Paper Boy.

Every day with the exception of Sunday, a paperboy delivers me the daily newspaper. For the last two weeks the paperboy that delivers the newspaper has been often late. The papers have been crumpled and sometimes wet. Wednesday I got up early and waited for the paperboy to deliver my newspaper. I was very surprised as a very small man that looked as If he could do with a wash and some new clothes, threw the newspaper at me he shouted something that I could not understand. I decided to go to the paper shop and ask what was wrong with the young man had delivered my newspapers for the last three years. There had been no complaints from me the newspapers had always arrived on time, it had always been pushed through my letterbox, it was never wet or soggy and I had no difficulty in reading the paper.

Putting on my shoes and raincoat, I took an umbrella from its stand and walked into town. Not only was it one of those dreary old days but the shops too looked as If they all needed a fresh coat of paint. Opening the door of the newsagents shop I saw the same little old man that had thrown the newspaper at me. “Good morning,” I said. The man looked at me and I saw his bloodshot eyes he looked really ugly, his shirt was very grubby and looked as If It had not seen a washing machine for years. “What do you want?” his voice was not at all friendly. “I want to cancel my newspaper order with your shop,” I am used to having my newspaper fresh each day, also the paper should be pushed through my letter box like It has been for the past five years or so. The grubby little man pulled out a ledger; I recognised the handwriting it was that of the former shopkeeper. “Name?” He snarled at me. “My name is Shaw, my address, woodland road, Dartford heath.” “Why do you want to cancel the newspaper?” I did not like the sound of his voice. “Just cancel it!” I turned and went to walk out of the shop. “Stop where you are. I turned my head; especially a shopkeeper has never spoken me to in this way. One knows that all shopkeepers are or try to be polite to keep their customers happy. I reached out for the door handle to open the door.

The door was no longer In Its place. A brick wall with shelves built in to it, on the shelves were copies of newspapers some very old by the look of the yellow pages. Pick up the newspaper at the end of the third shelf from the top. This was no polite request it was an order. I looked at the little man with his very grubby shirt. I must admit I was beginning to become a little angry. Where was the door to the shop? Where did this wall with its shelves full of newspapers come from? This Is I thought to myself very mysterious. What did the man want, why did he want me to pick the first newspaper on the third shelf from the top, “no point becoming angry,” I said to myself. I had better humour the man. Taking the newspaper from the shelf as he had ordered me to, I looked at the yellowing very old paper. Dartford gazette, I knew of no paper with the name of Dartford gazette. Then I saw the date on the paper nineteen hundred and thirty.” Look at the fourth page where it says births and deaths.” There I saw the announcement of my own birth. A son born to Christine Shaw, housewife, Dartford, Kent at three minutes past midnight, mother is to call the boy Bernard.

“Why are you showing me this old newspaper?” Who are you? “I have been sent to show you that if you are unhappy with this life you may start all over again. I am the keeper of births and deaths. To start all over again you must accept and read the newspapers that I deliver for one whole week. Suddenly the door was back In Its place and I walked out of the door into the high street. What I thought to myself was that all about? Who is this man that claims to be the keeper of births and deaths? I think that I will humour him and read his newspapers and see what happens.

The grubby man threw every day the newspaper at my front door; rain or sunshine did not seem to bother him he is always dressed in this very grubby shirt. I read day after day, each newspaper that he delivered. At last Saturday came and I went to the front door and opened it to pick up the newspaper. This was no newspaper it was a small flat parcel the size of a large book. Taking the book Indoors I carefully opened the brown paper that the parcel was wrapped in. A small book, the cover of which was of solid gold. Strangely enough the book, although of solid gold was not at all heavy. Opening the cover I saw that a sheet of pure white parchment with copper plate letters, saying If you want to change your life for another, then do not look further Into this book. Take it back to the newsagents and all will end as it was meant to. Read and your whole life will change. Closing the book I hurried down to the newsagents, opening the door I saw my friend the shopkeeper that had owned the shop for years, then the newspaper boy came into the shop and greeted me.

I decided to say nothing of the man with the grubby shirt. I then remembered why I had come to the shop and feeling for the golden book I found that it had disappeared. I now felt a real fool and said to the shopkeeper that I wanted to pay my newspaper bill. Smiling he said, “you must have a poor memory you were in here yesterday and paid for the whole month.” I walked back home in a daze; I still do not know what I was shown the old newspapers for and why someone wanted to give me another life Instead of the one that I have lived through. I shudder to think what would have happened If I had read the golden book through to its end.