My newspaper delivery is definitely of the no-frills variety (I have to put on both clothes AND shoes to pick it up) but when that little envelope shows up in my paper L.A. Times every year, I tip anyway. Not a lot–I only get the Sunday edition and like I said, it ain’t exactly primo serviceó-but I figure anyone who’s delivering the paper for a living in L.A. can use a little boost once a year.
Every time I wrote the check, I’d wonder about Floridalma Mazariegos: who s/he was; how many kids s/he had, and whether s/he’d have enough this year for a merry Christmas; what the hell gender s/he was, anyway. But mostly, I’d worry: why, after five years, was Floridalma still delivering my paper? Were there no better jobs to be had? Or was this really such a great one?
That’s why this year’s envelope from my new delivery person came as such a shock. Floridalma has clearly moved on, one way or another, but I don’t know where or why. I’m not even sure how I’d go about finding out.
I’m keeping a happy holiday thought that s/he found greener pastures. I’ve got Jorge Canul’s future to worry about now.
At least I don’t have to sweat the pronoun thing anymore.