I was sorry to hear of the death of Stanton Cook. It brought back a memory of a routine I had during the late 80s. Every day when I got off the train downtown, I’d buy a Tribune out of one of the many boxes on the street corners. I ran into a dilemma, though, when a few of the machines stopped working. I put my quarter in and the handle wouldn’t move. No paper.
I jotted the “If you did not get a paper, call…” number, and called a few times. I was always promised by the mechanical voice that I would receive the 25 cents in the mail very soon. That never happened.
I became more and more annoyed, until finally I had enough. I looked at the Tribune masthead and decided to write a letter to the highest man on the totem pole, Publisher Stanton R. Cook. I told him my tale of woe and sarcastically added something to the tune of how sad it was that the Tribune couldn’t afford to refund any of those lost quarters.
A week goes by and I’m working in my backyard and hear a big truck coming down the street – not a usual sound for Talman Ave. I peek out from behind my house and see a Tribune semi pulling up. I walk out to see the driver on my front porch, holding a Sunday Tribune hot off the presses and a new five dollar bill. He apologized for my troubles and gave me Cook’s business card with a request to call him if I had another incident with a recalcitrant Tribune box. I had to laugh. I never called him. By then I had learned to get my papers from the news stand, operated by a human.
But every time I heard his name, I smiled.
—Mary Burke, Chicago
