The Paperman

A few years ago, I used to get the newspaper delivered to my home. This was in effort of trying to stay current, more knowledgeable about the news and life happening around me. My dad read the newspaper everyday, and he was probably--despite his lack of education and despite his opinion of himself--one of the smartest people I know. Most often, the paper never got read. It remained in the plastic shield from which it came. Sometimes, several days would pile up on our foyer, until my wife or I got tired of looking at the blue mess.

My favorite section of the newspaper has always been the book review section. The Tribune used to offer it on Sundays, and it was the reason I wanted the paper. I'd always tear through the paper in search of the section, and take my time with it. I'd look at the Fiction and Nonfiction Top 10 lists to see if anything looked good. I'd always try to spot a writer I knew and feel a connection with the accolade. I especially felt good if I had read the book, like I had something to do to help the author attain a high spot. Then I'd take several days to read the reviews. I never wanted my reading experience to end, so when much of the paper found its way into the recycle bin, the Book Review remained on my desk.

And then I started having problems with my paper delivery. It wasn't enough that the Tribune had started to mess with the Book Review section, moving it to Fridays, moving it to Saturdays, and on both occasions making the section less appealing. They even stopped printing it for a time. The mishaps with my delivery really annoyed me. It bothered me so much, I wrote a short essay about it. When I think about ordering the paper again, I read my essay and remember that I can get what I need online:

The Paperman

I’m fighting with my paperboy. That’s not entirely true. I’m really fighting with my paperman. That’s right, my paperman. Gone are the days when a prepubescent boy is roused early in the morning by his mother, reminding him that his customers are waiting. Gone are the days when that boy begrudgingly gets out of bed to fold and band the newspapers—the thought of how fun it would be to have a job long forgotten. Gone is the stuffing of those folded papers into the easily recognizable canvas bag. Gone is the BMX bike, the delivery vehicle. Gone is the most sad aspect of the paperboy—the tossing of the paper on, or as close to, the front porch.

This is why I am battling with my paperman. It’s not a contest of words; I have never actually met him. Rather, it’s a contest of actions. I guess with some things in life, I’m what the kids like to call “old school.”

I think that a door should be held open for a woman. I think it’s impolite to cut. I am vehemently against people talking on their cell phones on an elevator. And, I would simply like to get my newspaper delivered to my front door.

It’s not much to ask, really. I guess it might be a tall order if you deliver the paper from the front seat of your mini van. I mean, that would require stopping the vehicle, putting it in park, grabbing the paper, opening the door, getting out of the van, and walking 12 steps (I counted) from the curb to my front door.

When I was growing up, Randy Harmon, our next door neighbor, was a paperboy. Granted, he delivered a weekly paper every Wednesday after school, but he still did it with respect of his customers. If he didn’t please them, he would’ve had trouble making the monthly collections.

That may be the issue here; why my paperman doesn’t feel the need to comply with my request. He gets paid by the Tribune no matter what, I assume. He’s not required to knock on my door every month to ask me for my $4.66. Nope, the only time I get a whiff of my paperman is when he puts a greeting card in the Sunday paper during the holidays. The card might as well say, “This is to remind you that I deliver your paper every morning. Please give generously.”

But it doesn’t.

I’ve even called the Tribune five times to complain. I’m always assured that the problem will be resolved. It never is. I think it’s become a silent game between us. I wake up every morning and immediately go to my door to see where my paper landed. I cringe when I see blue plastic flapping in the breeze at the bottom of my long driveway.

I don’t know how I’m going to win this game. Cancelling the paper would be too easy. Maybe I will become a paperman myself and steal his route. I couldn’t do that, really. I don’t live with my mother anymore.