Tranquility

Every morning at six George spread the newspaper on the kitchen table. He slurped his coffee and enjoyed the only moments of tranquility his life had to offer. The remainder of each day was consumed by demanding employees, followed by requests, complaints and musings from his wife, and monologues from his children. But from six to six forty-five a.m. he was alone with his coffee, his crossword puzzle, the news of the world and his thoughts.

It displeased him when the paper hadn’t arrived by six. All he had were those forty-five minutes and he didn’t like if even half of one of those moments was stolen by the tardy paper carrier.

Today he stood on the front path and waited.

The newspaper sailed out the car window and landed in a puddle of water left by the automatic sprinklers. It hit hard enough to make a smacking sound but not hard enough to spray water across his ankles.

George grabbed the paper. Too late. No matter how hard he tried, he was never fast enough to prevent the water from seeping inside the inadequate plastic bag. Instead, the folded paper acted like a sponge, the newsprint blossoming as water flooded its porous pages.

That woman saw the wet ground, saw the entire expanse of his driveway where she was provided plenty of room for her sloppy aim. The thing was, her aim wasn’t really that sloppy, since she managed to hit the puddle every day.

It was deliberate. She saw the dark spots of pooled water shimmering under the street light in the winter, or glowing in the summer morning sunrise. It was passive-aggressive, he was sure of it. Hitting the puddle allowed her to feel better about her sorry life delivering papers. She resented the people on her route, living in nice neighborhoods, the kind of people who still read newspapers, who could afford a subscription. She wanted to deliver misery into his life.

He carried the dripping mess into the house and dropped it on the kitchen counter. He pulled the paper out of the thin plastic bag and was rewarded with a spray of water across the cuff of his shirt. Nice. He dropped the bag into the trashcan and kicked closed the cabinet door. Gingerly, he began to unfold it. The water had soaked every section right across the fold. Rage swelled inside him, filling his chest like water threading its way through the fibers of the paper. It traveled through his tiniest blood vessels until he felt his brain was going to explode.

His calls to the newspaper, all 142 of them, logged in block print into his spiral notebook, had accomplished nothing. They apologized, offered to drop off a fresh copy, but it was too late. By the time they arrived, his morning would be spoiled. He had no idea whether they’d spoken to the careless delivery person. Had she simply ignored them? It was entirely possible the subscription department cared as little for his comfort as the carrier did. Either way, nothing had changed.

The next morning he was ready for her. It was all up to him.

He planted himself in the center of the largest puddle. He waited for her headlights to sweep around the corner, shining in his face as she approached his property.

The passenger window of her car was open. The paper sailed toward him. He ducked, but not low enough or fast enough. The paper smacked his jaw. He staggered back. His heel hit the sprinkler head and he fell onto the lawn, landing hard on the wet grass. Immediately the water soaked through his slacks. He hadn’t realized a flying newspaper would hit so hard. It felt as if his jaw had been knocked sideways, slightly misaligned.

Her engine revved and she darted away from the house. “Hey!” he yelled. “Hey! Come back here, you bitch.”

Her car rounded the corner at the opposite end of the street.

George pushed himself to the edge of the lawn. He stood and picked up the paper. It wasn’t as soggy as usual, but still damp from falling into the puddle after hitting him in the face. He turned toward the house and heard the muffler-free rumble of the paper carrier’s engine. As he turned, a plastic bag flew out the window, moving much faster this time. Instead of the flat shape of a folded newspaper it was round.

He watched it soar in a perfect arc. He’d known she had great aim. The pain was unbearable when the object crashed into his skull.

© Copyright 2010 Cathryn Grant