The danger beat
Confessions of a student journalist part 2
“Illegitimis non carborundum—
Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”
—General Joseph Stilwell
There I was, walking to class, when I happened upon a burning car.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Holy shit! A burning car! What a unique and thrilling note on which to start a reminiscence!” And you are welcome to go on thinking that if you’d like, but I feel I should mention that burning cars actually aren’t that unusual at Simon Fraser University.
This isn’t because of vandalism or social unrest—I wish—but because of altitude; since the SFU campus is conveniently located at the top of a mountain, dodgier vehicles have a tendency to burst into flame during the long uphill climb. That’s what had just happened. The car had barely made it to the top of the hill when its engine externally combusted just a few meters from Campus Security headquarters. Orange flames erupted from its front grille as security guards kept pedestrians and traffic at bay.
We in the news business have a saying: “if it bleeds, it leads.” Close enough. I sprinted to the Peak offices and returned a moment later with a camera.
But, alas, this was not to be a simple point-and-shoot exercise. For as I approached the car to get my shot, I ran headlong into that foulest bane of the intrepid student journalist: the overzealous security guard.
“Stay back!” the guard shouted, grabbing me roughly by the shoulder. “It could explode any second!”
“It’s okay, I’m a journalist,” I said. “I just need a quick shot, and I’ll be right out of there.”
“NO!!!” he screamed, with the tortured theatricality one usually saves for the sight of one’s infant children being crushed under a collapsing overpass. I rolled my eyes. The fire wasn’t anywhere near the car’s gas tank, so the odds of my survival were pretty good.
I tried to get around the guard a few more times, to no avail. “Stay back!” he kept shouting, leaping heroically into my path and forcing my retreat.
But that wasn’t the thing that really pissed me off. Even though he’d successfully herded me back with the rest of the gawkers, this hypercaffeinated rent-a-cop was waving his hand in front of my camera every time I tried to frame a shot of the car.
I was enraged. He had no reason to do this. The car wasn’t an embarrassment to him or the university. It wasn’t a dark secret that needed covering up. There was no motive whatsoever for him to go out of his way and thwart my news gathering.
No, the only reason this idiot was blocking my shot was that he’d seen a few too many police-types blocking cameras on TV. If You Are Wearing A Police-type Uniform, You Must Obstruct Any Camera Within Reach. It was an instinct, a reflex action, unconscious and unexamined.
I stared angrily at the security guard. He stared angrily back. There was a dramatic pause, just long enough for me to unobtrusively slip a bit of background information about Campus Security into the narrative.
At the time of this incident, the good men and women of SFU Campus Security were eloquently described, in the words of one Peak editor, as “a bunch of fascist pigfuckers.”
Every couple of years Campus Security would renew The Peak’s contempt by perpetrating some brazen crime against humanity. One year, we learned that several guards were habitually using their passkeys to steal merchandise from the campus sporting goods store. Another year, the head of Campus Security was dismissed for—get this!—beating up his wife at the Campus Security Christmas party.
And then there was the time a student was savagely attacked right in front of Campus Security headquarters, and the guards didn’t intervene to stop the assault. As the poor bastard got worked over and had his face slashed with a broken bottle, all the guards did was shout “stop!” and call the police. And an ambulance. When we asked security officials why the guards didn’t do anything to protect the victim, they informed us that the university discourages security staff from intervening in assaults on students due to liability concerns.
Fascist pigfuckers, indeed.
So it should come as no surprise that the level of admiration The Peak had for Campus Security, and the cut-rate goombahs it employed, was slightly sub-nil. And it wasn’t getting any better with this dude blocking my sight line to the car. Not that it really mattered—I had little chance of getting a usable shot from that distance.
News photographers’ adrenalin poured into my brain, and its compulsion could not be denied: I Must Evade This Jackass, Put My Life In Danger And Get The Shot. The students of SFU desperately needed this photo. Victory would be mine.
A frontal assault was clearly pointless, so I ran around behind the margin of scrubby pines that stood between the burning car and a field. The guards hadn’t anticipated anyone approaching the car through the trees, so this route was unobstructed—but I knew I’d be seen the moment I broke cover.
I waited until my adversary’s back was turned, then leaped from the trees and sprinted the last few steps to the car. Heat from the fire washed over me. As I quickly framed the shot, I heard a howl of rage and running footsteps.
I pressed the shutter button and dove back into the trees just as Sgt. Hero descended upon me. I tore through the pines, waving back at the guard with a wide grin. Enraged, he lunged into the trees as if to chase me (and then what? Take the camera?), but then sanity prevailed and he turned back.
Victory was mine! I triumphantly emerged from the other side of the trees and waved to the crowd looking down at us from an overhead walkway. They roared as I danced like a quarterback after a game-winning touchdown. It was the only moment in my career as a student journalist that I would be adulated by a cheering crowd, and I enjoyed it utterly.
Thanks to my heroism, the February 5 2001 issue of The Peak burned up the stands with this incendiary item:
This, dear reader, is what journalism is all about. This is a story any credible newshound would risk body and soul for. And my body and soul, having been so risked, now radiate a pulsating, panorgasmic glow of blissful self-actualization in which non-journalists can only bask. •
Completed in 2004 for inclusion in the Wasting My Youth book, based on unused material from 2001-2002.
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