A few days ago I wrote a long post about how much I love my New York Times. On the same day I compared the New York Times to being my nighttime mistress, someone began to steal the bloody newspaper from our front porch.
Yesterday, I got up early and crept downstairs in my pajamas. My hair was all over the place. It looked as if someone had spent the night electrocuting me. Balls of sleep were dropping to the floor from the corners of my eyes like yellow snowflakes. My teeth were untouched and therefore fuzzy and my breath could have taken down an elephant. One might say that this newspaper is important to me. Yesterday, I got down there before the kidnapping took place. There it was wrapped in blue lying below me on my front stoop. And I can’t be certain, but as I bent down to pick it up I think I heard the word “Mama.”
Today, I got up and walked Toby out. Barefoot and cold, I waddled down the three flights of stairs behind a bundled up Toby. He opened the inside door and then the door leading to the street.
I don’t believe it. It’s gone.
Gone? What do mean, gone? It can’t be GONE. That can’t be true.
It’s gone. It’s not here. Some asshole took it again.
My head turned hot.
I am so angry right now. Who would steal a newspaper? Why would someone steal my newspaper? I want my stupid newspaper. IT’S YOUR NEWSPAPER. I WANT YOUR NEWSPAPER.
I know, hon. I’m sorry. I know you’re upset. You need to make a sign like Noel said. Just make a sign that reads, ‘Hey asshole, stop stealing my newspaper.’ Now give me a kiss. I have to go.
I am going to put up surveillance cameras. This has got to stop. I hate them.
I gave him a kiss and he was off.
Once inside, I my anger became more and more real. I started to wonder what it is I should do. After some time, I figured I had no other choice.
If I can’t have her, no one can.
There was nothing left to do. I had to call the New York Times and cancel my subscription.
I’d like to report a robbery. My paper is being stolen.
She went on to tell me that this happens all the time. And while this might not come as much of a surprise to some, it damn near shocks the hell out of me.
Newspapers all over the city are taken on Sundays because you can get more for a Sunday paper. I think they sell for 5 dollars. So people steal them and then resell them. Nuts, isn’t it?
Absolutely! What do you do when this happens?
Well, we usually open your account up for an investigation. First, we find out of it the delivery guy is forgetting about you. Once we realize that this isn’t the case and it is actually being stolen, we start to hide the newspaper.
Hide the paper?
Sadly, yes. We have been forced to put them in trash cans, stuff them in bushes, put them under benches, you name it, we’ve done it.
That’s crazy talk.
Rest assured, you’re not alone.
I guess I could see it as a little daily scavenger hunt.
That’s a good way to look at it.
I never saw an episode of Law and Order where a menstruating woman sat outside and waited to kill her newspaper thief. Maybe on the day the headline ran, someone stole the newspaper leaving them nothing to rip from.