"DEATH BY NEWSPAPER"
a tease from upcoming book three
In the early 1990s, my daily routine upon returning home on the bus from my government job in downtown Edmonton is to buy a Globe & Mail newspaper at the busy corner of Jasper and 121st Street, a half-block away from our apartment. I step off the bus, go directly to the row of metal newspaper boxes outside the entrance of the drug store, drop my coins in the slot, slide down the heavy door, and grab a copy.
Late one summer afternoon it went stupidly wrong and could have been fatal, stupidly fatal.
Newspaper boxes are ubiquitous at every busy street corner in rows of multi-coloured boxes: the dead black Globe & Mail, bright blue Edmonton Journal, glowing red Edmonton Sun, and the many yellows and greens of the indies.
I place my work bag (not really a briefcase) on top of the G&M box and fish through my pockets for quarters. Leaning over, I drop the coins in the slot and start to lower the heavy door. This is an old style box, complete with thick steel springs keeping the door shut tight. As I touch a newspaper, my other hand slips and the metal door violently slams shut inches from my face.
I’m startled by the sound and the closeness of the door. I start to stand up but can’t seem to lift my head: near my neck, my tie is caught in the large locking mechanism.
My gentle jiggling the handle quickly turns to violent pulls as I start to panic, the noose getting tighter around my neck with every yank. “Oh shit, this is bad,” I say to myself.
Bent over sideways, I again fish through my pockets for more quarters to open up the box but I have none. I reach upwards towards my bag but I can’t quite reach it. I hear the loud hustle and bustle of the rush-hour street and sidewalk traffic behind and around me. Only able to turn my head a tiny bit to either side, I see a steady sliver of people walking by in both directions.
“Hey! Hey! HEY!!!” I yell, flailing my arms to get their attention —attracting some who quickly divert their eyes and speed up their walk. My bent back is starting to ache and I reluctantly kneel in front of the newspaper box.
I’m confused and annoyed and angry why no one on the busy sidewalk is asking if I need help.
I realize I’ll need to cut off my tie but the only sharp object I have is my apartment key. Sawing back and forth, the polyester is surprisingly strong and I’m not making much progress when I hear a loud thud beside me.
Someone is filling one of the indie newspaper boxes —either See or Vue— and as I’m about to call out, he glances over at me and says, “What the fuck you doing?”
A couple of coin plops later, my neck is free from the Globe guillotine. I offer him a five-dollar reward for his life-saving quarters, but he just walks away shaking his head.
Late one summer afternoon it went stupidly wrong and could have been fatal, stupidly fatal.
Newspaper boxes are ubiquitous at every busy street corner in rows of multi-coloured boxes: the dead black Globe & Mail, bright blue Edmonton Journal, glowing red Edmonton Sun, and the many yellows and greens of the indies.
I place my work bag (not really a briefcase) on top of the G&M box and fish through my pockets for quarters. Leaning over, I drop the coins in the slot and start to lower the heavy door. This is an old style box, complete with thick steel springs keeping the door shut tight. As I touch a newspaper, my other hand slips and the metal door violently slams shut inches from my face.
I’m startled by the sound and the closeness of the door. I start to stand up but can’t seem to lift my head: near my neck, my tie is caught in the large locking mechanism.
My gentle jiggling the handle quickly turns to violent pulls as I start to panic, the noose getting tighter around my neck with every yank. “Oh shit, this is bad,” I say to myself.
Bent over sideways, I again fish through my pockets for more quarters to open up the box but I have none. I reach upwards towards my bag but I can’t quite reach it. I hear the loud hustle and bustle of the rush-hour street and sidewalk traffic behind and around me. Only able to turn my head a tiny bit to either side, I see a steady sliver of people walking by in both directions.
“Hey! Hey! HEY!!!” I yell, flailing my arms to get their attention —attracting some who quickly divert their eyes and speed up their walk. My bent back is starting to ache and I reluctantly kneel in front of the newspaper box.
I’m confused and annoyed and angry why no one on the busy sidewalk is asking if I need help.
I realize I’ll need to cut off my tie but the only sharp object I have is my apartment key. Sawing back and forth, the polyester is surprisingly strong and I’m not making much progress when I hear a loud thud beside me.
Someone is filling one of the indie newspaper boxes —either See or Vue— and as I’m about to call out, he glances over at me and says, “What the fuck you doing?”
A couple of coin plops later, my neck is free from the Globe guillotine. I offer him a five-dollar reward for his life-saving quarters, but he just walks away shaking his head.
