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Paperboy

By Stan Crader

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The Band of Boys
Tommy rushed home from the bus stop, running as fast as his lungs
would allow. He was still aching from a brutal seventh hour PE class conducted
by a new and overexuberant football coach wannabe. He had less
than thirty minutes to squeeze in a ride on the Mini Trail with Melody
before meeting Booger at the stone. During band he’d described to Melody
how the trees that canopied the creek were at their fall peak. She’d
listened intently with dancing eyes and eagerly agreed to a ride to Craggy
Creek Bridge. His fancy speech had worked!
Thinking about a first kiss with Melody energized him. But after several
unsuccessful attempts at kick-starting the Mini Trail his right leg
quivered from exhaustion. The chance for a first kiss with Melody slowly
faded. He slumped and rested his head on his folded arms, which were
draped over the handlebars of his lifeless Mini-Trail. He could see himself
reflected in the chrome gas-tank cap. Sweat dripped from the tip of his
nose.
Putting a halt to the pity party, he mustered the energy to sit up, wipe
the sweat from his nose, grab the neatly folded tool bag from under the
seat, and remove the spark plug. He knew what he’d find. A minuscule
piece of carbon had lodged in the gap between the center and ground
electrode. It had happened before—that’s how Tommy knew to check the
plug. And he had learned that the chronic carbon deposit problem was
caused from riding primarily on gravel roads. Using his fingernail, he removed
the microscopic piece of carbon. After replacing the plug, the Mini
Trail roared to life on the first crank. By then he’d lost fifteen precious
minutes.
Tommy had worked all summer, earning enough money to purchase
2 Stan Crader
a Honda Mini Trail. During those long, hot days of mowing lawns, his
daydreams had often been of getting the Mini Trail and taking Wendy,
his previous adolescent heartthrob, for a ride. Tommy’s adolescent passion
had been further fueled when his mother had made him take piano
lessons from Wendy’s mother. And to make matters worse—or better, depending
on one’s point of view—Wendy’s mother, oblivious to Tommy’s
crush on Wendy, had arranged for them to perform a duet at the end-ofsummer
recital.
Tommy and Wendy had spent several hours sitting side by side on
the piano bench practicing. Tommy found the experience both exhilarating
and nerve-wracking. He had constantly worried about his hair, body
odor, and breath. He’d fervently prayed for whiskers and had gotten two.
A recurring nightmare he’d had during that time was discovering after the
piano practice that he’d had a flapping booger in his nostril. After getting
the Mini Trail, he’d chosen Wendy to be his first passenger. That ride had
ended with a kiss—a first for both.
The kiss hadn’t been the magical moment Tommy had expected. The
moment their lips touched, Tommy’s thoughts had turned to Melody,
leaving Tommy in a state of confusion about girls. While it was rewarding
to be seen with Wendy, Melody was the one with which he was the most
at ease.
He roared to the end of the driveway before skidding to a stop and
forlornly dealt with the reality that it was too late to take her for a ride. A
greasy smear and the tiny speck were still stuck to his pants leg. He felt
contempt for the tiny inanimate piece of carbon, and then flicked it away.
After allowing himself a few more seconds of self-pity, Tommy trudged
into the house to call Melody but found his mom was using the phone.
He motioned that he needed the phone, and she knowingly smiled. While
waiting for her to finish, Tommy used Comet to scrub his greasy fingers,
exfoliating a layer or two of skin in the process. His mom was hanging up
when he stepped out of the bathroom. “Don’t you need to get going?” she
asked.
“I need to make a call first.”
She got a perplexed, motherly look. Tommy rarely used the phone in
her presence. She stood there and waited. Tommy, on the other hand, had
hoped she’d find something else to do. His mother didn’t particularly like
for him to take girls for a ride. “They’re too delicate,” and “I don’t want to
Paperboy 3
hear it from their parents if you have a wreck,” she’d repeatedly told him.
He wasn’t going to lie, but he wasn’t making any effort to the reveal the
truth. Being vague and unclear was a tactic he often found useful. “Who
are you calling?” she asked.
While the phone rang on Melody’s end, Tommy answered his mother,
“Melody. I need to talk to her about something we discussed during band.”
It was a partial truth. Tommy anxiously listened while the unanswered
phone continued to ring. He concluded she must be in the driveway waiting
for him. His stomach began to churn.
