Chapter 9B

One morning in early October, soon after starting my 8th-grade school year, I approached Tony at breakfast and told him I needed to draw from my savings. At first he didn't want to hear about it; the account had only recently begun to show real progress.

I told him I needed to buy a new bike and a front basket for it. When he discovered that I needed the bike because I had signed up to be a morning news carrier for the Commercial Appeal, his eyes lit up. It was the first time I'd seen him express enthusiasm for anything I'd said or done.

"What about your Saturday job at the store?" he asked.

"I'm keepin' that one, too," I said firmly.

He smiled broadly at my Mom. "Damn, this kid's gettin' to be a real worker!"

Under those circumstances, he agreed that I could get an inexpensive three speed bike that wouldn't consume my savings but would be good enough to haul a load of morning newspapers.

Of course I didn't tell him that the money from the paper route would be used to get me to New York. He was so pleased about my willingness to work myself to death, I didn't want to spoil the only basis for the slim rapport that had been established between us.

At my first morning on the carrier job, it soon became apparent that I'd again taken on a bigger chunk that I'd bargained for. My Mom woke me at four o'clock in the morning and had hot oatmeal waiting for me when I was dressed. As I wolfed breakfast she stumbled back into bed, grumbling that she'd be glad when I would be able to wake myself up and get an early breakfast without disturbing her.

That first October morning was chilly and dark. I rode my new red three speed Schwinn to the loading station several blocks away. The route manager, a short and muscular middle-aged man with a harried look and baggy eyes, delivered my initial instructions and showed me how to check and sign for my newspapers. I learned that my route consisted of 136 customers on seven short suburban streets. I then discovered that there was no way my three speed Schwinn could transport 136 newspapers in a single trip without another backbreaking effort on my part.

The solution was to pile as many papers as I could into the bike's front basket. This amounted to a little less than one third of the papers required. I was given three large canvas shoulder bags with the official Commercial Appeal logo imprinted on them in dull red. I stuffed the remaining papers into the three canvas bags. Then I strapped the bags around my shoulders by their long canvas straps. Thus weighted, I slowly waddled like a two-ton duck out of the dimly lighted loading station and toward my bicycle. Outside, the crowd of other news carriers hustled to load their motorcycles and automobiles. I knew none of them and spoke to no one -- I was too busy trying to figure out how to keep the weight of the packed bags from pulling me down and flattening me like a pancake.

Lurching fitfully, I struggled to mount my Schwinn. The next step was to see if I could possibly move my legs up and down to work the pedals. I couldn't. The huge canvas bags hanging from my shoulders were in the way.

The route manager in his leather bomber jacket passed me on his way to his station wagon. "Hey," he shouted, "you gonna make it anywhere like that?"

"Sure," I said, forcing a smile. I was far from sure of it myself.

After twisting and shuffling the load on my shoulders so that one bag hung over my back and the other two were suspended slightly behind my hips, I was able to move my legs. I started pumping arduously at the pedals of my Schwinn, which I locked in its lowest gear.

By the time I devised this clumsy method, almost all the other kids had left the loading station. I lumbered into the roadway and headed toward Given Avenue, one long block away. Looking ahead, I was horrified to find that, despite all the level streets and flat stretches of land in my neighborhood, I had been given a route that had to be accessed from the loading station by climbing the only hill in sight. And it was a steep climb, rising quickly to a least a twostory height in the course of that one long block of roadway.

As I grunted and puffed my way up the hill at a slug's pace, the last two newsboys passed me, one on his motorcycle with its sidecar loaded with newspapers, and the other in a baby blue 1952 Mercury whose broken muffler roared and spewed a thin gray cloud of oily smoke as he passed me and disappeared over the hill.

The sun was just rising. The jet black sky had lightened vaguely with the first gray intimations of daybreak. There was no traffic on the streets, no sound in the predawn stillness -- just myself, groaning and huffing under the onus of the fully loaded front basket and the three bulging canvas bags whose combined size was almost three times my own.

Halfway up the hill, the burning in my thighs told me I had no choice but to dismount and walk the load to the crest of the upgrade. Cursing under my hot breath, I stopped my bike. Now I had to find a way to dismount without hurting myself. I could not get both my feet to touch the ground in order to balance the Schwinn. Before I knew it, I felt the bag around my back begin to shift to my side as I leaned to get off the bike and onto one foot. Suddenly the strap of the bag was choking me. I reached back to stop the bag's movement, but its weight and that of the one next to it dragged themselves and me toward the ground. I was yanked to my left; then the bag at my right hip followed suit with the others, swinging behind and then beyond me, and all three bags hauled me down.

I fell, face up, my Schwinn toppling away from me. Two of the bags landed beneath me, their wide straps yanking roughly and garotting me from behind as they pulled me down. Flat on my back, choking and gagging, I panicked and struggled to raise my head. This only dug the rough straps into my neck. Finally, I had the good sense to roll onto my side and off the bags. The straps fell away from my neck. I could breathe again.

Coughing and gasping, I pulled the other straps away and stood to survey the damage. The handlebar of my Schwinn had somehow been twisted starboard, out of line with the center bar. I raised the bike and held it between my knees while I strained to center the handlebar.

Rasping loudly and still choking a little, I looked around. Not a car or a person in sight. At least I'd been spared the embarrassment of having my stupidity and clumsiness witnessed by others. Checking my wrist watch, I saw that it was nearly six A.M.

Breathlessly I muttered aloud to myself, "You'll have to do better than this, stupid." My body was still reacting to the sensation of being strangled by the straps of my own news bags. Rubbing my neck, I found that the flesh around my Adam's apple had been burned and scraped; it stung painfully when I touched it.

Enraged, I hurriedly began strapping up again. Arranging the bags more methodically, I reloaded the papers that had fallen out of my Schwinn's basket and began laboriously walking the bike uphill.

Finally at the top, I took a right turn and surveyed the street that lay before me and that led to the beginning of my route five blocks away. Whereas the steep grade that led from the paper station to the top of the hill was sudden and sharp, the street before me was a long sweeping downgrade as far as I could see.

"Good!" I said aloud, knowing that I could simply coast downhill all the way to my route. Carefully I mounted my Schwinn. After ensuring that all was balanced and under control, I shoved off with my feet and sat with the hard nose of the bicycle seat nudging painfully into my coccyx under the weight of the carrier bags. But soon I was rolling swiftly, the bicycle tires hissing loudly along the asphalt street. In the quiet air I heard the wind whistle faintly past my ears as I picked up speed. Thus loaded, strapped, upright, and rolling almost merrily along, I imagined myself as looking absurdly like a giant papier-mache cauliflower on wheels. About halfway down the hill it suddenly occurred to me that I had no way whatever of braking quickly under the momentum of the weight that both surrounded and propelled me. Stoically, I concluded that in a collision the formless paper hulk would at least cushion the blow.

Fortunately, sudden stops weren't needed. But as I approached the far end of Given Avenue, where the first house on my route nestled upon its own little mound of grassy lot, I noticed for the first time that this part of Given sloped toward another upgrade. Thankfully it was not the virtual mountain that lay behind me; but my rolling began to slow, and soon I was straining and pedaling again in low gear.

Out of breath and grunting fiercely under the three canvas bags, I finally rolled to a stop at the curb in front of the first house. Too tired to resist, I allowed myself and my bike to lean, and then to slide into a slow fall, toward my right. All of me and my load settled with a soft lurch into the grass that lined the curb.