CALL ME SNAKE

This morning, I was working on my bike (did I mention my love of cycling, one of the many things “W” and I share?) when it happened–my first, face-to-face encounter with the paperboy. (The “paperboy,” by the way, is a grown man, so another term would be appropriate. “News delivery professional”–NDP for short–seems to have become the industry standard of late.) The tension was palpable; you could have cut it with a dull butter knife. I have not tipped my NDP as often as he would have liked, as the tip envelopes arrive, without fail, every single week–more faithfully, I might add, than the arrival of the papers themselves. I believe in tipping during the “holiday season” but not in mid-May. (“Armed Forces Day” is not what I mean by the holiday season.) My frugality has created the situation I’m currently facing with my NDP, including the aforementioned delivery problems.

He handed the paper to me but took a moment (at least it seemed to me) before letting go. In that moment, which lasted an eternity, I thought of running upstairs, grabbing my checkbook, and handing over the entire balance (no great sum) to him. But then he was off, shouting “have a good day!” Taken aback by his exuberance, I was temporarily at a loss for words. “Same to you!” I called out, as he climbed into his car. “Come back around Christmas!”