Threats and landmines

The first issue was done. The next issue was coming along. A town board meeting had been covered, other small stories had popped up - there would be enough copy and news for my second issue of The Mancos Times.

I was breathing. I was thinking that I was getting on top of the game. But Former Editor neglected telling me about several crucial Mancos Times practices and traditions that were taken for granted by editor and readers alike.

One of these practices was dropping notices and announcements through the mail slot of the Mancos Times office in Mancos. The office was a tiny, filthy storefront on Grand Ave. No running water, no heat, and shelves of lead type and bound back-issues of the Mancos Times. A naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling, a desk and phone. A combination padlock on the door that didn't quite close. A garbage can stuffed with bundled, yellow newspapers. Did I say stunningly filthy?

Since my arrival, I had taken little time to consider what to do about the Mancos Times home office. Former Editor had given me the lock combination and shown me the place. "Wow, this is filthy," I said. He looked offended and dismayed. No doubt he had spent a full seven minutes sweeping the place before my arrival.

But Former Editor had failed to mention that I should collect the filthy scraps of paper that fell on the floor through the mail slot each week. I didn't realize anything at all went through the mail slot as The Mancos Times had its own post office box.

These pieces of paper had pencil-scrawled notes about yard sales, fund-raisers, meetings and the occasional letter to the editor. Locals were accustomed to this system, but the system only worked if you knew who the note-writers were, in which case you could probably find their phone numbers to call them for help deciphering their illegible handwriting.

So I learned from my new boss that a lady from the VFW had called, screaming (really) hysterically (really) that her ad for the VFW fund-raiser yard sale had been omitted from the my first edition of The Mancos Times. She was apparently so hysterical that my boss had to tell her to calm down because she was unintelligible.

 I found the torn scrap of paper that had been deposited through the mail slot - it had been rained on, stepped on and finally blown between some cardboard cartons. Because the office door did not close well, much of the outside found its way in.The recovered note was unsigned with no phone number or contact information. I could not make out the writing, so it was unintelligible. Had I found it in time, I would have ignored it.

Anyway, it was the Sunday afternoon before my next issue. I drove to the Cortez office to get some work done in the quiet newsroom. Again, after learning about the mail slot, I felt that I was getting on top of this thing, and added announcements written on smudged paper scraps to the weekly calendar. I worked my way through several dozen emails, then checked my voicemail for a few days' worth of messages.

A weirdly tentative female voice said, "Why don't you just go back to where you came from? We don't want you here." What? I listened again. Yep, she still wanted me gone.

Stunned, I gazed into space with my jaw on the keyboard. My mind went blank. I was having trouble grasping the hostility of this message. My God. Were these people insane?

Again, that punched in the solar plexus feeling. I took another listen - an anonymous, nasty phone message from a woman with a distinctively mousey, hesitant voice. Sounded like she was in her forties or fifties. How could someone be simultaneously threatening and whimpy?

After stepping outside for a deep breath of fresh air, I continued what I had been doing before I was blown into the stratosphere by this nasty voicemail. When I could think again, I started on the weekly editorial. I decided to list the reasons it was much better to be in Mancos than Palm Beach County, Florida, with its cosmetic surgery-altered residents, ridiculous traffic, seasonal worries about hurricanes and would-be extras from the set of The Sopranos.

I ended my editorial by saying, "And to the caller who left the anonymous message in my voice mail, no I will not be leaving anytime soon - see above." indicating the list.

We rolled through the following deadline days with minimal snags. I had scraped the mail slot notes and requests off the floor, double-checked copy for typos, filed lots of lovely "Springtime in the Rockies" type photos and felt like I was loaded for bear. The best news was that this very afternoon, the county commissioners were holding a public hearing to discuss the proposed motorcycle rally at the dude ranch near Mancos.

I found my way to the hearing room at the county courthouse. The place was packed with ranchers and rural types next to people clad head-to-toe in black leather with headscarves and tattoos. There was a good showing of the off-the-grid, fifty-something hippie women as well. Kind of a weird scene.

The meeting commenced with the sleazy biker-promoter guy and Lars, the dude ranch owner, making their pitches to the commissioner for the proposed rally. They wanted the commission to give them the permits needed for an event featuring 10,000 motorcycle-riding campers.

The opposition offered their view of the rally - disturbance of the peace, unsavory bikers everywhere, un-mufflered Harley Davidsons frightening livestock for miles around, and the generally annoying nature of the whole thing.

Then one of the hippie women made her way to the microphone - long, mousey-brown hair, out-of-date glasses, she had been invisible in the crowd. Like Squeaky Fromme when she pulled a water-pistol or whatever on President Reagan.

She looked at the microphone like it was something very dangerous - I won't mention what, but you know what I'm talking about. One of the commissioners said, "Speak up, it won't hurt you."

She started talking. A chill went up my spine. Shit. Realization dawned. It was her - the anonymous message-leaver. Unmistakable. The jist of her comments was that since The Mancos Times had a new editor "who has no idea what is going on," that Mancos residents were not being informed about the rally permit process, and that she was there to register her protest. She then compared the rally to an act of wide-scale terrorism. This drew laughs from everyone, including the commissioners and rally opposition members.

But I was still considering my options. I had her. What next? This would require some thought. I was furious, and the primitive limbic system of my brain wanted revenge, or maybe a duel to the death or something.

It just goes to show that there are no secrets in a small town.