Paper Boy!(Gerald R Gioglio) “When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child…”
- 1 Corinthians 13:11 -

I was ten years old the first time I tried to get a job. Cock-sure as Dennis the Menace I marched downtown to our local Supermarket and asked to speak to the boss. I told him I was his guy if he needed someone to bring in empty shopping carts from the parking lot and surrounding city streets. Obviously amused the young fellow heard me out and promptly said he couldn't hire me. I was too young.

A bit puzzled I said, “Well, umm, does it really matter how old you are? I mean, it’s just a matter of wheeling in the carts?”

Smiling, but unimpressed, he responded, “I’m sure you could do it, but child labor laws prevent us from putting anyone on the job who isn’t old enough to have “Working Papers.”

Confused and exasperated I asked, “Well, okay, how old do you have to be to get these papers?”

He replied, “Here in New Jersey you have to be fourteen.”

My jaw dropped at the sound of it, spoken as if in a time-warp:
“four-or-or-or-or-teen-teen-teen-teen!”

Getting in touch with my inner two-year old, I cried, “Holy Cow! That’s almost four years from now, sir!”

Seeing my distress, he took a different approach saying, “Hey, I know; I can see you’re an ambitious young man; I wish I could help, but that’s the law; my hands are tied. I really can't take you on right now.”

Eyes brightening, he continued, “Look kid, you know you can become a paperboy when you're just twelve years old. You could do all right for yourself depending on the size of your route and customer tips.”

That got my attention. “Really?” I exclaimed. This slight glimmer of hope offering some sense of deliverance.
“Yep, that’s only two years away. You get the job with the local newspaper, work it for a couple of years, and if you want, come back to see us.”

When I got home, I told this frustrating tale to my supportive if somewhat bemused mother. I asked if she knew anything about the paper route thing. Unsure, she said she would call the newspaper to find out. Later that day, mom gave me the scoop, so I knew exactly what to do in about one year, six months and a handful of days; AKA, “e-e-e-ter-ter-ter-ni-ni-ni-ty.”

I wanted a job because hey, with a job, I’d have extra cash for important things in kid-world. In the late 1950s, soda was only ten cents, most candy a penny, packs of baseball cards with a big old slice of bubblegum only a nickel. Then there were hobbies like stamp and coin collecting to finance; not to mention the ever-present need to replace baseballs after literally knocking the covers off them. All kinds of stuff.

On the day I turned twelve, I contacted the local paper and was given a route, 48 customers to start. I was responsible for delivering newspapers, seven days a week; the afternoon edition Monday through Friday, the morning editions on Saturday and Sunday. I was told the route should take about an hour to an hour and a half to complete, depending on conditions. Piece o’ cake.

We picked up our papers at one of the local firehouses. The firemen allowed paper boys to enter the firehouse while waiting for the delivery truck to arrive with our bundles. It was a real blessing to be able to step inside during inclement weather to sit on seats the firemen provided for visitors. Besides, once in awhile they let us slide down the fire pole from the second floor sleeping area. Double-plus, super cool.

Usually, kids opened their bundles and popped newspapers into a huge canvas sack that fit like a messenger bag over the head and across the body. The more papers one had, the more you were bent over on one side or the other. Kinda’ like humping a bag of bricks.

My route covered several blocks, two avenues West, two East with several streets in between, each with various numbers of customers. I tried using my bike for deliveries, but the weight of the papers pulling me to one side caused me to weave down streets like a drunk driver. Thankfully, my parents treated me to a wide and deep metal basket for the front of my bike. I was now top heavy, but mobile, quick as a bunny and no longer had to lug that sack around.
The most efficient way to deliver papers was to fold as many as possible in advance. One could fold quite a few, cruise rapidly through a neighborhood and fire newspapers onto porches.

The art of folding newspapers depends on the thickness of the paper. There are two ways to do it, a lengthwise or a square fold. The most traditional method is to hold the newspaper lengthwise and grasp each end at the top. Then, tuck the right-hand side into the left. Next, with thumbs in the top corners give each side a quick pull, then snap it forward to make a tight package. You could throw that thing from street to doorstep and it would not spring open. Never saw it happen.

The other way is to fold the paper into a square. This could only be done when the edition was thin. Here, the paper is folded in half horizontally and again tucked in right to left, snapped side-to-side and bent to lock. We didn't have frisbees then, but that baby flew just like one.

