I see a newspaper man every morning and evening as I enter and depart the subway station. I don’t know if he’s there all day or if the papers in his hand are sold or given away. I’ve never seen anyone take one or exchange money with him. Everyone herds right past to enter the morning turnstiles or continue their way home at night.
This evening, I knew I’d have an extra few minutes before the commuter train arrived. So, after walking up my steps
and getting to the Mezanine, I caught my breath as I also caught up with this curious guy.
We had a nice talk as he explained his schedule. For a month now, I’d noticed no change to his expression amongst all the hustle and bustle. Tonight his demeanor and laugh were brighter than the skylights. I now know the cost of a smile, the paper and his commission. I bought one simply because I considered him the entertainment section.
With our moment in time, less than a minute, I also learned his name. As I walked toward my ride home, the grin on my face only took a second. I smirked because I’d already given my new Porter Square acquaintance a nickname.
Tomorrow morning before I head into the subway, I’ll say hello to my newspaper guy, Harold.