Fiction: Delivery of a New Perspective

By Terry Riccardi
arttimesjournal.com February 18, 2021

My husband and I used to share a morning kiss, breakfast and small talk at the table. When he died, my world shrank and I became a creature of morning habit. Get up, throw on a robe, go down to the lobby, bring up the paper, read it over breakfast. The Daily Journal is no substitute for my man, but it eases me into the day well enough. Until one mid-September Saturday morning, when the lobby was bare.

I grumped through breakfast, contemplating a day without major news stories, my favorite comic strips, and the TV listings. No chance to snicker and sneer at some of the letters to the editor? No laugh at the daily political cartoon? Grrr!

The paper came the next day, but not on the following one. Two paperless breakfasts? I had to take action! Hey, I'm a person, I have needs! Do you give a crap, Daily Journal?

I called, impatiently verified my name, address, and phone number, and explained the problem. The rep offered to extend my subscription for a day.

"I don't want that! I want a paper."

"Yes, I'm so sorry. I will notify the distribution manager. Thank you for calling the Daily Journal." She hung up and I did my best to get through the day without seriously harming anyone. The deli clerk who sliced my liverwurst too thin never knew how close he came to being hung on one of the big meat hooks on the rear wall. The checkout cashier wisely said not a word as I slammed my purchases down on her counter to be rung up.

Just as I sat down to a joyless dinner, the distribution manager phoned. "The paper is delivered every day," he said in a flat, unfriendly voice. "If it's not there, someone is stealing it."

"What am I supposed to do, then? I'm paying for that paper!" My voice rose. "Cancel it," he said nastily.

Cancel?! Easy for him to say; I bet he got his paper every day. I'd like to cancel him! Maybe I could find out where he lived and go steal his paper for a while, see how he liked a paperless morning.

Shuddering at the thought of a Journal-less future, I had an idea. "When the delivery guy brings the paper, could he punch in my 4-digit code on the lobby intercom? My phone will ring, and I'll know the paper's here."

He took down the code and hung up. At 6:02 the next morning, the phone jarred me awake. Was that my paper? Good lord, was it really delivered at such an ungodly hour?! I went downstairs, and there it was. Cradling it to my chest, I went back upstairs, then went back to bed. But I was now wide awake. The 6 a.m. phone call, the trip to the lobby, and the inability to go back to sleep became my new morning routine.

I called the paper several times over the next two weeks. "The paper comes every day now, so please tell the delivery guy to stop using the intercom." Each Journal rep listened politely to my request and assured me that the issue would be taken care of.

But it was not. The early morning phone calls continued. Was there even one competent employee at that newspaper? Why couldn't they do something? Would I ever sleep past 6 a.m. again? Yes, I now had my morning paper, but the bags under my eyes grew with each day's too-early awakening.

One Monday, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. No point trying to go back to sleep; the phone would ring soon. So I threw on my robe, marched downstairs to the lobby, and waited. At 6:04, I discovered that the delivery guy was actually a middle-aged, stout Latina woman.

She stopped a foot away, my paper clutched in her hand, and eyed me coldly. "You the one who call the paper and complain! Why you doing this? I get in trouble from you. I bring your paper every day!"

I took a step back, my own sleep-deprived temper rising. She was angry? What about me? I opened my mouth and abruptly shut it, realizing she was my only chance to get those phone calls stopped. Then I spoke, almost pleading. "I'm sorry, but I just wanted them to tell you to stop using the intercom. It wakes me up every day, and it's so early."

Her eyebrows rose as she broke in. "Early?! Lady, I am up 4:30 every day, seven days a week. I get my kids up, I make the breakfast, I get them ready for school. Then I drive here as soon as mami comes to watch them. I need this job! Señora, por favor, stop calling the Journal!"

Four-thirty in the morning? Every single day? Children to feed and clothe? My own annoyance and frustration faded away before an image of hungry little faces at a table, and this woman hanging out a window watching for her mother so she could begin her paper route.

"I had no idea! Believe me, I won't call the paper again. But please, please don't use the intercom anymore!"

She studied me in silence. Then, still unsmiling, she nodded, handed me the paper, and left. I prayed as I went back upstairs. Please, lord, let her have mercy on me. I didn't mean to cause her any trouble.

I set my alarm clock for 5:45 the next morning and was in the lobby by 6 a.m. At 6:02, my delivery non-guy came in. I smiled and handed her a container of hot coffee and a wrapped, buttered roll. She looked surprised, then smiled back and handed me my paper. "Gracias," she said and left, without even looking at the intercom.

Dancing back up the stairs, I put the paper on the dining table, patting it lovingly. Then I got back into bed and fell into a deep, refreshing sleep.