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Reading Text D
The Card Tactic
Not long ago, a mysterious Christmas card dropped through our mail slot. The envelope was addressed to a man named Raoul, who, I was relatively certain, did not live with us. The envelope wasn't sealed, so I opened it. The inside of the card was blank. My husband explained that the card was both from and to the newspaper deliveryman. His name was apparently Raoul, and Raoul wanted a holiday tip. We were meant to put a check inside the card and then drop the envelope in the mail. When your services are rendered at 4 a.m., you can't simply hang around, clearing your throat like a bellhop. You have to be direct.
So I wrote a nice holiday greeting to this man whom I had never seen or met, this man who, in my imagination, fires The New York Times from a howitzer aimed at our front door, causing more noise with mere newsprint than most people manage with sophisticated black market fireworks.
With a start, I realized that perhaps the reason for the 4 a.m. wake-up thonks was not ordinary rudeness but carefully executed spite: I had not tipped Raoul in Christmases past. I honestly hadn't realized I was supposed to. This was the first time he'd used the card tactic. So I got out my checkbook. Somewhere along the line, holiday tipping went from an optional thank-you for a year of services well rendered to a Mafia-style protection racket.
Several days later, I was bringing our garbage bins back from the curb when I noticed an envelope taped to one of the lids. The outside of the envelope said MICKEY. Unless a small person named Mickey had taken up residence in our garbage can and this missive was intended for him, it had to be another tip solicitation, this time from our garbage collector. Unlike Raoul, Mickey hadn't enclosed his own Christmas card from me. In a way, I appreciated the directness. "I know you don't care how merry my Christmas is, and that's fine," the gesture said. "I want $30, or I'll 'forget' to empty your compost bin some hot summer day."
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