The Paper Route

I know it seems kinda goddamn strange for a mature sixteen year old boy to still have a paper route, but let me explain: I really like it.  I’ve had the same route for six years now, and I just wouldn’t feel right leaving it to anyone else.  Twenty-three papers is all it is.  Wouldn’t take me no time at all except for the last four stops. 

Good ol’ goddamn Mr. Alred is the twentieth stop I make every day.  He always has some piece of news for me.  “The war’s a-comin!” he’ll announce through the button on his throat.  Sounds like a computer or something.  He talks real slow...and the voice that comes out is just plain weird.  Not at all what you’d expect, anyway.  Even with that damn button.  He sounds raspy and low and mechanical.  Just plain annoying.  He always wears the same old green checkered pants and red suspenders.  Kinda makes me wonder if he has four different pairs of those pants, or if he’s just wearing the same ones every single day.  He’s kinda fat, but I think it’s only his stomach.  You can tell that underneath those green pants are skinny little chicken legs.  And his stomach don’t even look that fat, but there’s always two buttons at the bottom of his shirt that look like they just sorta popped open.  I feel bad for the guy, though.  One day he started telling me about his wife that died a little over a year ago.  Says he gets pretty lonely...most days I’m the only one to come by.  I always thought the old coot was blind.  I don’t think he can even see his goddamn paper... just keeps getting it so he has someone to stop by every day.

Next is sweet little old Martha Buschmann, always baking something—telling me a growing boy needs to eat and wouldn’t I like a taste?  To be perfectly honest, I never did like a single solitary thing that came from that woman’s oven, but she was always so proud of everything she made.  The food wouldn’t of been that bad, but you know how little old ladies will never throw anything away, right?  She was probably bakin’ chocolate chip cookies with ten-year-old flour or something.  Probably got those eggs from a farmer she knew back in the 30’s.  Hell, I don’t know.  I always wondered if she was studying my face while I worked to choke down her food.  Felt bad that it was so goddamn gross, but I always told myself to pretend it was good...I wouldn’t have to pretend much longer.  I knew she wouldn’t be around forever....she had to of been at least 110 years old.          

Mr. Nagel was my second to the last stop.  Always sittin' on that damn front porch, rockin’ back and forth in a chair that wasn’t even meant to swing.  Always looked to be chewing something, though nothing was ever in the old bastard’s mouth.  He smelled like fluorescent lights and disinfectant and five cent mints—the sort of stench you find in nursing homes or hospitals when you go to visit dying relatives.  I always wondered why he wasn’t in one of ‘em.  The piece of shit was senile!  He belonged there.  I used to be scared to stop by his house for the first two years of my route—the sonofabitch would swear at me.  He’d tell me I was late again and then spit on the porch.  I always used to just throw his paper onto the yard and pedal away as fast as I could.  I didn’t want no trouble, and he sure seemed to want to give me plenty.  After awhile, though, he became funny.  He’d tell me stories about almost every single person in town.  And after every sentence he’d say “I’ll tell you what.”  “Boy that sun, she’s a hot one today, I’ll tell you what,” he’d say.  And his voice sounded like two fists full of gravel and sand being rubbed together.

The Taylor’s were the last stop on my route, and my favorite.  Ed Taylor was this rich bastard in our town.  Kinda a sonofabitch if you ask me, but no one gave him much trouble.  He lived in the big white house at the end of the block.  You know, picket fence, oak trees, a perfect lawn with a little garden full of tulips.  Anyway, he had these two daughters: twins.  They were 19 and they would always run outside to get the paper from me.  Come right up to my bike and wink and smile and flip their hair for me.  I knew they both liked me and I sure liked them, but for some reason none of the three of us ever came out and said anything about it.  I used to tell mom about them when I was twelve and they were sixteen.  She always told me they were just teasing me.  They were too old.  But I’ve always been pretty bright, and I was just sure they liked me.  You could ask anyone. 

This one day, though, everything went weird.  I made it through pretty much the whole route and knew I had to hurry back or be late for supper.  Mom never did like that.  But on my last stop at the Taylor’s, the girls came out acting like I never saw them act before. They asked me what, for the love of God, was I doing still having my paper route?  Didn’t I think sixteen was a little too old to ride my bike across town delivering papers?  Why didn’t I go get my driver’s license so I could get a regular job at Miller’s Grocery Store or the bowling alley, or at least be able to take them out on a date sometime?  Then they started giggling.  I couldn’t figure out what those giggles were supposed to mean.

I didn’t know what the hell was going on!  I mean, I knew most of the kids doin’ the routes were about ten.  And yeah, I knew I should probably try to get my driver’s license and get a typical sixteen-year-old job.  But I really thought things wouldn’t get done right without me.  Some little whipper-snapper sonofabitch would probably come right out and tell sweet little old Martha Buschmann that her food stinks.  No one else could possibly know how to handle senile old Mr. Nagel.  And the Taylor’s!  Didn’t the twins realize that if I quit my paper route, we wouldn’t get to see each other every day anymore?  Didn’t they care?!?

My head started to spin.  Did everyone in town think I was a pathetic moron who couldn’t get a normal job?  Didn’t anyone realize that nothing would be the same if I quit?  No one else would suck it up and spend 20 minutes talking to Mr. Alred.  He needed me!  No one else knows that when Mr. Nagel is being a bastard, it just means helikes you.  No one else knows to hold your breath and smile when you chew any kind of cookie Mrs. Buschmann makes.  And NO ONE else should ever have the right to see my twins every day. 

I don’t know how long me and the twins were standing there, but I know we didn’t say anything for a long time after they attacked me with their questions.  I tried to study their faces...y’know, see if they all of a sudden felt bad about what they said to me.  I stood there waiting, just so my two favorite girls had the chance to apologize.  Then everything would go back to normal.  But let me tell you...those minutes sure went by slow.  It felt like I memorized every goddamn blade of grass in their lawn.  I noticed a couple birds flying overhead in slow motion.  Couldn’t help but to wish those birds would drop a little surprise on my girlfriends if they were gonna be so goddamn snotty to me.  I stared at their stupid oak trees, their ugly tulips, and their perfect little picket fence.  All of a sudden I wanted that damn thing to rot.  I waited there forever, like a moron, just so my girls could say they were sorry.  But when they finally said something, it wasn’t nothing like I expected.

“So you gonna give us the paper or what?” they demanded.  

I threw the paper down on Mr. Rich-sonofabitch’s lawn and pedaled away.  I had that rotten feeling—y’know, when your stomach ties up into a ball and your throat feels like its burning and is gonna close forever.  I hoped the girls felt bad, too.  But I heard a giggle while I was pedaling away.  It didn’t sound like a sorry giggle, either.  Sounded like the kinda giggle only stupid morons get when they realize too late that they’re being stupid morons.

I went home that night and called up my boss to tell him I wasn’t doing the damn paper route anymore.  I felt like a real ass, but I’d be damned if I’d ever go back to Ed Taylor’s house again.  I decided that same night that I would still stop by Mr. Alred’s house every day.  I figured maybe he could save some money—stop subscribing to the paper and still have someone to visit him every day.  I thought Mr. Nagel would probably wanna see me once in a while too.  He was a pretty good ol’ guy.  Besides, I needed to keep up with everything that was happening in the town, and Mr. Nagel always seemed to know.  And I was gonna make sure to tell the new paper boy everything he’d need to know: Smile and hold your breath when you’re eating Mrs. Buschmann’s cookies.  Give old Mr. Nagel just as much grief as he gives you.  And no matter what, don’t let the Taylor twins fool you.