The Paper Route Years
Two bundles of papers dropped in the driveway. My elder brother Matt would bring them into the “new room” and fold them (the “new room” was a converted garage my parents had made into an extra room for the house).
Fold them meant roll them and place a rubber band around the paper. Or slide them into a plastic bag if it might rain. He’d load the papers into a cart for delivery purposes. An early aside is needed for the cart. The cart was a 1970’s era supermarket cart. A big, metal crate on rubberized wheels. Something like this:
Once the cart was loaded up, he would head out on the route. Sometimes, I’d go with him. I don’t remember the route well but imagine it was just the surrounding streets. One street in particular was notable.
What was notable about it was the slope. As an adult, it doesn’t seem too bad to me now but as an eight year old it felt almost straight down. Especially the day when I was sitting in the cart and my brother let it go. Thrill? No. Terror. Flying down Parkway. My brother running to catch up. Maybe in control, maybe not. The cart nearing the bottom. Hitting a small pothole and flipping over with me inside. Me tumbling end over end. A few scraps. Otherwise ok. And I never rode in that cart again.
Later, I took a job from my brother Matt and then Joe folding the papers. I forget what they paid me. It wasn’t much. The paper was the Enterprise Journal, a twice weekly free local paper. I was maybe 10. Later, when I was maybe 13 I took over the route from them which meant delivery. Instead of the cart, I remember a canvas two-sided bag. Something kind of like this:
I’d walk the neighborhood throwing papers towards front doors. At night and alone. I wasn’t afraid except for the strange lights coming out of the houses. I didn’t know what the lights were at first. I considered if they could be from aliens. The lights would change brightness and color suddenly. At some point I realized the lights were TVs. Bright kid that I was.
I’m not sure how long I had the Enterprise Journal delivery gig but at some point it stopped and I graduated to the San Francisco Chronicle. The Chronicle promised to pay what seemed like a ton of money to me at the time. It was a seven day a week, delivery before 7am, no holidays gig. Sunday papers were a bear. The Chronicle was a monthly subscription and the route covered all subscribers over a relatively large area. I had something like 50 subscribers for my area and it would take me about 45 minutes every morning to deliver the papers while riding my bicycle. On Sundays, the paper was much bigger with many Sunday only subscribers. For that, I’d load up the good old shopping cart and push it around, taking maybe an hour and a half. I had this job in 9th and 10th grade and in some ways it was the hardest job I had. Seven days a week is relentless. I had to collect the payments from the subscribers by going to their homes typically around dinner time. People had all kinds of reasons not to pay if they even answered the door. So, I hired my younger brother Donnie to do the collections. He didn’t fare much better. Then when we took family vacations, I’d need someone to cover my route for me. I remember one time, the summer going into the 10th grade, I arranged for a friend of a friend to deliver the papers for me. Then the vacation came and the arranged friend didn’t show up. People didn’t get their papers and complained. The route supervisor was really mad. I don’t really know his actual title but he was the guy driving the big Chronicle truck dropping off the papers every day. He stopped by the house pissed as all can be. Complaining loudly how irresponsible I was. My brother Joe laid into him, something about what a piece of shit he was for these expectations. A physical threat may have been issued. The supervisor, a short, scraggly bearded, non athletic, troll of a man, backed down.
I continued with the Chronicle route for maybe another year. I started dating my high school girlfriend, Tammy, in the middle of sophomore year and she would join me on the routes some mornings. Another companion was the neighbor’s golden retriever. Wish I could remember his name. The next summer when I went on vacation with my family, Tammy and her mom covered the route. In that old Gremlin the mom drove.
At some point I did the math on how much I was making per hour. Minimum wage in California at the time was $3.35 an hour. The route paid me about 50 cents per hour and that was if I could get all the subscribers to pay the monthly feel. It felt good to quit that job. The route supervisor tried to get me to stay on. Said would handle the collections part of it. But it was time to leave, I had gotten a job at a gas station. Moving on up.