dimly lit room, as it waited for the machines to hum. He released me, pointed to the nearest pile.
“The top one is yours, my friend. I am satisfied you are genuine. There aren’t many of us left.”
“Tell me about it.”
I paid him our negotiated fee, carefully folded my treasure, and hid it beneath my coat. Fondling it, I skulked into the night. It took forever, stumbling to my place, as I kept glancing behind me. Inside, I flicked on the light, ripped off my coat and carefully placed my booty on the kitchen table. The headline was “North Korea Fires Missile.” I flipped through it. More headlines, photos, comics, puzzles, and yes, a horoscope. I chewed each page, remembering what it was like when every newsstand and kiosk held the world’s secrets.
I turned a page and found Dilbert with his upturned tie. – Joe Del Priore
Joe Del Priore is a frequent contributor. Comments on this piece can be sent to current@hudsonreporter.com.