TIMES-TOSSING

One of my most cherished routines takes place every morning. Nancy and I invariably rise at the same moment, and if we’re in East Hampton, what follows next is a ritual as unvarying as a Kabuki play. I go downstairs and into the kitchen, take out two small glasses, pour orange juice into them and then head for the front door. Nancy follows me, and makes eight cups of coffee in the Krups as I head down the steps, down the path, down the driveway, retrieve the Times, and repeat my journey in reverse. Sometimes, if it’s cold or rainy or snowy, I have to throw on a pair of sweats and a parka and real shoes, but mostly, I venture out in bathrobe and LL Bean mocs.

Re-entering the house, I make a beeline for My Chair, which is an oversized copy of the iconic Eames chair. So tyrannically do I assert my claim of possession that no one else (least of all Nancy) would dream of sitting on it, any more than a courtier, or even a wife, would have thought to perch casually on Henry VIII’s throne. I drop the Times on the ottoman, go into the kitchen, and we busy ourselves pouring coffee (Nancy’s black with sugar in one of her own mugs; mine with a drop of half-and-half, in a thermal cup). Nancy carries hers to a large, comfortable club chair facing mine; I set mine down on the little table next to the Eames, perhaps accompanied by a schmeck of something sweet, strip the wrapper off the Times, separate the first section from the rest and throw Nancy the Metro.

This business of throwing newspapers across the room has evolved over the five-year period in which we've lived in this house. At first, when it came time to trade sections, I would rise, carry what I had finished over to her, pick up what she had for me, and seat myself again, but there are always five or six sections, which is a lot of tedious messengering, and one day I simply flung Business at her. I did this with a wristy, backhand motion, as one would toss a Frisbee, and to my surprise, it sailed across the room – some twenty feet – and landed gently, intact, face-up, in her lap. That was beginner’s luck, of course, but what began as a whim became, with practice, a surprisingly effective method of delivery; now, hardly noticing that we’re doing it, we trade sections without ever leaving our respective chairs, the only sounds the occasional clinking of cup on coaster and the susurration of newsprint flapping through the air. Sometimes a section goes awry, separating or diving to the side or falling short, and the receiver hisses disapprovingly: “Error on the throw!” Surprisingly often, however, it works fine. Heavy sections are easier to throw accurately than light ones, but after years of practice, both of us can manage even something as flimsy as Getaways.

No one until now has known of, let alone witnessed, this strange marital game. It occurred to me, though, that many couples who are blessed with large living rooms must have developed routines similar or perhaps quite different to this one. So let me hear from you, fellow Times-Tossers! Maybe we can get a team together and qualify for the Beijing Olympics!