Misdelivery

Better day. Just a little slogging. It always helps to see an article toiled over in its more-or-less final form, as a PDF of a Quark layout. Some of the magazines I work for send me copies to inspect. I never did that as an editor, but it’s a good idea because the more people who see something before printing, the fewer mistakes there will be.

On the other hand, the writer’s contribution in that regard can be relatively low. Once you’ve seen something a dozen times, your proofreading slips a bit. On the third hand, in PDF form, with photos and a headline and a sidebar, it looks a lot better than as a Word manuscript, fresher to the eye. Which is why magazines use those graphic elements, rather than unadorned text blocks.

Fairly early in the morning, a fellow came to the door bearing a smallish package—the medicine you ordered from such-and-such pharmacy, he told me. He was of retirement age, this fellow, hair as white as Dick Van Dyke’s in later TV appearances but partly covered by a cowboy hat, a white moustache almost big enough to qualify as handlebar, and a bola peeking out of from under his coat. It would have more fitting if he’d been driving a pickup, but in fact he had a minivan.

Perhaps he wasn’t interested in retirement, or couldn’t afford it, and had a delivery business, or maybe he’d always had a delivery business. I didn’t ask, because I was wondering about that box. Had a moment of disconnect: Now, did I order something from? – no, I’ve never heard of it… but why…?

The address was ours, but I noticed that the name was wrong. It belonged to a previous occupant of the house. “He hasn’t lived here in a few years,” I said. “I don’t know where he lives now, unfortunately.”

He looked a little surprised, and consulted some papers he had. “Well, the pharmacy’s going to have to sort this one out,” he said. “Sorry to trouble you.” I assured him it was no trouble, and off he went.