He contemplated the perplexing behavior of girls and the differences
between Melody and Wendy. Any time things didn’t suit Wendy, she’d
get mad and make snippy remarks. Melody, on the other hand, would
merely sulk, which was much worse. The notion with which he wrestled
on the way to the stone was that he wasn’t good at handling either. And
Uncle Cletus, his mentor on all manly subjects, had only chuckled when
asked about the dilemma. Tommy decided to try calling Melody from
Gooche’s.
“Downtown” by Petula Clark was playing through the Houn-Dawg
Drive-in’s outdoor speakers; the tune boosted his spirit.
He coasted the last fifty yards before the town square. The magnificence
of the fall colors competed with Melody for his thoughts. Wind
swirling around the giant maples on the courthouse lawn created funnels
of leaves that rose skyward, drifted a few feet, and then fluttered gently to
the ground.
A sudden gust of wind caused a new batch of fluttering leaves to wiggle
free from their fragile hold—several stayed aloft long enough to make
their way to the street, where they swirled over and around passing cars.
A few made it to the leaf devil stage and lived their last airborne moments
held aloft by a miniature funnel.
Caleb, Flop, Everett, Checkers, and Booger, also known by their parents
as “the band of boys,” were hanging out in front of Gooche’s. Flop’s
real name was William, and that was how his pious mother referred to
him, but one look at his ears and the nickname was easy to understand.
Checkers’s real name was Clyde, but he was given his nickname after
his mother was overheard telling him that eating too many Moon Pies
had made him chubby. Clyde was flattered to be considered a member of
4 Stan Crader
the band and felt a sense of pride to have a nickname that associated him
with the King of Twist.
Booger was sitting on the stone whittling on a stick with his Tuff-Nut
knife. Checkers and Everett were eating Moon Pies. Caleb was practicing
a new skill, spitting two spitballs simultaneously. He’d seen one of the
courthouse bench Codgers do it and had been developing his twin-stream
spitting skill since. Flop was trying to fit in—even though he’d survived
the summer, he was still considered the new kid.
Delivering the afternoon paper didn’t pay well—in fact, the pay was
abysmal. Counting the time spent waiting for the paper, it calculated out
to about twenty-five cents per hour, at a time when carryout boys were
making a dollar per hour, plus tips. In fact, except for household chores,
a paper route was the worst paying job in town. And the paper had to be
delivered regardless of the weather. There was no excuse for not delivering
the Colby Telegraph.
Ironically, a paper route was the most coveted job in town, at least by
pubescent boys. Putting on a paper bag elevated one to celebrity status; it
was almost as good as having whiskers. A basket loaded with newspapers
converted a bicycle from a toy to a tool.
When the weather was good and the days long, the band of boys kept
each other company. They cruised the town and delivered papers. Tommy
and Booger’s friends often used “helping with the paper route” as an excuse
to delay doing homework and a reason for riding their bicycles to all
points of town.
Tommy looked through the massive plate glass front window and
saw that Mr. Gooche was using the phone; anxiety filled his senses. He
plopped down on the stone and slumped.
Booger, noticing Tommy’s pained expression, asked, “What’s the problem?”
Tommy explained and pointed at the grease smudge on his pants.
Booger wasn’t particularly impressed. “Did she let you kiss her yet?”
Booger asked. Tommy shook his head no, letting Booger assume the
problem was with Melody. The truth was, he’d never gotten up the nerve
to try.
Booger continued to whittle, and Tommy was watching the phone
when Jupiter Storm came stomping toward them. He’d been across the
street at the courthouse bench talking to the Codgers. Montgomery FulPaperboy
5
bright, Solomon Atchison, Benjamin May, and Simon James were referred
to by most by their nicknames: Monkey, Fish, Bem, and Rabbit.
They were known collectively as the Codgers, which had been shortened
from the Old Codgers.
Before moving to the football field to watch practice, Monkey, Fish,
Bem, and Rabbit would sit sentinel on the courthouse bench. Jupiter depended
on them for the names of those who’d been to the courthouse each
day. After getting the information, Jupiter would march into the courthouse,
intrude into every office, and interrogate county officials in an effort
to determine the personal business of each visitor.
Jupiter always walked with a purpose, possessed by a relentless sense
of urgency. Even when he smiled, his face looked menacing. Tommy and
Booger had to stay and wait for the papers. Checkers, Everett, Flop, and
Caleb, not technically paperboys, saw Jupiter coming, mounted their
bikes, and skedaddled.
