BEARING THE NEWS FROM BLISS TO BLUES

BEARING THE NEWS FROM BLISS TO BLUES(L DOUGLAS ST OURS) BEARING THE NEWS FROM BLISS TO BLUES


I was thirteen years old and lasting for three months, seven days a week, I delivered the morning edition of the Richmond Times Dispatch. I swear you never get used to the alarm clock lacerating your sleep at 5 AM.

As I quietly stumbled out of bed, my mouth strained the jaw joints in a series of hippo yawns as I fumbled around for my clothes in the dark tight room I shared with my two other snoozing brothers.

I'd set out in the black soup air, sometimes cold, sometimes hot, sometimes dry, sometimes wet with me always beat.

I rode a single speed fat tire bike up and down hills so steep that half the time I'd have to dismount and push that bike by the handlebars, skinning my shins on the sharp pedals.

Even if I took sick, I was expected to report and come through. In the days before 24/7 TV news, newspapers were the indispensible link for our subscribers to the community and the world. Because they were the primary source for advertising and news, newspapers were three times the thickness and weight of even today's New York Times.

My bike had a red reflector on the rear saddle but no headlamp so it was tough to distinguish car bumpers from tree limbs, especially in the fog.

At a crossroads the circulation supervisor would drop off two bundles under a street light on top of the highest hill. I'd first cut the wires and then fold and rubber band eighty dailies. In case it rained I brought an old shower curtain to drape over the papers I stacked in my front basket.

Rain slowed the process and forced me to stop and awkwardly get off my bike when my throw failed to get the paper deep under the cover of the porch.

The weight and bulk meant I had to make two runs, finish the first, cycle back for the second, dodging dogs and enduring cold that would cramp my knuckles and fingers into stiff claws clamped on the handlebars.

I swear if a nice man had pulled up in a car and offered me assistance, I would have taken him for an angel to the rescue, and without hesitation, I would have transferred the papers, stashed my bike, and jumped into the kind stranger's gift from heaven vehicle. That never happened and it would be another generation before adults realized how vulnerable overtired overburdened young boys in the dark could be to trolling pederasts.

Even on the fair weather days I'd do my best to fling the paper far enough to hit the porches of the ghostly silent shrub fringed houses. That extra effort with my bike so top heavy, would often cause me to lose control, wobble, and once in a while collide into a parked car.

But even more aggravating was to miss the mark on the toss and bury the paper into a bush and again I'd have to stop and fish it out. Despite the miscues I covered the route in about ninety minutes.

I forgot to mention that I was escorted by Queenie, my tough, scrappy, fearless and loyal German Shepherd. Most of the time he was out of sight sniffing around rabbit hutches, chasing wayward cats, and trash can diving.
One subscriber owned a boulder jawed dog that he'd release just as I reached his street. In hindsight it's my belief that the mutt was a Pit Bull, a breed in those days unknown to me. Fortunately it was near the end of my route, so my bicycle was lighter and easier to maneuver. That vicious canine would break and lunge at me like I was a juicy steak, forcing me off my bike which I would use as a shield until Queenie would charge out of the gloom. The two dogs would clash, snarl, bite, yelp, and massacre each other until the owner, finished with his fun, would whistle the marauder indoors. Queenie was winded and battered but she gave as good as she got.

On Sundays I was responsible for 110 super thick newspapers which were beyond my carrying capability, thus my dad chauffeured me in the station wagon with a five bundle load. I told dad all about the frightening dog encounters and Queenie's courageous rising to my defense, but that gut wouldn't let his dog out on Sundays when my dad was around. Until one Sunday the dog emerged all fury and teeth. While we sat in the car, the beast again tangled with Queenie in what seemed like a duel to the death.

The owner stepped out to his gate and summoned his dog as my father got out of the car to confront the irresponsible perpetrator. They argued, but when the jerk started blaming me for the trouble because my dog ran free, my father let loose with both verbal barrels and shouted "THAT DOG WILL BE WITH MY SON TO PROTECT HIM FROM THAT MENACE! THAT THING BELONGS IN A CAGE!" I thought they would come to blows but the guy retreated and in the few weeks remaining in service to the publication, I was not threatened by that nightmare pooch again.

I was also responsible for collecting the money to pay for the papers, meaning I was not paid a wage nor guaranteed a cent for the effort and hours I toiled. In my quest for what was owed, I put up with three customer types; the ones who paid me...the nice ones who paid and tipped me...and the bastards who stiffed me.

Once a week I turned all the money over to the circulation supervisor who would then count and keep the newspaper's share and whatever was left handed back to me. I earned on average of ten dollars a week.

The weekly delivery rate was five cents a day and fifteen cents for Sundays. On Wednesdays and Thursdays after supper, I'd walk the neighborhood and knock on doors. I'd carry a coupon book and when a customer paid, I'd tear off a stub as their proof of being current.

I rang my share of doorbells where the deadbeats pretended not to be home. If a customer persistently stonewalled, it cut into my meager profits and after they fell three weeks behind, I'd notify the circulation manager to cancel that subscriber's subscription. Unfortunately the main office had no way of tracking the delinquents and consequently the same scofflaws would simply phone in and resubscribe no questions asked. Those customers were the exception so I made money of which dad banked about 90% leaving me with about a dollar a week and sometimes more if I didn't disclose all my tips.

I'd finish my route as the dawn diminished the faint light of Venus, and I'd be soaked in sweat on even the chilliest mornings. My mother would be up preparing breakfast and I'd wash, change, eat, and just make it in time for school.

In November after my brother's fatal bicycle accident and at my mother's insistence, I quit the job after I was able to recruit and train a replacement, and two weeks after that my parents gave up Queenie for adoption, the only dog that was ever mine. He developed a nasty habit of biting mailmen, blooding two of them.

by L DOUGLAS ST OURS
July 2011