Handout

Starting where we ought to end is always the most logical place for the story of human folly to begin.

And so it was at the Tahoe House when Nadine and Bob came shuffling in like two ghosts freshly risen from the graveyard of print journalism. I spotted them right away.

They stood there, propped against the bar, their eyes glazed over in a thousand-yard stare that suggested they had either seen the face of God or spent the night wrestling with an angry printing press. I wagered it was the latter.

Having known Nadine and Bob for as long as the ink has dried on our weekly papers, I did the friendly thing and waved. No response.

Again, I waved, a little more eagerly this time, like I was trying to flag down a passing rowboat on the Carson, and still, nothing. It was as if they were communing with the bottles of whiskey, gin, tequila, and other libations and as if these spirits held the answers to the great mysteries.

Earlier that morning, I had made my usual trek to the shop to load up my truck with the edition for delivery. That is when I knew something was afoot.

In the upper left corner of each one was a staple—stapled, mind you—page by page, like some overzealous schoolmarm had taken it upon herself to prepare a lesson plan for the entire town. Topping it off was a massive box of sample ballots sitting in the corner as if the printers had decided to moonlight as an election official.

Now, the printer, bless its old, unreliable gears—was silent, a kind of silence that says, “I give up, you win.”

Shaking my head in disapproval, I muttered a few choice words, wondering what poor soul had angered the infernal machine this time. But I loaded the papers anyway, figuring it was best not to ask too many questions before my morning coffee.

Fast forward a few hours, and here I am, standing in the Tahoe House, watching these two look like they have just returned from battle. Stepping closer, I waved again—right in front of Nadine’s face this time—and suddenly, she blinked as if waking from a deep slumber.

“Oh!” she gasped, startled.

Bob looked over, saw me, and let out a laugh that sounded half relief, half exhaustion.

“Long couple of days?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Not even half of it,” Nadine replied with a weary smile.

Bob nodded, adding, “The printer kept jamming. We barely got anything done.”

“That explains the, uh, new format for the paper,” I said, doing my best not to sound too amused.

Nadine sighed, “Yeah, had a technician come out to fix it.”

“But they couldn’t figure it out,” Bob chimed in.

“Seventeen hundred sample ballots though!” Nadine said, with the kind of pride that only comes after you have survived a near-fatal brush with bureaucracy.

I leaned back, thinking about the morning, “Well, at least it gave me a chance to get creative with my deliveries. Told everyone, ‘Call me your weekly handout boy.’”

They guffawed, the kind of half-laugh from people who have survived a disaster in black and white and read all over and lived to tell the tale. I knew my humor would not stop the angry letters or the calls to the editor, but for a brief moment, standing there in the Tahoe House, it did not seem to matter.