Paper on the Roof

By Pat Phillips

Be patient in afflictions, … and it shall be given you by the Comforter what you shall do. (D&C 31:9, 11.)

Most of my customers are great, but a couple of them give me nothing but headaches. The biggest skullbuster is—or rather was—Mr. Cory. He’s the kind of guy who would complain if you gave him a solid gold watch that wasn’t set to the right time.

Last Saturday, after putting it off as long as I could, I went to his house to collect. His tall wooden fence had signs all over it, saying “Keep Out” and “Beware of Dog.” I was a believer. The first time I went through that gate, Mr. Cory’s big doberman, Slash, had tried to use my leg for a chew bone. Anyway, on Saturday, I peeked through a knothole to make sure Slash wasn’t on duty.

Mr. Cory answered the door the third time I knocked. He kindly left the screen door latched so that Slash, who was pushing his nose against the mesh and snarling at me, couldn’t get to me.

Mr. Cory was a sour-faced, dried-up little man, stooped with age—but his faded blue eyes were sharp and suspicious beneath bushy eyebrows. “Is it that time again, Rosa? It seems like I just paid you.” He always said that.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s been a month.”

“Well, if you’re sure … ,” he grumbled, tottering off to write a check, leaving Slash and me to glare at each other.

Mr. Cory opened the screen door a crack, slipped the check through, and took his receipt before he started complaining. “I wish you’d try to hit the porch once in a while. I don’t know why you kids don’t do your job like you’re supposed to, but I do know that I’m getting tired of chasing out in the damp grass in my slippers!”

“If I could get into the yard I’d put it right on your doorstep,” I told him. “It’s hard to throw over a six-foot fence and hit the porch.”

“And don’t throw it on the roof,” he continued as though I hadn’t even tried to explain. “I don’t want my roof covered with papers.”

“I only did that once, four months ago, Mr. Cory, and I gave you another paper.” I had even offered to climb up there and get the dumb paper, but he’d said, “No, leave it there. Maybe it’ll remind you not to be so careless.” It was still there, right by the upstairs bedroom window. I knew what window it was because if I even sneezed in the morning, that’s the one he hollered at me from.

“One more thing,” he growled. “I don’t feel well, and I’ll probably want to sleep late in the morning. Try not to disturb me!” He ended the conversation by slamming the door in my face.

The next day started out like a typical Sunday. The papers were fat with sale circulars and weighed in at a ton per copy. I reached the Cory house about seven and peeked through my favorite knothole. Slash was waiting there, all teeth and snarl.

I was getting ready to take a blind shot at the porch, when I noticed smoke pouring out of the back of the house. It didn’t seem likely that Mr. Cory, sick as he was, would be barbecuing in the backyard at that hour.

I backed off far enough to see the upstairs window and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Mr. Cory! Fire, Mr. Cory!” The only thing that happened was that Slash growled louder. I tried screaming once more, with the same result.

I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to wake someone in one of the other houses and have them call the fire department, but the smoke was getting thicker and blacker, and I thought I should rouse Mr. Cory before the fumes got to him.

I did the only thing I could think of. I ran a few steps, then flung that Sunday edition like a pro quarterback heaves a football.

It went just where I aimed, smashing through the upstairs window. A couple of seconds later Mr. Cory stuck his head out and started bellowing at me.

Lucky for me, the house was on fire.

The next day, the paper said, “Due to the fast thinking of Chronicle carrier Rosa Martinez, damage was slight and no one was injured.” I bought ten copies of that edition.

Mr. Cory was waiting for me Monday morning. He opened the gate, and I almost panicked when I saw there wasn’t anything between me and Slash. Then I saw that Mr. Cory had him on a tight leash.

The old man smiled at me for the first time. “Come in here a minute, Rosa. I want you and Slash to make friends. We’ll do this every day until he recognizes you as a pal. Then you’ll be the only person besides me who can come into this yard whenever you want to.”

It worked too. After a few days I had enough confidence to carry the paper right to the doorstep. Slash would just dance around, whimpering excitedly and wiggling his entire back end until I petted him.

The best thing, though, happened just a couple of days ago. The paper printed a letter to the editor from Mr. Cory saying that I was the smartest, most reliable, most courteous newspaper carrier he had ever had the pleasure to do business with. And the old guilt paper was gone from the roof.

Illustrated by Pat Hoggan