Fifth and sixth grades...we paper boys were a serious lot. After school let out, we met up at the neighborhood paper drops that we were assigned to. I lived nearby, so I had time to drop the books and the terror off at home before I rode my bicycle the five blocks up a small hill to get to the paper drop. A handful of other paper boys waited for the gruff truck driver who would hurl our stack of daily newspapers onto the sidewalk. Most days a few papers got torn or smashed on the sidewalk.
We didn't shoot the breeze at the drop-off before starting the paper deliveries. The good aspect of running a paper route--in my case the 'Staten Island Advance,' was that we had cash in our pocket--mostly change--but back then banks would give you the paper coin rollers for free and would exchange your rolls for bills. At home you were also the 'go-to' guy when someone needed cash to buy milk or a pizza.
Sundays were tough. Thick, heavy papers. A truck driver dropped your paper sections at your home. Customers needed their papers early on Sunday mornings. A paper boy had to arrange the sections together into one neat paper and get moving.
Collecting every Friday was challenging. Most customers were fine, and tips were generous. A small percentage of customers were cheapskates or had no cash on hand. 'I'll get you next week.'
'Do you have change of a ten or twenty?' I did. I was ready for their tricks.
You owe me for two weeks. 'You sure? I think I paid last week.' No, I have it written in my book. The Advance gave us a notebook for the back pocket for us to keep our customer records. There were a few customers who would pull the window shade open a crack, and see it was the paper boy and hide.
It was a great job.
"The first time you quit is the last time you try."
"The first time you quit is the last time you try."
