The criminal underbelly of free newspaper distribution

It’s time to confess my crime. How did I come to this? I was always a good kid, honest, a rule follower. Now it’s changed. Something about the air in Israel, maybe? I don’t know. But I’ve been sitting on the truth for too long now, my seduction by a criminal element in my otherwise posh neighborhood.

Maybe my early training is bubbling up finally? Maybe it’s just the season with Yom HaAtzmaut coming up… who knows? But like the prophet Jeremiah over 2,000 years ago, I feel I can no longer sit on what I have learned. What the Zikhron Yaakov underground will do to me when they find out I went public, I have no idea, but after all the sleepless nights, I don’t care anymore. Here goes nothing; wish me luck.

I got pulled into it one morning when I was walking to pick up challah — that is Hebrew lingo for fluffy Jew bread, for any gentile readers (I highly recommended you try some, btw). It was a Friday morning, things were bustling outside Ariel Bakery, when an old man whom I recognize only by face motioned me to come over.

Old Man: “Psst, come here.” (I’m translating. It sounds ruder in Hebrew, as everything does.)

Now you’ll say, “Zev, you’re a 48-year-old man. An author, a PhD, rabbinic ordination, a solid career — how can you fall for the oldest trick and, like a child, get yourself sucked into speaking with a criminal for no reason other than peer pressure?”

It’s a mystery. A weak creature is man. (That sounds like a saying, but I’m pretty sure I just invented it.)

I walk over to the older gentleman, and he smiles. He’s got me already.

Man (not his real name): “I need a favor.”

Zev, smiling back: “All right. I’m always happy to oblige such a respected gentleman as yourself.”

The man ignores my repartee, and moves quickly with singularity of purpose to seal the deal: “Did you get a newspaper yet?”

Let me pause here to explain. Israel has a newspaper called Yisrael HaYom, Israel Today, which is owned by the Adelson family. It is given out for free, and distributed by people who generally can’t get regular jobs, quite a nice arrangement, actually. Here’s the catch: they give you only one.

There are exceptions. For instance, the coffee shop where I drink every morning gets a large supply of both Israel Today, and a regular paper called Yediot Achronot, supplied by Yossi, a boisterous man who I’m sure has woken up every person in Israel at least once from a snooze with his booming voice. Anyway, if you’re buddies with Aryeh, the owner of the coffee shop, and you’ve lived in the neighborhood since its founding in 1882, you can take as many as you want. Generally, the locals mosey on in, taking one for themselves, one for an even older neighbor who was injured in the Napoleonic wars and can’t make it down, and one for their cat, who has a keen interest in politics. For the record, nobody who drinks coffee in this shop ever takes a paper and nobody who takes a paper here ever buys the coffee…. But I digress.

Zev: “No, I haven’t taken a paper. I don’t actually read Israeli papers other than TOI online.” (Hey editors, you saw how I snuck that in there, right?)

The man does not care much about my newspaper reading habits, and, knowing he has in me an American oleh sop, he issues his command.

Man: “Get a paper and give it to me.”

At first, I put up a fight.

Zev: “Why don’t you get it yourself?”

Man makes an annoyed face and motions with his head at the paper guy, introducing me to the underworld of free newspaper collection.

Man: “I already took one, and he won’t give me another. But you haven’t taken yet.”

Ah, I get the plot now. It is diabolical, and I wish my virgin ears had never been introduced to the nefarious ways of free-newspaper larceny, but now I’ve seen it and can’t unsee it. My life isn’t worth a shekel at this point, and we both know it.

I try one more time to extricate myself, without calling down Man’s wrath.

Zev: “But won’t the guy get upset if he sees we tricked him, and I give you my paper?”

Man ponders for a moment, but I’m not his first mark. He knows how to get what he wants.

“Here’s what you’ll do,” says Man, teaching me the inner workings of the scheme. “You take the paper and head into the bakery. Then, just put it down near the babka. (Babka, by the way, is Jewish chocolate braided pastry… If you’re going to be reading Jewish papers, you really need to learn this stuff.)

So, you guys can understand my predicament, right? I’m not asking for forgiveness, only understanding. I’m only human after all, and we all know the consequences of turning down such a request when I’m already that deep into it. What would you have done in my shoes?

So, with a stab in the heart, I nod agreement and go take the paper. Though I am shaking all over, and my face cries out “Guilty!” I try to walk with nonchalance, expecting every moment to be taken down by police dogs and sniper rifles.

Holding the paper in my left hand, I head into the bakery, and Man follows a few paces behind me. I gaze at the babka and rugelach — I don’t buy any, of course, they’re bad for the belly and I’m dating again (I wonder if the editors will see how I snuck that one in too) — I allow the paper to fall gently out of my hands and flutter to the edge of the table. Man greedily grabs it up and promptly exits, probably to exchange for tawdry pleasures the likes of which I’d rather not ponder. (I mean, why else would he want a second paper?) I then continue on with my challah-buying.

I’ve been sitting on this story for weeks now, all the while sure I am being watched. I’m a marked man. But I don’t care. I’m throwing caution to the wind and exposing it all. Luckily, the chances of Man being able to read English and seeing this blog are about as high as my winning Hottest Man in Israel for 2025 or starting as first-string linebacker for the Miami Dolphins (that joke was for you Abba, if you’re reading), so if no one reports on me to him, I might survive this confession.

Parents, now you understand a new peril. And kids, if any of you are called over by random old men in front of newspaper distributers, hoping to use you to obtain extra copies of the same paper — again, why on earth do they want one? I’m still lost here — just say no.