I also found the square fold great when dealing with customers having delinquent accounts. Even at this young age, I could not abide deadbeats. I told myself, “this BS must cease.” But seriously, what’s a kid to do?

Fuming and obsessing, I remembered some men talking about a guy named Mickey, a local numbers runner who found creative ways to get freeloaders to pay their debts…hmm…visions of knee-capping danced in my head. Happily, my better angels prevailed as I settled on a more kid-practical, adult-annoying approach.

Knowing someone was usually home. I decided to express my displeasure by getting their attention. What better way than by slinging their paper backhand across my body, resulting in a resounding clank against cheaply built aluminum screen doors of the day.

Ka-boom!!!

Imagine the sound of an M-80 firecracker going off in a corrugated tin garbage can. You could hear it reverberate throughout much of the block. As the comedian Jackie Gleason might exclaim, “How sweet it is!” In my world the only thing better was the crack of a baseball coming off the sweet spot of a bat.

I justified this bad behavior as simply another way of announcing the arrival of their newspaper.
“I’m here!” “Paper Boy!”

Consider it the short way of saying, “Remember me? The guy who is here every day, on time, in winter, spring, summer and fall, when it rains, snows, is Antarctic cold or Africa hot?”

“So, pay your bills on collection day and you will be surprised and pleased to discover your paper waiting for you on your porch. Of course, I could continue to alert you to its arrival by customizing your screen door while using it for target practice.”

Let’s just say despite excellent Catholic school training and good grades in Religion class, the whole “love your neighbor” thing wasn't yet heartfelt or embedded in the developing gray matter of my childhood brain.

Sunday morning became my normal collection day since most folks were home. I really tried to wrap it up that morning unless a customer asked me to come back another day or to double bill them next week. Some mornings I would wake people up; a few hung over from an adventurous Saturday night. It was always fun to watch the latter-- usually men--fumble with change and generally act listless as they stumbled through the haze.

Many of my African-American customers had radios tuned to local Black churches, so I’d be treated to preachers giving spirited sermons, singing call-and-response, or best of all, hearing waves of gospel music erupt from apartments and houses.

Here’s what I’m talking about: the saints were praising Jesus and getting tight with the Holy Spirit. That day, folks told it on a mountain, the Circle was Unbroken, Amazin’ Grace sounded sweet, while Mary was weepin’ and Martha was moanin.’ And Lord have mercy, this kid needed a witness. I was moved by it too, fingers often snapping and hips swaying a la Elvis Presley. Can I get an Amen?

One could also get in touch with Spirit by making a stop at Mr. White's little shop. His real name was Bianco, but only those of Italian heritage seemed to know this. All summer he made the best lemon ice one could conceive. A paper cup of complete semi-frozen deliciousness, made with fresh lemons and just the right measure of grated lemon peel.

About mid-route I would pick up a small cup for ten cents, or a large (about twice the size) for fifteen. Who needed his proffered wooden spoon? You’d just squeeze the paper cup and scarf down it’s icy-cold, lemony-amazingness…finally squeezing the very last drop before getting back to deliveries.

The cost of the ice was a wash on days when someone would ask if I had an extra copy to sell. Hey, these folks would generally overpay for the paper, putting a few extra cents in my pocket. For example, if the paper’s cover price was a nickel folks would often give a dime, or on rare occasions, a quarter; so, even if I didn’t have one, I’d always take the sale, hoping for a tip. If needed, I’d simply drop into a neighborhood store, buy a replacement copy and parlay the profit into lemon ice.

C’mon, look at it this way, I was providing a public service here--while also making my taste buds extremely thankful.

Flying down the street one day I was shocked to see a house had suffered fire damage. Looking at the exterior char and the broken windows, it seemed like there was extensive damage to the second floor. Always up for an adventure and never having seen the burnt interior of a house, I threw down my bike, climbed the front steps and entered the house.

The first floor had considerable smoke and water damage, a soggy, smelly mess. The stairs were intact and seemed sturdy, so I decided to check out the second floor. What a disaster; you could actually taste the smell of the burnt wood and furniture. There were piles of charred debris and some walls burned out, mostly right down to the studs; scorched, charcoal sentinels somehow still holding up the structure.