“You know what you’re sittin’ on?” Jupiter asked, seeming to imply the
boys had violated a sacred custom. Jupiter launched into a lengthy explanation
before Booger or Tommy had a chance to answer. They’d suffered
through the stepping-stone story several times since taking over the paper
route. Jupiter had chosen this day to share his own version with them.
Tommy was certain that every living soul in Colby knew the history of
the stepping-stone. He’d known it since forever. It’s not that the stone had
played any significant role in history; it’s simply that it had a unique shape
and had once served a specific purpose.
Jupiter was a large man, not particularly overweight, but big-boned
with heavy facial features, deep-set eyes, was seldom seen without a
wooden match dangling from his mouth or hanging behind his ear. An
ear, by the way, that was covered with thick tufts of hair. It wasn’t a feature
unique to Jupiter; Tommy had noticed that other older men were
similarly afflicted and had surmised that thick tufts more than likely obstructed
sound waves and explained the loss of hearing in older men. Jupiter’s
bulbous belly, combined with the absence of a rear end, made keeping
his pants in place a struggle. His constant tugging at them was almost as
distracting as his garlicky breath. Jupiter liked to talk more than anything,
but not about anything in particular. His enthusiasm for sharing his opinion
always exceeded his knowledge of the subject or his victim’s level of
6 Stan Crader
interest. Tommy had heard his mother describe Jupiter as having excessive
self-confidence. Adults could tell him to shove off. Kids, at least those
with manners, had to suffer through Jupiter’s diatribes.
Eye contact was important to Jupiter, even though he had one eye that
was permanently squinted from years of smoking and one that wandered
on its own. The squinted eye seemed to be under Jupiter’s control. He usually
focused it on the person being interrogated. The wandering eye was
probably no more than that, but because of Jupiter’s nature, Tommy and
Booger were convinced he was able to look at two people at once. He was
taller than most men, and he towered over Tommy and Booger. He had
a way of holding people optically captive. The unwavering squinted eye
was on Tommy. Every time Tommy moved to keep Mr. Gooche’s phone
in view, Jupiter moved too. Booger and Tommy impatiently endured, in
excruciating detail, how the stepping-stone was originally a creek-bank
rock but so closely resembled a step that it had been placed in front of
the post office to be used for that purpose. Jupiter told how women, the
weaker sex, to use his term, had used the stone for getting on and off of
horses or in and out of carriages.
Since Booger and Tommy had started delivering papers, Jupiter made
more of an effort to include them in his rumor rounds. He seemed to
think the boys’ status as paperboys gave them an in with the reporters for
the newspaper, or maybe it was because he was hoping to get a few morsels
of hearsay from them.
Gooche’s grocery and the Colby post office shared a facade of tall windows.
Gooche’s window box always featured a variety of displays, usually
cardboard cutouts. One window had a life-sized cardboard Aunt Jemima
hawking pancake syrup, and the other had a cardboard of Mr. Clean making
a proclamation. The cutout was attached to a real toilet. Uncle Cletus
had told Tommy he thought it strange that an aging bald man could be
so happy cleaning toilets and thought Mr. Clean weird—he was probably
from California, or worse yet, France.
The post office windows were nothing more than tall transparent walls
revealing a spartan, but patriotic display of American flags.
During Jupiter’s stepping-stone lecture, Tommy watched Mrs. Koch
make three attempts at her mailbox combination before successfully retrieving
her mail. Mrs. Koch, sometimes considered a living fossil—which
was how Mr. Koch had been known to affectionately refer to her—had
Paperboy 7
given Booger and Tommy the stepping-stone history lesson the first day
she’d seen them waiting for the paper. Her explanation was full of interesting
detail and included the colors and styles of dresses worn by the
ladies who had once used the stone, as well as the names of those who had
originally found the stone and the ordeal it was to move it to its present
location. An air of mystery shrouded her; maybe it was the way she pulled
her hair tightly into a ball on the back of her head, or the layers of makeup
that she caked onto her face, or the way she held her chin skyward
when she marched about, the bridge of her nose parallel with the ground.
Or it could have been her accent-free intonation, which didn’t match that
of most Colby residents. She and Mr. Koch lived in the apartment above
the post office.
