The Daily Paper(ing)

Every morning I go out and pick up my newspapers from the end of the driveway. This is a somewhat old fashioned exercise since I can get all of the same information from the same papers on the Internet. I subscribe anyway. I like to see the big headline letters on the back page. I like the word games the headlines make. When I was traded to New York, I remember reading the headline on the back of the Post: Great Scott! The News had Scott Free! since the trade ended up, with all due respect, being a little one-sided in favor of my new team. I don't read the articles about me so much anymore because they're largely negative. Yes, I've put on some weight. I don't need columnists, beat writers, and some guy who thinks he can draw funny cartoons to remind me. But I respect the importance of the stories (emphasis on "stories") they print and enjoy the trip down my driveway.

I didn't enjoy either today.

First, I'd already done a 35-minute run, which was about 3 1/2 miles for those of you keeping score. (A couple columnists are upset I'm blogging. It takes away their scoop power.) When I started and ended my run, it was dark out. I don't switch on our outside lights because I'm growing to enjoy the cloak of anonymity the darkness provides. A person of my ilk, who appreciates all that life has befallen him - wife, kids, loads of money, I get to play a game for a living - can grow tired of the constant fame and its posse of head-turns, autograph hounds, and whisper campaigns of "Is that Jimmy Scott? My God, he's put on a lot of weight." Leaving my house in the dark and returning in the dark gives me time to reflect, breathe heavily, spit and emit gasses from parts of my body without anyone knowing.

I was literally struck by the news today. Our "paperboy," really a 40+ year old man who drives what looks to be a late-90s Plymouth Voyager, whips papers out of the passenger window while he drives erratically around the streets of Madison (my town). I've successfully avoided his whippings in the past, pretending like it's a game of dodge ball and he's got the ball. I've never heard him laugh, nor have I seen his eyes, so I tend to think he is unaware of our daily game. He's got a lot going on behind the steering wheel, like driving. But he's also looking for his stack of papers, making the proper whip through the window, changing his loud radio station from Spanish Talk Radio to the Spanish Morning Zoo and back to Spanish Talk when the commercial comes on. So when he whipped out his/my paper today and it landed across my solar plexus, I was upset because:

1. I lost the day's game
2. My paperboy derived no satisfaction from striking me with a two-pound wad of newsprint

He drove off, weaving back and forth to satisfy his subscribers on both sides of my street. I watched him go, his music and talk fading with the distance between us, knowing we'd meet again.

Thus, the good run had been replaced by some discontentment after getting hit. I took a deep breath, coughed a little, and turned to head inside.

My driveway is pretty long. In some small towns it could be considered a street or way or avenue or cul de sac due to its relative longation. To me, it's a 400 foot stretch of asphalt that needs to be sealed before the first snow.

As I traversed my personal Jimmy Scott Lane, something caught my eye. Not in my eye. I wear goggles when I run to avoid foreign objects, like flying newspapers, lodging in my corneas. No, my peripheral vision made me turn my head toward my front lawn. I looked at the trees. I looked at the bushes. I looked at the shrubs and the fallen leaves that hadn't been collected yet. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and a dim, soft glow of impending dawn aided my vision. I wished it was still pitch black, my thoughts cloaked by daydreams. But that wasn't to be. Instead, I was horrified to see something I'd only wished on my worst enemies and people I didn't like.

My entire property was covered with toilet paper.

At some point between 10:30 PM last night and 5:17 AM today, vandal(s) carpeted my lawn, trees and all of the trimmings with what appeared to be two-ply Don't Squeeze the Charmin. I stood and surveyed the damage. Morning moisture had flattened out the intended softness of the brand which lay before me. It clung to bushes and hung from branches. Who would perform such a bastardly, dastardly act? And who was going to pay to clean it up?

I went inside and dialed 911. The woman who answered was nice enough to listen to my ravings and heavy breathing before nicely asking me to hang up and only use 911 in real emergencies, like if the toilet paper had been used and was currently on fire. She suggested I call the police directly. I thanked her and dialed 411. Assuming I'd incorrectly guess the phone number of my local police department, I needed a second opinion. The operator snickered, told me it was one of the first numbers any first-grader should have memorized, and played a recording of an annoyed voice that spewed off the number so quickly I couldn't write it down even if I'd had a pen or pencil or quill with me at that time. I hung up, found a writing utensil, and called back. Same operator - what are the chances of that? She snickered again and suggested I listen more carefully to the annoyed recording. I was paying 75 cents each time I called her. I thanked her by not saying anything - for fear I'd say the wrong thing and call her something my mother said not to call other people back when I was in first grade. The annoyed recording gave me the number and I wrote it down diligently, having to call 411 back only one more time because I was unsure if I copied down the correct area code.

By now, my house was stirring. Julia and Grace were upstairs arguing over who could use the "good" blow dryer first. Vanessa was making the bed. I could tell by the sound of her heavy footsteps upstairs making our bedroom floor creak and crack like a yule log. Just as I began to dial the 973 (The area code for my house is the same as for my municipal police department! Go figure.), a thought occurred to me. I hung up and trounced upstairs.

The arguing by my girls was reaching a climax. I usually watch and silently giggle when they argue. Especially because I'm not the one being argued with. The fun usually lasts until one of them, or Vanessa, tells me to stop laughing so loud. I couldn't watch and silently giggle this time. I knew who had pelted my front yard with poo poo paper.

Me: Hey!
Them: What!
Me: Are your cheerleader and volleyball friends constipated?
Them: What?
Me: Look outside.

I took control of the hair dryer and aimed it at their backs as I followed them toward a window overlooking the front yard. I was security. They were the guilty parties.

Them: We can't see anything.

I turned off the 1200 watts of lights in the room.

Them: Oh.

That answer was enough for me. The mystery was solved before I had to involve Vanessa, who no doubt would have known the answer before dialing 911 and asking for somebody legally armed to the teeth with assault weapons. When she asked me what was going on, I pointed outside with the hair dryer.

Vanessa: I can't see anything.
Me: Julia, turn off the lights and do something with that wet head. You'll catch a cold.
Vanessa: Looks like some senior girls gave our kids a nice present.

I argued against the niceness of the gift and demanded names. Vanessa told me not to worry. Leaf pickup was today anyway. The timing was good. The landscapers would simply have to spend a little extra time pulling down the mess from our bushes and trees, especially the toilet paper clinging to our large ash. I asked who was going to pay the overtime. Vanessa just looked at me. I asked who was going to pay for my four 411 calls (the fourth was to double-confirm my notes from the third call). She sighed and shook her head.

Me: Oh.

A New York tabloid headline suddenly appeared in my head: Double Ply At Jimmy Scott's House. Another reason to not read the articles.

I rubbed my solar plexus and looked outside one more time. The dim glow was less dim now. I could almost see the hanging paper glisten outside. From far away, it may have even looked pretty.