day to day and had been
editor nine years. His Volvo was parked in its space, but the space
next to it,.R. Shellburn, was gone. There was a hole where it had
been. Six or seven feet wide, at least that deep. Shellburn honked
twice and the guard came out of the shack. His name tag said FLOYD.
Shellburn couldn't remember if he knew him or not.
"Somebody stole my parking place,"
Shellburn said. Floyd looked at it a minute and shook his head.
"I sure didn't see nobody come in, Mr.
Shellburn," he said. "I had to go up to the garage 'bout
twenty minutes ago, they must of come in then."
Shellburn said, "What are they going to put in
there?" The old guard looked again, shook his head. "Maybe
you best park over in Mr. Davenport's place," he said. "Mr.
Davenport don't come in on Mondays."
"It looks like a fucking grave," Shellburn
said.
"Yessir," the guard said. “Probably
somebody who don't know no better."
Shellburn sighed. "I'll tell you, Floyd, it's
harder than that to get rid of us. They keep bringing in the
replacements, the New Journalists, waves of them, kids out of every
dip-shit little paper in the chain, and they come in with their own
rules, and they wash in and they wash out, and you and I are still
here." He'd decided he knew the guard.
Floyd shook his head. "We sure as hell still
here, Mr. Shellburn," he said.
Shellburn got out of the Continental and looked in
the hole. "What if somebody stepped into that in the night?"
Floyd looked in the hole with him. "T. D. Davis
hisself could of got out his car and broke his ass," he said.
Shellburn thought it over. "I guess it isn't
hurting anything there," he said.
Shel1burn's office was a desk, a chair, a phone and a
typewriter. Four hundred square feet with a view of City Hall. He
could look out his window and see an oxidized statue of William Penn,
anytime he wanted to. There was no carpet on the floor, no pictures,
no awards or plaques in gratitude from the Fraternal Order of Police.
When it came up, he would say that the only picture he needed was the
one out his window.
William Penn stood on top of City Hall—by law the
tallest building in the city—and beyond that was Center City, and
beyond that South Philadelphia. History aside, it seemed to him South
Philadelphia was where the city started. When he looked at a map, he
could see how something must have tipped over there and spilled out
in two giant stains, the northeast and northwest parts of the city.
The source was South Philly. When it came up, he would say he could
look out his window and see the people he wrote for.
It didn't come up much, because Shellburn didn't
encourage casual visitors. In his office or his home, for the same
reason. He sat down in front of a small pile of letters, and began
throwing them away. He threw away all the press releases, without
opening them. He threw away the Guild notices, the inter-office
communications about changes in the VDT system. He threw away letters
from Golda and Irene and Henry and Dora, which he recognized from the
handwriting. Arthritic, jagged script, it looked like cracked glass.
He threw away their letters because he knew what they would say, not
because he didn't appreciate them. They were proof of what he was in
the city.
That left the real mail. Eleven letters, all of them
from women, thanking him for some column he'd written in the last
couple of weeks, complimenting him on his courage for writing it.
People always thought it took courage to write columns. He read the
last line or two of each of the letters and tossed them into the
wastebasket too.
He remembered a woman in a purple hat with a piece of
net hanging from it onto her face. She'd stood up during the
question-and-answer period Saturday night—he couldn't remember what
group it was, but it was the regular $700—and asked if he really
read all his mail. Personally.
"When I stop listening to the people," he'd
said, "then they ought to stop listening to me." Richard
Shellburn had been
editor nine years. His Volvo was parked in its space, but the space
next to it,.R. Shellburn, was gone. There was a hole where it had
been. Six or seven feet wide, at least that deep. Shellburn honked
twice and the guard came out of the shack. His name tag said FLOYD.
Shellburn couldn't remember if he knew him or not.
"Somebody stole my parking place,"
Shellburn said. Floyd looked at it a minute and shook his head.
"I sure didn't see nobody come in, Mr.
Shellburn," he said. "I had to go up to the garage 'bout
twenty minutes ago, they must of come in then."
Shellburn said, "What are they going to put in
there?" The old guard looked again, shook his head. "Maybe
you best park over in Mr. Davenport's place," he said. "Mr.
Davenport don't come in on Mondays."
"It looks like a fucking grave," Shellburn
said.
"Yessir," the guard said. “Probably
somebody who don't know no better."
Shellburn sighed. "I'll tell you, Floyd, it's
harder than that to get rid of us. They keep bringing in the
replacements, the New Journalists, waves of them, kids out of every
dip-shit little paper in the chain, and they come in with their own
rules, and they wash in and they wash out, and you and I are still
here." He'd decided he knew the guard.
Floyd shook his head. "We sure as hell still
here, Mr. Shellburn," he said.
Shellburn got out of the Continental and looked in
the hole. "What if somebody stepped into that in the night?"
Floyd looked in the hole with him. "T. D. Davis
hisself could of got out his car and broke his ass," he said.
Shellburn thought it over. "I guess it isn't
hurting anything there," he said.
Shel1burn's office was a desk, a chair, a phone and a
typewriter. Four hundred square feet with a view of City Hall. He
could look out his window and see an oxidized statue of William Penn,
anytime he wanted to. There was no carpet on the floor, no pictures,
no awards or plaques in gratitude from the Fraternal Order of Police.
When it came up, he would say that the only picture he needed was the
one out his window.
William Penn stood on top of City Hall—by law the
tallest building in the city—and beyond that was Center City, and
beyond that South Philadelphia. History aside, it seemed to him South
Philadelphia was where the city started. When he looked at a map, he
could see how something must have tipped over there and spilled out
in two giant stains, the northeast and northwest parts of the city.
The source was South Philly. When it came up, he would say he could
look out his window and see the people he wrote for.
It didn't come up much, because Shellburn didn't
encourage casual visitors. In his office or his home, for the same
reason. He sat down in front of a small pile of letters, and began
throwing them away. He threw away all the press releases, without
opening them. He threw away the Guild notices, the inter-office
communications about changes in the VDT system. He threw away letters
from Golda and Irene and Henry and Dora, which he recognized from the
handwriting. Arthritic, jagged script, it looked like cracked glass.
He threw away their letters because he knew what they would say, not
because he didn't appreciate them. They were proof of what he was in
the city.
That left the real mail. Eleven letters, all of them
from women, thanking him for some column he'd written in the last
couple of weeks, complimenting him on his courage for writing it.
People always thought it took courage to write columns. He read the
last line or two of each of the letters and tossed them into the
wastebasket too.
He remembered a woman in a purple hat with a piece of
net hanging from it onto her face. She'd stood up during the
question-and-answer period Saturday night—he couldn't remember what
group it was, but it was the regular $700—and asked if he really
read all his mail. Personally.
"When I stop listening to the people," he'd
said, "then they ought to stop listening to me." Richard
Shellburn had been
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