A contributor to this paper recently referred to it as “the Four Corners’ locus of the interestingly random happenstance.”
While I am not sure what a “locus” is, I couldn’t agree more with the “random happenstance” part. See, as head of the complaint/editorial/circulation/human resources/facilities departments, no one has had more “random happenstance” than yours truly. This might explain why my own mother accuses me of “making all this stuff up” and I am asked on a regular basis if “that really happened?”

To which I respond, somewhat defensively, I am not a liar. Vividly imaginative, perhaps. But certainly not untruthful.

Besides, everyone knows truth is stranger, and usually way more entertaining, than fiction. Take a recent phone call we received a few Fridays back, after hours. The anonymous tipster called to say one of our newspaper boxes had been spotted in an alley dumpster behind a large downtown retailer. (Which, for risk of legal retribution, I will refer to as “Blight-Bag.”)

Anyway, seeing as how one of these boxes is worth more than two days’ salary, I decided to spend the following Monday morning investigating. A drive-by of Blight-Bag revealed a large construction dumpster and an empty sidewalk where a row of assorted news boxes had once been, but a scan of the alley and nearby dumpster turned up no leads.

Surely, the box was mistakenly removed and put in a safe place. No one would actually throw away a cumbersome, 40-pound metal box that prominently displayed both my business’ name and phone number without first calling me. So, I decided to step inside Blight-Bag to have a word with the manager. You know, business manager to business manager. Local y yokel.  

I’m pretty sure he took a page right out of the “Corporate Stonewalling” playbook when he glanced at me with a fair degree of disdain, and said (lied) he had no idea where it was. Now, when it comes to “People 101” I am not always the best, so I took a deep breath (yoga practice) and conjured up my friendliest smile. Perhaps the construction crews knew of its whereabouts, I suggested, and if he could just give me the name of the construction company, I could reclaim my property and be on my way.

But Old Stonewall wasn’t crumbling, claiming (more lying) that he did not know who the mysterious crews were who came in and remodeled his entire store over the last several weeks.

I dug deep, summoning my best interpersonal skills as I tried to chip away at the facade. I kindly reminded him that I am just a small, struggling business owner. And surely he must know what it’s like to have a valued piece of equipment gone missing.
Apparently, he didn’t.

In fact, I’m not even sure he had a pulse. Meanwhile, mine was quickening, and I figured it best to leave before it shot through the roof.

The plot thickened a few days later when we got another call. Turns out, someone had rescued the box out of the dumpster after all, and was happy to return it for the small ransom of $11 to cover freight from Hesperus.

I acquiesced, mostly so I could stick it to Old Stonewall – show him that no one puts baby in the garbage. Arrangements were made for the hand-off, in a back alley at a beat-up blue Econoline van, with six small heads bouncing around inside.

I soon learned the boxnapper was actually a farmer, rabid recycler and father of six with a deep affinity for the paper. A Durango native, he and his wife had recently returned from Northern California, where they met as tree sitters. That’s right – as in Julia Butterfly, who was a friend of theirs.

Needless to say, they had me at Econoline. We hauled out the box and I gave him $20 and told him to keep the change.  

 
As for me, I had some unfinished business to settle. I lugged the box home, gave it a good spit shine and brought it back to its original location, alongside the newly remodeled Blight-Bag. I knew it was a questionable maneuver, but the David inside me couldn’t resist throwing a few small stones at Goliath.

As I wrestled the awkward box out of my Suby and onto the pavement in the rain, I noticed a woman sitting nearby clutching a box of Vanilla Moonpies and having a smoke. I settled the paper box back into its spot and went inside to buy a silver Sharpie so I could write my phone number inside the box lest there be any question about who to contact. Alas, amid all the construction, someone had forgotten to re-order silver Sharpies, so I returned to my car empty handed. That’s when Moonpie approached and motioned for me to roll down my window, which I did reluctantly.
“My manager said he don’t want that there,” she said, pointing to the box.

Of course, I had a number of things I wanted to ask her (not the least of which was “why vanilla?”) I briefly considered marching in there, and poking him in his plastic nametag and telling him what I thought of his corporate-chain, sweat-shop, big pharma playbook, but decided it would only be another exercise in futility. Not to mention, not very nice – I figured his job was even less fun than mine. Plus, it would make me a hypocrite, since on occasion, I have been known to frequent said store for Chinese-made crap (most recently a silver Sharpie.) However, you could be sure my visits would now become a lot less frequent.

I thanked Moonpie, even though I’m pretty sure she ratted me out, and lugged the most-well-traveled newspaper box in La Plata County back into the Suby.

Of course, I felt totally dejected. There have only been a handful times over the years that someone has told me “they don’t want that junk” – and every time it’s like a spit in the face. Disagree with our views and politics – fine. Call us stupid; smart asses; commie hippie liberals; journalism drop-outs; bike, banjo and beer nerds– we can take it. But to call something that is lovingly labored over and painstakingly created with real human hands (and not in China, I might add) week after week, “junk” – that hurts. 

   
The rage simmered until I took a deep breath and focused on the positive (again, yoga). For every cheap, plastic corporate cog, there’s hundreds of real mom and pops who welcome us. For every Moonpie, there’s a Julia Butterfly. And for every apathetic, cold-hearted Stonewall, there’s thousands of strangers who are happy to see me come Thursday morning, pat me on the back and say “thanks.” Hell, there are even a few who are willing to dive to the depths of the filthy corporate dumpster to save us.

Of course, the ultimate irony in all of this is that, sometime after the box had been so carelessly discarded as “junk,” we got a call from Blight-Bag corporate. They wanted to know if they could get a “free” advertisement about their store’s grand re-opening in our paper.

To which we responded, in so many words, “Sorry. We don’t do that junk.”

– Missy Votel