The Newspaperman
The newspaperman delivers newspapers to us and many other houses in the neighborhood. I hear his motorcycle every morning when he comes to deliver the daily paper. He comes promptly at 6.30 a.m. every morning, rain or shine, unless something extraordinary prevents him from doing so.
He is so regular and prompt that I do not need any alarm clock to wake up. At six-thirty, the neighbors’ dogs start barking as he arrives and I know it is almost time to get up for school.
Though he comes every day, I do not get to see him. I only pick up and read the newspaper he had left at the door. I only see him once a month when he comes to collect the bill.
Promptly on the first of each month, at six-thirty in the evening, he shows up with his bills. This time he rings the door bell and I usually have to go and pay him. My mother will have got the money ready one day earlier and instructed me to pay him.
He never smiles. He merely gives me the change, put the “PAID” chop on the bill and goes off to the next house. It appears that his regular, almost regimental, rounds of newspaper delivery has made him behave like a robot. He is very efficient, very prompt and does not smile. That is certainly very robot-like.
Nevertheless, I appreciate his reliable service. For one thing, I am never without the daily paper. Some of my friends complain that their newspapermen are very unreliable. Not so with mine, he is the best.
