Tag Archives: newspaper

Real-Life Paperboy™

Posted on by Chad
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I’ve been having some trouble with the person who delivers my Sunday paper, so I decided to write the Dispatch to let them know:

Every Sunday morning at my apartment it’s the same thing. I’m jolted awake around 6:30, 6:40 by what sounds to be someone forcing their way in via the front door. Except now I know better. The sound I’m hearing isn’t a ski-masked marauder, it’s the Sunday paper being thrown as hard as it possibly can against my storm door by the Paper Delivery Person (PDP).

This morning, June 24, was no different. I am instantly roused from sleep by the loud bang, thus ensuring I’ll not be able to fall back asleep; thus ruining any chance of me relaxing and sleeping in. The only difference is, this time when I open the door to retrieve the paper, I notice a nice big crack running from upper right-hand corner to the lower left in one of my storm door’s windowpanes. I will gladly provide you with a picture of said pane if you are of the new “pic-or-it-didn’t-happen” school of thought.

Please remind/inform the PDP that they are not Nolan Ryan. They are not Satchel Paige. They are not Charles Nagy. They are not going to the 2012 Summer Olympics for “newspaper shot put,” and thus should not treat the Sunday edition of the newspaper as a fastball or a shot.

Also inform them that this is not a real-life version of the game Paperboy™. And if this is a real-life version of Paperboy™, I will cancel my subscription if this happens even just once more, assuredly ruining their chances at a high score.

Plus, I bet they always wreck at the bonus obstacle course at the end of each level.

Amateurs. Anybody who’s anybody can make it through the obstacle course no sweat.

the rejected #2 (never fails)

Posted on by Chad
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Rejected submission to NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction contest.  The premise is that the story should be short enough to be read aloud in three minutes or less.  This round’s story had to be inspired by this photograph:

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It never fails.  When I get a roll of film developed, there’s always those two or three photos of nonsense.  Results of loading film and advancing the exposure count to “1.”  Their compositions usually just lines and shades, half-exposed shots of my feet, blurred fingers and smudges.  Some developers will throw them away for you, but I always ask that they print everything burnt onto the cellulose.  When I opened this pack of 24 prints it was no different.  There they were, jammed in the back.  On the last one he was immortalized, forever walking away, bag in tow, ball-cap covering hair that is now forever graying.

This batch was shot three months ago in the spring.  It rained for what seemed to be weeks straight.  “April showers,” they said.  I ordered a coffee and sat down to feed my camera a new roll.  He was slumped at the table next to me.  One hand flipped the pages of a local paper, the other held the red pen he incessantly circled with.  His expression a wonderful mélange of melancholy, contentment and troubled thought.  As his eyes scanned, his forehead moved like reading a music score. Forté!  Pianissimo.  He leaned away from the table, the orchestra at intermission, and glanced at me.  My eyes caught all the red marks on his paper.  Beautiful work, Maestro.

“I never had much use for these things,” he said, tapping his index finger on the newspaper, smearing the cheap print.
“I mean, by the time you read it, everything’s already happened.”  I nodded, feigning interest as I finished up loading my film.
“That’s why I choose the mistakes over whatever else they’re trying to tell me,” his now inky finger pointed at my camera and I.  “Just more interesting,” he concluded with the faintest of winks.

The circling and silence resumed, then we departed.  Smiling to himself, he got up and left the paper on the bright red table.  He stopped to throw his cup away and shuffled through the door.  I gathered my things, spilled some of my coffee, and followed him out.  I remember he turned right.  I stood outside the café windows, pressed the shutter and advanced the film till the exposure count read “1,” and made my way home.

That was three months ago when it rained for weeks straight, and it never fails.  When I get a roll of film developed, there’s always those two or three photos of nonsense.  Except this print, now hanging on my wall with a black frame and large white matte.  A solecism to the rest of my decor.  The subject an orchestra conductor, forever walking away, red baton tucked in bag, ball-cap covering hair that is forever graying.

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