A number of years ago, my wife and I made the big plunge
that we knew would temporarily throw our little world into disarray: we switched from having a box at the post
office to having the mail delivered to our physical address. For the most part, the transition went
smoother than expected. Most of our
family and friends as well as the businesses we deal with (read “bills”) got
the message. Most.
The lone standout exception was the Daily Press, the
regional newspaper we subscribe to in southeastern Virginia. We received the “weekend special,” papers for
Friday through Sunday for an excellent rate.
For a while, the Daily Press also threw in Thursday papers as a
bonus. It was more news than we could
read, but worth it for the Sunday paper alone.
We had neglected to notice that we had not been billed for
the subscription for quite some time; that is until we received a phone
call. I won’t bore you with a transcript
of the call, but I can summarize it like this:
DP:
“Why haven’t you paid your bill?”
Us: “We
never received a bill.”
DP: “Would
you like to pay it now?”
Us: “Could you please bill us?”
DP:
“Sure. Let’s just get that corrected
address right now and we’ll send a bill out to you.”
We gave them the new address. Expected bill never came.
Over the course of half a year, we repeated that
conversation at least three times. Maybe
more. We eventually came to realize that
the person on the other end of the line was not REALLY from the Daily
Press. They were something akin to an
independent contractor tasked with collecting payments. Often during these conversations we would ask
to be transferred to billing. No can do.
This was made all the more frustrating by the proximity of my
mailbox to my newspaper box. I was going
to take a photo to show you just how close they are, but…well…I can’t
anymore. So you’re just going to have to
take my word for it. They were real
close. Like eight inches apart. So this business, the Daily Press, can
consistently find my newspaper box at least three days a week, but has no
earthly idea how to get a bill to my mailbox.
Mind blown.
The people on the other end of the line were by and large
very nice and generous. I believe more
than once they offered to absolve our previous debt and we could resume
payments as originally agreed upon for weekend deliver. Fine.
Just send us the bill.
Some callers took our new address and carefully entered it
into the system. (We’ll get this all
straight today…Just hold on just a moment.”)
Some callers wondered what the other callers were doing because they
claimed they did not have those sorts of powers. (If true, one has to wonder what the first
callers were doing.) All callers were
hoping to get a credit card number and an immediate payment. No thank you.
Just please send us the bill.
Eventually the phone calls asking for payment just
stopped. That was two years ago. But the newspapers just kept coming.
That was until recently.
That was when I received a phone call from my wife regarding
the state of the mailboxes and newspaper boxes for us and our neighbor. I mean, really, how often do you get to say
“My mailbox was plowed under by a pickup truck driven by Willie Nelson”?
That’s right. Willie
Nelson reports that he blacked out soon after pulling out of his driveway half
a mile away. He drove through our ditch,
over both mail and newspaper boxes, crossed over our driveway, into the next
ditch, and then obliterated the next mail boxes. When our neighbor came to investigate what he
thought sounded like gunshots, he found Willie in the driver’s seat, very much
awake and alert, trying like mad to launch himself and the pickup out of the
ditch and onto the road, leaving the postal carnage in his wake. This was made more challenging by the fact
that the ditch culvert had rammed his front passenger side wheel into the spot
usually reserved for…well…passengers. (I
briefly wondered whether the truck’s nickname was “Trigger,” but--for clarity’s
sake--that’s the name of a guitar and a different Willie Nelson.)
The Daily Press came by a week later and put up a new
newspaper box. For my neighbor
only. I’m pretty sure he actually pays
for his, so I really can’t complain.
They were real nice folks and chatted with me for a while about the
incident, then left.
All good things must come to an end. I sure am going to miss my Sunday paper. But on the brighter side, much less recycling
for me to do once a month.
