Scared Money Don't...

In the ’90s, people read the news on paper—enormous, crinkly sheets that unfolded like word maps, leaving fingertips gray-stained and readers looking busy or smart to strangers—and kids like Lonnie saw opportunity. His theory: monkey-suit types, rushing from cluttered sidewalks in penniless loafers to skyscraping cubicle mazes, couldn’t resist a whiff of journalistic clamor—like smelling salts under their undercaffeinated noses.

And so…

Every morning, Lonnie fed a case quarter into a rusted stand—its metal innards creaking in exhausted protest—and wrenched out an entire stack of Tribunes, ink smell like spilled 87 octane, headlines bold and black on topics he didn’t care about. He tucked the bundle under his satin Starter jacket—a news baby bump that made him look like a rogue Giants fan turned smuggler—and huffed three blocks down, his Eastpak sashaying with each stride.

At his corner, he laid out the day’s headlines in neat rows against a graffiti-splattered wall, tagged mononymously w…