Chapter 9A

Working at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was more challenging than I'd expected. The store occupied the corner of Exchange and Lauderdale, across the street from the same project and the same corner where Martha and I grew up. Two stock boys worked in the store, and three delivery boys worked outside on the clunky old utility bikes.

On my first day at work in early July I was assigned to young, dark haired Anthony, a distant cousin who lived with his widowed mother in the project. He could shuck a bushel of corn and trim lettuce so quickly that his hand movements seemed a mere blur. During the first couple of days I almost managed to compete with him, as well as learning how to stock canned and boxed goods in the aisles and shelves as neatly as did George, the oldest stock boy.

But after I learned the basic layout and operation of the store by the end of that week, I was assigned to a delivery bike. That job confronted me with my physical limitations. Though I was not small for my going-on-fourteen years, I was neither hefty nor strong. A customer's grocery order contained from one to several stuffed bags in addition to an occasional case of canned goods or beer. The bikes themselves were ancient chain driven units with gigantic wire baskets over the front and rear wheels. They had fat metal seats, no center bar, a chest high bare metal handlebar, undersized wheels designed for heavy loads and rough streets, and a low-ratio single gear for hauling rather than speed. They were slow, rusty, noisy machines. But when loaded with several heavy grocery bags that would be pedaled over a pitted street or along a gravel driveway, they were stronger and more manageable than a recreational bike.

One of the older boys, a chesty, tough looking but friendly blond, crewcut kid named Charlie, took charge for the first few days and showed me the ropes. He saw to it that I started out with one-bag or two-bag loads for customers who lived no more than three blocks away. I was slow at first; although I had once lived in the area, the building numbering system in the project and on some of the more obscure side streets were unfamiliar. This brief training reduced the number of daily deliveries I could make. The job paid ten cents per order. In the beginner stage I averaged ten orders daily.

By the end of the second week I was getting the hang of things. That Saturday was particularly busy. Under the additional pressure of a blistering noon sun, Charlie and another kid and I were on the sidewalk in front of the store loading bags onto our bikes, along with a fourth boy who had been drafted for the day from the part time pool. Charlie helped load the first two bikes and sent them on their way. He had already loaded three orders onto his own bike.

He pointed to the last group of several bags. "They been here almost an hour. We better get caught up." He surveyed the bags. "We got one for 236 Exchange, I can add that to my load. But all nine of those other bags is Miz Gaston's order. You'll have to make two trips outta that, maybe three. You up to it, Speedy?"

"Sure," I said. "Load me."

Charlie helped me load the first four large paper bags onto my bike. "That looks steady enough," he told me, checking the bike for sway and balance. Then he climbed on his fully loaded machine and steadied himself with one foot on the ground. Pointing at the onebag order still sitting in the corner, he told me, "Gimme me that order."

I gaped at him. "You gonna carry that with five bags already on your bike?"

"Hell, give it to me. C'mon."

I handed him the bag, which was no lightweight, and he held it pressed to his side with one hand grasping the bottom. Wobbling slightly on the bike, he settled onto his seat, grabbed the handlebar with his free hand, shoved off with one long push of his feet, and started pedaling rough-and-ready down the street in the hot sun, gritting his teeth and looking in all directions for the traffic.

I watched with admiration as he drifted slowly up Exchange Street, steering one handed and hefting a full sack under his free arm.

Climbing onto my own bike, I was surprised as the stubborn weight caught me off guard and almost felled me. Grunting, I forced the bike upright and made sure of my balance. I proceeded slowly, knowing I'd have to be careful with this monstrous load.

But before I could get moving, my stepdad rushed out of the front door and pointed at the remaining bags on the ground. "Wait up! Wait! Ain't all this part of the Gaston order?"

I told him it was all one order and that I'd make it in two trips.

He yelled impatiently about the order having been delayed too long and demanded that I load it all at once and get moving. I was not that good at loading up yet, so Tony grumbled and shoved me aside. Hastily, he began stuffing the bags into the large carry baskets, shifting and shoving until the bike was so heavily loaded it seemed to sag. The tires were slightly but visibly pressed flat where they touched the sidewalk.

