Mister Wheeler and the Renegade Newspaper BoyThe supreme good?
Fear turned my blood to glacial water, though it was all for summum bonum nonetheless.
.... by D. Grant DeMan
Each day of every week we saw him perched on Douglas Street, month followed month, year upon year. Long before first light until well after sundown, Mr. Wheeler reigned king-like on his oaken wheelchair throne, heralding daily journals for news hungry throngs. His plaintive refrain yet rustles the mind: "Get your paper here, Sir, Ma'am. The Times. The Colonist. Reeeaad the paper," he chirped, thus suffering a fifteen hour daily ordeal orchestrating headlines of ruin and critical episodic crisis served hot among vainglorious social pronouncements. Nearby stood helper, Yancy Lam, a young vendor of fearsome muscular proportions. Mr. Wheeler's intrepid right arm. And legs.
Editor Bill Loeppky describes Mr. Wheeler thus:
I recall the old boy who sold papers, but I cannot recall his name. He was
in front of Eaton's, at times Woolworth's, then down the street ....then
Woodward's little store on Douglas ... This old fellow was short, paunchy
(in a sickly sort of way) face and back of hands very blotchy red but
for some reason, and though I had never seen it, I imagined the rest of
his body to be coloured a hideous yellow-gray. In the morning, he wore
a Daily Colonist dark blue apron with large pockets. In the afternoon
... a Times apron of the same style. These aprons were likely printer's
cast-offs, as they were well blackened around the pockets with what
I presume was ink from dirty hands, or possibly just ink the newsy would
gather by osmosis in handling freshly printed newspapers.
I failed to note the date - though meadowsweets bloomed - when fortune placed us in confrontation, for I was but a ten year old renegade news-vending rover unable to afford the price of a corner. Indeed, a sad diminution of funds impelled my serpentine furtive path up cold streets, through steamy cafes, in dread of more solvent ironfisted youths who, having purchased those areas from previous entrepreneurs, guarded their proprietary turf zealously. And Wheeler, the reigning monarch of a block-long kingdom, was unable to catch me. Ha!
My habit was to slip up the other side, dreadfully aware that his walking stick, a formidable knotty hickory crook of a thing, could magically lash out like a stepped on diamondback. Indeed I conceded him wide berth as I sold my Times: "Payper...read Times!" I called in seeming safety.
Rounding the corner from Fort Street I failed to see the balled fist and straight arm that shot out driving deep into my face, laying me out on the sidewalk. My fillings rattled, my head spun and I woozed up to the horrid double visage of Yancy Lam, smiling and popping his newspapers as if to prepare for another encounter should the opportunity arise. "Wheeler would like to have a word, Punk," is all he said.
I could barely maunder a reply but, trembling and sullaged, accompanied him. Of course.
"Hello my good man," said Mr. Wheeler, his head a giant tomato glowing from beneath the crumpled Fedora; a viper anticipating a luncheon of toad. "For some time now I have observed your trespass upon my domain with equanimity. A composure that has now reached a terminus, I fear." He drew a breath and Lam tightened his grip. I pictured my punctured cadaver floating face up in the harbor.
"They tell me you hail from the North Ward. Is this true?" His cane waved in grand flourish.
"Yes sir," I quivered, stifling tears.
"Some fine lads come here from the North Ward. And many an errant boy must learn their lessons in a most difficult fashion. You seem to be one of those. No?"
"I have learned sir. Please let me go." I jellyfished against Yancy's grasp, seeking refuge. Succor from above.
"You have a home, you live there with parents?"
"Yes."
"Should you return this evening, in love they shall regale you with nutritious victual?"
"I reckon," I whimpered. What did he mean by should I return? Oh boy, oh boy...oh boy!
"My young fellow I enjoy none of that, you see. I sit here, a crippled man in tweed coat, withered by elements of season and time, a circumstance dictating nightly retirement to a cold room in fitful slumber, struggling to meet the impeding painful demands of a maimed body. Alone. Every newspaper I sell means I may eat that day just a little better than the one previous. Tuna, perhaps, in place of spaghetti."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wheeler, I had not thought of you that way."
"Little of substance, it would appear, has ever crossed that immature mind, Son. Trivial caring, I would think. So Yancy and I opportuned to be rather didactic with you, and now we proffer the chance to purchase six of my newspapers at the retail price of five cents per copy, an amount you shall be forced to retrieve elsewhere, if you can. A sum that shall temporarily balance the scales of justice for us. You understand?"
A river of relief deluged my tremulous soul: "Be mighty happy to buy your six Time's papers, and be on my way Sir." They were allowing me to live!
I handed him the thirty cents, took the newspapers graciously and heard this memorable oracular valediction over my shoulder as I walked: "Let the rule of gold burn eternally within your heart, my man. Do for others what you wish for yourself. For the Lord and summum bonum the supreme good."
I never learned Mr. Wheeler's real name, though I have asked a score of folks who recall him well. Like him, his title warped and faded into decades past. Alas. Never again did I sell a newspaper upon his block, and soon I gave up the game to work more fully in DeMan's Store and Emporium where I rightfully belonged.
For me it was to be summum bonum. At least for a long long long long time.
