July 18, 2018 Article

The Old Coot goes out for the paper.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at the “Sunday Morning Old Man Grocery Store Club” meeting the other day. We assemble every Sunday at 6 AM. A couple of guys get there earlier, when they have to pick up groceries, but most of us are there for a New York City newspaper. That’s when they are delivered. You can tell the service is underway by how the cars and pick-up trucks are parked in the lot. They all face out of their parking space, so they don’t have to be backed up. We’re back up challenged. And know it!

It’s a men’s only club. I don’t know why. No one excluded women, that’s just the way it is. We’re there for a New York City paper. I’m there for the Times. It takes me an entire week to get through it. Half the time, I have to read it in the garage, because I yell at it, especially when I’m working through the opinion section. But even when I don’t agree with the columnist, I learn something. It’s a vehicle for broadening my outlook and continuing my education.

The store gets three copies of the Times and also a small number of the Daily News. It’s first come, first served. Which is why we’re so prompt in getting there. I bet the customers who arrive later in the day have no idea that these “exotic” big city papers are available.

Every so often, more often than it should, the “paper guy” is late. That’s when you’ll see us circling the parking lot or sitting in our cars, slumped over the wheel, sound asleep. I’m too impatient to wait in the parking lot, so I drive around town to kill time. I use the time to check on what’s going on in the village: who has a ladder leaning against their house (indicating a paint or repair job is underway) or what house has a new “For-sale,” or “Sold,” sign in the front yard. That sort of things. I make sure to swing by the drug store every so often, to see if a paper bundle is sitting in a heap by the front door. It means the “paper-guy” is on his way to the grocery store, since it’s his next stop. When he gets out of his van, we gather around and follow him inside, trying to make small talk, "Glad you made it.” - “Run into traffic today?” No matter what we say, all we get in return is a grunt. I don’t think he likes his job. Or us!

We get the cashier to open the bundles, but first we have to find her; she’s in the aisles returning stuff that people decided not to buy. It keeps her busy, since so few people come to the store that early on a Sunday morning. We grab our paper and get in line, nodding or saying, “Mornin,” to each other. We’re like a family, in a way, but we don’t know each other’s names. Still, we’re a close-knit group who meet most every Sunday morning and go through our newspaper buying ritual. Anybody can attend; we’re non-denominatial. Just don’t come late! You won’t get a paper.

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