The Last Paperboy

I started my first paying job at the age of twelve. That's when I became a paperboy, delivering the Amarillo Globe-Times, the afternoon newspaper in my hometown, something I did for nearly four years. Other than in my current position as a community college teacher, it was the longest period I ever held a job.

I loved being a paperboy. It gave me a sense of freedom and taught me what it meant to work independently. As long as I delivered the papers by suppertime, I could go at my own pace. I spent my time walking outdoors, something I still enjoy doing, and met a lot of interesting people along the way. It doesn't sound like much, but my paper route provided enough money to buy the things that gave me the greatest pleasures—the latest Doobie Brothers album, a Jolly Rancher Fire Stix, or a Dr Pepper. It also allowed me to go to the movies with my friends on Saturdays.  I even managed to put a little money into a savings account.

The hardest part of being a paperboy was collecting money from my customers. While most people paid on time, a few put me off, but I eventually learned how to guilt them. I explained that whether they paid or not, I had to turn over a set amount of money to my route manager, and any monthly subscription that I failed to collect would come out of my own pocket. It always felt strange to count up the money I had collected, $100 or so in cash and checks, and then hand most of it to someone else.

At Christmas I got bonuses—tips, gift certificates, and occasional small gifts. One of my customers drove a delivery truck for Mac Tools, and one year he gave me a personal grooming kit. Every item was stamped with the Mac name (in that uniquely curved logo the company still uses). To this day I cannot clip my fingernails without thinking of the Mac clippers that customer gave me.  Too bad I have forgotten his name.

Oddly, one of the best parts of the job was delivering papers on Sunday morning, the one day of the week when the morning and afternoon editions were combined. Between 4:00 and 5:00 a.m., my route manager would drop two bundles on the corner. Because my bedroom was at the front of our house, I usually heard the familiar thump thump just before he drove away. The Sunday paper was much larger (hence, the two bundles instead of the usual single one). It happened that my route was on my own street, and I lived exactly halfway along it. This allowed me to divide the delivery in two, loading up half the papers in my bag.

On snowy mornings I used to wrap the papers in the relative warmth of the garage. That way I could wear gloves on the route and go more quickly. There was something peaceful about walking quietly through people's front yards and gently tossing a paper onto their porches. The solitude appealed to me the most, that and the soft sound of the paper sliding over concrete and stopping at the door. Even on the coldest winter mornings, I took great pleasure in stepping through a crunchy layer of snow and hearing the repeated sound as my boots broke the surface. Every so often I'd look back at my footsteps, always arcing, never in a straight line.

Then, there was the art of the fold, knowing how to set up an even rhythm—fold, wrap, toss; fold, wrap, toss. There was a correct way to hold the paper, from the fold with the bottom side facing down. To do otherwise would be to go against the natural crease of the paper. I always folded into thirds—right side first, followed by left, and then a fold down the center. With that final fold I rolled a rubber band off my left hand, twisted it over once with my right, and then readied the paper for the toss. I can still feel the sensation of newsprint on my hands, which turned black within minutes of starting the route.

The first year I was a paperboy, my older brother Tommy also had a route, one street over. On Sunday mornings, after delivering our papers, we often went to Dunkin Donuts. I loved the sleepy feeling of walking in the dead of night for no other reason than to drink a cup of coffee and to gobble a hot glazed donut. By the time we headed home, the first hint of twilight appeared in the east, but as long as we made it back before sunrise, we could safely crawl back into bed and—if we were lucky—ditch Sunday school.