Morning Paper

One fine morning, at the entrance to his favorite café,

He had a rather tumultuous confrontation,

Not exactly a knock-down-drag-out bout to the death

But a not altogether refereed tousle, either,

More like a ungentlemanly gentleman's agreement to disagree,

A truce rather than a full-fledged lasting treaty.

In what he believed to be extreme good faith,

He inserted four of his hard-earned quarters in the gaping slot,

Assuming he'd receive, in fair trade, a USA Today.

But that wasn't the case, the upshot, the outcome.

The vending machine decided to pocket his buck,

Give him an in-your-face "You're shit out of luck, buddy!"

He replied with a swift fist to the mechanism's coin-return plunger,

Thrice again, after feeding his eight bits in, again,

Only to have them eaten, then disgorged at his knuckles' request,

After which he retreated, in a highly pissed-off fit of pique,

Sullenly, disgustedly settling for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch —

Not worthy of the name "newspaper" (its box worked perfectly).

And that was that...almost. Once at his office,

Seeking restitution, he phoned USA Today's 1-800 service number

And, speaking with "Joe"'s sing-song voice from India,

Was assured he'd be reimbursed within two days

And that the "unit" would be scrutinized and repaired

Within ten working days...if not sooner or later.

Meanwhile, he was indeed S.O.L.

To him, consuming world news was as important as eating,

And the Weekly Reader Post-Dispatch wasn't even trail mix, Spam.

Having given the fates a fortnight, to make the world right,

Get their paper-vending house in order,

He shoved four quarters down the box's throat,

Confident that the lid would yield to his left hand's tug,

Open onto the stack of USA Todays waiting to see the light of day.

Tug, tug, tug. The lid was more stubborn than his wife.

Then he was stricken. His blood pressure bristled his lips, nostrils.

He felt a flagrant sensation of palpable hatred race to his tongue,

In the shape of five "Son of a bitch!"s, three "Bullshit!"s.

Normally (in his business life, anyway),

He was known for being mild-mannered, even-handed,

A man not given to outbursts, extremes — a cool cucumber.

But with February's icy winds almost blowing him over,

The ten-degree blasts tearing his eyes, biting his ears,

He was short on patience, not prepared for such abject rejection.

True to course, the vending machine obnoxiously held its ground,

Refused to unlock its ephemeral treasure,

Showed no indication of refunding his four George Washingtons.

Taking the law in his own hands seemed his only option.

With paroxysmal force, gripping the white-and-blue box,

He shook it violently — a guy riding a mechanical bull set to 10.

With a horrible banging, clattering, as if screaming "I give up!",

The coin box vomited its ill-gotten contents —

A drunk one-armed bandit, with cherries aligned, spewing its guts.

Quarters rained down like half-chewed food, littering the ground.

A fifty-eight-quarter Sutro mother lode lay in a puddle.

Counting and gathering up the loot took a few minutes —

Only paltry recompense, really,

For all the money he'd squandered, over the past three years.

"Fuck India Joe" he muttered, "for lying through his thick dialect!"

And fuck the delivery guy who services this route, he mused,

Who, doubtless, throws the stacks of unbought papers into his van,

On arriving, every next morning, pocketing the lucre,

Returning the previous day's stack to his distribution center,

While embezzling the embezzled take of quarters.

And fuck USA Today, for not inventing a better mousetrap!

No wonder people are seeking their news through the computer.

It just makes "cents," costs nothing but a booting-up.

But when he realized he had a broken piggy bank, at the café's door,

His anger diminished to the sanguinity of one who'd just made love.

Indeed, he learned to crave reading the Post-Dispatch,

Since, every morning, he got it free, along with a cash rebate.

02/24/09