21 August 2000
I went outside to fetch my paper at 9:30am on Sunday, and it was not there. I went again at 10am, and it was not there. I went out again, every twenty minutes or so, wanting to give the paper-person I have never seen the benefit of the doubt. Maybe I let my bill lapse. Maybe s/he slept in. Maybe someone else in my building took it.
The Sunday paper is something I rarely begin my week without. It's an integral part of a simple routine, woven into my weekly expectations. Sunday mornings, after making pancakes and a pot of coffee, I will read the paper in my pajamas while listening to Bach or Chopin. First, I sort: classifieds, sports, business, and ads for stores in which I never shop go into one pile, to remain unread. Everything else goes into another pile, with comics and lame USA Today magazines on top, ads for places where I do shop (or at least browse) next, and the news sections on the bottom. I read it all in that order-- one must ease slowly from sleep into reports of starving children in Uganda or the empty promises of political candidates trying to snare the majority of middle-of-the-road votes.
Like I said, though, the paper wasn't there. I dug last week's front section out of the recycling, hoping to find a number to call and request another delivery. I was pleased to find that the circulation department's phone system is entirely automated, freeing me from having to draw another person into my Sunday morning routine. "If you would like another paper to be delivered to you today, please press one now." I pressed one and returned the phone to its cradle; I was awkwardly smug with the power of my consumer status. As Americans, you know, it is our god-given right to get what we paid for, even when the bill hasn't arrived yet.
When McDonald's opened its first franchise in Moscow, the toughest part of training the employees was to teach them how to deliver the proper customer service. In old communist Russia, you see, a sales clerk's job was not to sell. There was little enough to be had without some big-toothed shmoe urging every customer to buy more. So McDonald's, with its "sell a soft drink with every burger, sell an order of fries with every drink, and for god's sake, super-size everything" sales policy, had quite a job cut out for them. The most difficult part, I've been told, was teaching the employees to smile.
The paper did eventually come, but at entirely the wrong time. By three o'clock, the pancakes and coffee were long gone, as were Bach, my pajamas, and Sunday morning itself.