The Paper Route

At a distance the old woman might have passed for a member of a pentecostal-holiness denomination.  Her long hair was swirled around her head several times and then pinned up in back.  But all illusion of holiness vanished as soon as she opened her mouth, “Goddam Armstrong! What the hell do you want!”

The comments were directed at one of the friends I’d made in my new neighborhood.  I had been freshly transplanted from Brooklyn, Indiana to Oconomowoc Wisconsin.  Dave lived half-a-block down the street and like me had a whole houseful of brothers and sisters. He was part of a gang that gathered at tiny Westover Park to play baseball after supper where we crowded a diamond between the street and the tennis court and put all the surrounding windows at risk.

I needed income, especially now, since my family had move to a city with dozens of stores.  I could walk to the Ace Hardware where there was a bicycle section and in that bicycle section there was a candy-apple red stingray with a chopper-style front fork.  It was calling out to me. I wanted to ride up to my first day at St. Jerome’s school on that bike.  In Indiana, at my old Junior High, I had not joined the ranks of the cool kids – but in Wisconsin, that could all change.  I was going into the 8^th grade.  It would be my chance to start over – to be cool.  And that bike was definitely cool. I needed that bike.

“Who the hell is this?” the gruff old lady spat the words out in my general direction.

“He wants a paper route,” Dave replied.

“Why? So he can quit like you did?”

I jumped in, “I had a route in Indiana – I delivered the Indianapolis Star.” As soon as I opened my mouth it was clear I was not a local boy, my southern twang coming through.

The paper lady just stared at me.  She slowly looked me up and down with disgust on her face like someone examining dog poop on the bottom of their shoe. It was clear that Dave’s introduction hurt more than it helped, I was guilty by association.

 

I pressed on, “I got the route from my bother when I was ten,” pointing out that I had experience.

Esther, the paper lady, turned to scream at some kids who were roughhousing, “you take that outside, goddam ya!” Then she stepped over to a long metal table where bundles of papers were staged.  She took a wire cutter out of a pocket on her smock, clipped open the bundle and started counting papers all while I was trying to figure out if our conversation was over.

“We don’t have any afternoon routes open,” she finally chimed in, “we only have morning routes." And then she went back to counting papers and I went back to wondering if the conversation was over. 

After another long pause she continued, “there’s a route coming open in a week.  The kids name is Russell, you can ride with him.”

More counting.

“Be here at five AM!”

Now she was stacking papers.

“And I don’t know what the hell they do in Indiana but up here we don’t throw the papers! All the papers have to go up to the house in between the doors!”

I nodded vigorously.

“And all the papers have to be picked up by six!”, she barked.

I continued to nod – the red stingray was nearly mine.

“And if you take the route you can’t quit in the middle of winter you have to keep it till spring, got it!

“Yes, I got it.  I won’t quit.”

“And you sure as hell can’t quit after Christmas – after you get all the Christmas tips!"

“I won’t quit,” I promised.

Then she turned around and yelled, “you kids get the hell out of here and go pedal your papers!” and then stormed into her office and slammed the door.  The interview was over.

I got the route, I got the bike and I went on to work for Esther Schroeder for six years, eventually ascending to the lofty position of station captain and filling in on motor routes.  If you got the Sunday Milwaukee Journal in Oconomowoc anytime in the early 70’s, it was very likely my brother, Dennis, and I assembled it. Years later, when I return to Oconomowoc after school, it was my experience working for Esther that got me my first real job as Circulation Manager for the Oconomowoc Enterprise at C.W. Brown Printing Company.  Bruce Brown took me under his wing and taught me about printing and that led to a 36-year career in the printing industry - all because I needed that candy-apple red stringray.