Suddenly I froze, shocked to see a young African-American woman sitting on the floor, quietly sobbing; her eyes awash and dripping, coffee-colored cheeks lined with previously dried salty tears. She hadn’t heard me come up and I hadn’t heard her crying. She looked up, our eyes locked, jaws dropped and we were both speechless. I felt as inert and useless as a petrified tree.

Now almost fourteen years old, I did not have the experience or skills to make this person feel better, but I understood I was intruding on a very personal and delicate situation. All I could do was stammer, “I…I…I just wanted to…just wanted to see….”

Totally frazzled I finally blurted, “Oh, God… I’m so sorry...” I turned around, ran down those steps, jumped on my bike and got out of there. Curiosity had emotionally killed this cat.

I don't know what happened to that poor lady. Clearly this person lost everything important to her. Hopefully no one was hurt. This was one of the few times as a paperboy I wondered if I should find another way to earn money. But beyond feeling bad all I could do was say a prayer for her on Sunday.

One of my more enlightening paperboy adventures concerned Dorothy Day and the “Ban the Bomb” movement. At some point in the 1950s, cities set up Air Raid Shelters in local communities. These were meant to shelter the populace in the event of a nuclear attack. The shelters contained simple rations; huge drums of water painted military green and supplies to help folks survive a nuclear storm.

At school, kids periodically participated in ‘duck and cover’ civil defense drills. Here we moved away from windows, ducked under desks and covered our heads, told this would protect us from an Atom bomb. I’m not sure kids or parents believed this would help. But consider this, from a kid’s perspective the drills ate up class time; for some adults the instruction did not go far enough. According to them one should: “duck, cover, and kiss your butt goodbye.”

It was that kind of world.

Citizens were ordered to comply with periodic air-raid drills. As I recall, folks were required to pull their cars to the curb or otherwise get off the streets. Not understanding the true meaning or gravity of the situation, I was annoyed by having to deal with drills when I was delivering newspapers.
I was like: “What the heck?” “This is America. Since when does the government get to tell us to get off the streets?” “Hey, some of us have newspapers to deliver!”
It was that kind of childhood indignation.
Marching to the rescue was Dorothy Day and her Catholic Worker movement. During legally enforced drills these activists refused to get off the streets of New York City. Dorothy Day thought participating in air-raid drills normalized the existence of nuclear weapons; instead, she wanted world leaders to “Ban the Bomb.” So, rather than practice for potential nuclear annihilation, these Catholic activists preferred arrest to participating in the drills.

I found myself rooting for the protestors. I considered them brave for standing up to the full force of what I saw as a well-meaning, yet demanding, federal government. Over time, civil disobedience to air raid drills increased, the drills were canceled and life returned to normal in the streets of America. Dorothy Day and her activists were happy, I was happy as were my customers who expected their papers on time. As a bonus, I even learned something about nonviolently petitioning governments for social change.

Every paperboy had a district manager who was a collection agent, motivator, and problem solver. Every couple of weeks he would come to the house to collect the newspaper’s share of the receipts. The newspaper was cheap so most customers paid in coin. We all ended up with a mountain of change. Most guys presented the district manager with a paper bag full of coin which he had to sit and count. I went a step further. I went through every coin to see if I needed any for my collection and then wrapped them in paper coin wrappers I got from the bank.

It wasn’t so bad; I was picking up all kinds of cool coins for my collection and my guy loved this. He was extremely happy not to spend time counting all that coin. I was happy too. The less time I spent with him, the more time I could play baseball with my buddies.

You know I never went back to the supermarket for a job. I liked delivering papers, so I stuck with it for four years. I learned a lot about responsibility, dealing with people and how to be effective and efficient. By the time I turned sixteen my route had doubled to 101 customers. During that time, I saved a bunch of money and by selling some stamps and parts of my coin collection was ready to parlay the stash into my first used car.

Soon, I decided it was time to get a “real job.” I marched downtown once again. This time I got a job at a local dry goods store for $0.85 an hour. My father, an active union member, was appalled by the paltry sum and threatened to tell the proprietor off. Somehow, I calmed him down and took the job. Now a bit more experienced and less naïve I headed off on a new adventure. Much to my surprise and apprehension, I was becoming a young man who slowly, very slowly, was “giving up childish ways…”

…. But, not the lemon ice.

© Gerald R. Gioglio
2021

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