I eyed the load fearfully and mumbled something about not being sure I could handle that much weight.

"Hell you can't!" Tony retorted, "Get on that damn bike and move this order outta here! Go on, get movin!" He chomped on his unlit cigar and strode back into the store, glaring back at me hotly.

At first it was all I could do to disengage the kickstand and simply hold up the bike. The cargo's weight was considerably more than my own and the slightest tilt of the machine required serious effort to keep the bike balanced. I carefully walked the bike to the curb and slowly let the front wheel off the sidewalk and into the street, then the rear wheel. At that point the shifting weight almost pulled the bike groundward. Desperately, using both arms and heaving my back and legs into it, I kept the bike upright while I haltingly moved onto the seat, checked my balance, hopped up onto the big metal pedals, and shoved my legs forward.

The bike seemed to move in slow motion. Before I made it across narrow Exchange Street my ankles were sore with the effort. Checking the traffic in both directions, I let the bike roll lethargically toward the six lane breadth of Lauderdale Street. Then I tried pedaling to gain the speed I needed to cross the boulevard. But the weight I was pedaling seemed to mock my efforts. I could not gain speed. Seeing traffic approach, I knew I had to head back toward the curb to avoid being overrun.

Helplessly, as if in a bad dream, I felt the bike tilt sideways as I turned; then I felt the overwhelming weight shift the undersized wheels with a sharp scraping sound; the front wheel began slipping underneath the bike, and the bike started tumbling. I jumped off the seat and with my arms, back, legs, and any other leverage I could muster, I vainly tried to keep the load from forcing the bike on its side in the middle of the roadway. But the weight shoved the wheels over the surface of the pavement and pulled both me and the bike toward the curb. With a loud crash the bike fell on its side, half on top of me, and several bags tumbled into the street. Groceries went everywhere. The traffic caught up with me and one of the speeding automobiles, swerving away from me, smashed a cabbage into shards. Other cars crushed oranges and a canister of bug spray. A can of creamed corn exploded sticky yellow grit into the air, and several other items were smashed and smeared in the roadway.

Across the street, Tony ran out the door and screamed "God DAMN!" Pitching his cigar aside he dashed across the roadway toward me, with Anthony following. Anthony himself rushed to me in concern and alarm and helped pull me from under the bike. But my stepdad Tony flew into a rage. Kicking a couple of smashed cans out of the street and into the gutter, he flared angrily at me and screamed, "How fuckin' stupid!"

Anthony uprighted the bike. Just as he wheeled it onto the sidewalk, Tony stomped over to me and yelled, "Cain't you hold up a damn bike?" He slapped me across my face so hard that my head jerked and I found my startled eyeballs suddenly staring down the street in the opposite direction. I turned back to him, my neck aching from the blow, and saw his reddened face glowering into mine.

"Get this shit outta the street and get that bike loaded again! Now we're gonna have to rebuild this whole damn order! And whatever's missin' comes outta your pay, goddamit!" He spit on the street and pointed to the trash around us. "Anthony! Help this idiot clean up and get 'im back on the road!" Tony turned and stomped off, toward the store.

"Right, Tony," Anthony murmured after him, looking almost as startled as I must have looked. Shaking his head and eyeing me sympathetically, he said, "That Tony's a tough customer, Speedy."

Enraged and humiliated, I avoided his eyes and began fetching the litter out of the street while Anthony walked the bike with its bent baskets to the storefront. Five minutes later I trekked wordlessly into and through the store, into the rear stock room. Storming into the restroom, I slammed the door shut behind me and threw the bolt lock into place, then untied and removed my garbage stained, shin length cotton work apron and, wadding it up tightly, slammed it into the wall and screamed into the little room, "Son of a bitch!"

Covered with sweat, I bent to the sink and splashed my head and neck with cold water to cool me down physically and emotionally. I held my dripping head over the sink and massaged my sore neck, muttering "Son of a bitch" again, and then took several deep breaths.

"All right," I muttered aloud, hearing my voice sound grim and wobbly with hate. "All right, dammit."