I lived in NYC from 1990 until 2005. I love "The City" as New Yorker's affectionately and immodestly refer to their home. For most of my tenure, I lived in a relatively modest doorman building on the Upper East Side. The digs weren't fancy by NY standards, but it was a clean, nice place to live. I got to know and enjoy my doormen - they were an important part of my community and could make life really nice for you if you took the time to get to know them.
In most doorman buildings, the doormen will allow newspaper delivery on each floor. Looking back, it isn't such a big deal to walk or take the elevator downstairs and pick up a paper, but at that time, early 1990's and single, I enjoyed waking early, making a cup of coffee and picking the NY Times which would be laying in the hallway in front of my door. It was part of my morning routine.
And then one day it wasn't. I immediately went downstairs and inquired of the doorman on duty and yes, in fact, the paper had been delivered. I was puzzled, but being a busy young professional who sometimes forgot to pay less important bills like the newspaper, I resolved to call NY Times Subscriptions and confirm that my account was in good standing. I don't recall whether I called that first day, but the next morning my paper was where it should be, laying on my stoop at 6 am, so all was as it should be and the event was forgotten.
Until again it wasn't. By this point, I had confirmed that my account was in good standing, that the papers had been delivered to the building and that my newspaper deliveryman was aware that I wasn't always getting my paper. The thought of a paper thief crossed my mind but was pretty quickly dismissed as an unlikely scenario given that I was living in a building of professionals on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.
But my paper kept going missing and I grew increasingly annoyed. Then the Sunday Times disappeared and I went to war. I started getting up at 5:00 am and waiting for the deliveryman. If I overslept - the paper disappeared. I was furious. I set traps for the perpetrator - arising early and taping one end of a piece of fishing line to yesterday's paper and the other to my finger and sleeping by my front door. On mornings when I beat the thief, I left yesterday's paper in spite. I savored the thought of catching the thief and calling the police, or beating him (could it have been a her?) senseless or having him evicted - of getting my revenge for audacious crime of stealing my newspaper and upsetting me and my morning routine.
And then one day, my girlfriend at the time suggested that I simply have the newspaper delivered to the doorman downstairs. Another female friend suggested that I might be better off "choosing peace." At that point, I had no interest in peace - I was at war and I was going to catch the perpetrator.
Nonetheless, one Saturday evening, upon returning home after a late night out and during a conversation with my favorite doorman "Jimmy", I reluctantly relented and he agreed to hold my Sunday NYT downstairs. I don't recall when I woke up the next day, but the paper was downstairs where it was supposed to be and I saw a glimmer of truth about "choosing peace" as my wise friends had suggested.
After that Saturday night, I didn't think much further about my paper thief. Life marched forward. Al Gore invented the Internet, information all begged to be free and I canceled my subscription to the New York Times. I got married, had babies and moved out of "The City" and was left to contend with a local paper that had a homing beacon for the only puddle in our driveway.
And then one day recently, the newspaper thief popped into my brain. I chuckled at my original response and then began to reflect on the impulses that had driven me to choose war over peace when the solution of leaving the paper downstairs was such a simple one. Of course, I had been correct to believe that papers shouldn't disappear in doorman buildings on the Upper East Side. My reality, however, was that my paper was disappearing. I chose to fight reality rather than simply accept it and move on. Leaving the paper downstairs was an easy solution thankfully foisted on me by two much wiser women and my doorman sage Jimmy.
If faced with the same situation today, I would like to think that I would not get annoyed. The fictionalized enlightened me laughs, relinquishes and then calls the New York Times to order a second copy of the paper. Perhaps I'd post a note on my front door stating: "Your copy of today's New York Times - with compliments and gratitude".
Thank you, Mr. Paper Thief.
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