Tommy watched Mrs. Koch sort through her mail while Jupiter droned
on about the stone. The story was fairly simple, but unlike Mrs. Koch,
Jupiter didn’t have a way with words, and worse yet, often got off track
talking about other people’s affairs and spreading rumors. “Are you listening
to me?” he’d ask when Tommy’s eyes began to glaze over. The thought
occurred to him that when Jupiter’s parents had decided to name all their
children after a planet, they’d chosen the perfect planet for him. All the
others, except a sister named Venus, had left Colby years earlier.
While lecturing Tommy and Booger about the stone, Jupiter managed
to mention that he’d heard that Alison Tatum’s daughter, Tippy, was pregnant.
The evening before, Tommy had overheard Marsha, his sister, and
a couple of other cheerleaders talking about Tippy. While eavesdropping,
he’d learned several adjectives describing one who is pregnant, including
“knocked up.” The word had gotten out after Tippy’s doctor’s secretary
had let it slip while at the Colby Curls.
So, Jupiter’s mention of Tippy’s condition wasn’t news to Tommy. His
only reaction was a small eyebrow squeeze. Tommy knew Jupiter expected
a more exaggerated reaction.
Jupiter kept his good eye focused on Tommy while his wandering eye
seemed to be following Booger. For a couple of seconds, both eyes focused
on Tommy. Booger took advantage of the lapse to escape Jupiter’s
optical grip and moved to the drop-zone, the spot where the papers were
delivered and staged. The Colby Telegraph truck rounded the corner by
the Sinclair. Tommy had visions of Mackenzie’s Raiders topping a hill to
save a wagon train from a horde of Mexican bandits, except in this case it
8 Stan Crader
was a paperboy being saved from an obnoxious self-appointed town crier.
The truck’s arrival provided Tommy with ample excuse to walk away from
Jupiter and join Booger.
Jupiter stopped midsentence, gave Tommy a stern look, tugged at his
ill-fitting pants for the umpteenth time, and then headed back across the
street toward the courthouse bench, mumbling under his breath.
Tommy saw that Mr. Gooche was off the phone and rushed inside.
“Mind if I use the phone for a minute, Mr. Gooche?” Mr. Gooche, deep
in thought, didn’t immediately reply. “It’ll only take a minute, promise,”
Tommy persisted.
Mr. Gooche noticed the stress on Tommy’s face and opened the gate to
his office area. “Make it quick, it’s the only line.”
Tommy dialed Melody again, but got no answer.
He and Booger began the route by putting the Colby Telegraph into
the stands at Gooche’s, the Houn-Dawg, and the post office, and then
they loaded their bike baskets with the remaining papers. The big news
that everyone was expecting to read about was the announcement of the
new hat factory manager. Supposedly he’d graduated summa cum laude
from Chicago State University and subsequently spent ten years there as
a professor before going to work for International Hat. Tommy hadn’t
known a summa cum laude from a sumo wrestler. Uncle Cletus had explained
both and Tommy had shared the information with the band of
boys. Tommy and his friends often felt a step ahead of others after being
informed by Tommy’s Uncle Cletus.
Having been occupied by Jupiter, neither boy had yet taken the time
to look at the front page and had forgotten about the expected announcement.
Booger looked at Tommy and frowned. “How many times you figure
we’ll hear ’bout that steppin’ stone?”
“Long as it’s here and people remember, the story will be told,” Tommy
replied, sounding more poetic than he’d intended. “Trouble is, most of
these old people can’t remember who they’ve told. And they all seem compelled
to make sure that the stone’s part in Colby’s history gets passed
down.” The boys pushed their bikes across the street to the courthouse.
“That’s part of being a paperboy. People are always telling us stuff.”
“I don’t mind it,” Booger continued. “It’s just that you’d think that
Jupiter could have skipped the stone story and gotten straight away to
Paperboy 9
tellin’ us about Tippy. That’s what had him all stirred up anyway.” Booger’s
comment reminded Tommy that listening to people was part of the job.
Sometimes the messenger got credit for the message. And knowing that
Booger liked feeling needed by others filled Tommy with a peaceful sense.
Each quarter, Tommy and Booger collected subscription fees from
customers who didn’t pay by mail. This quarter, they had to explain an
increase in the subscription rate. The courthouse was their first collection
stop.
The courthouse, a cavernous hundred-year-old structure built after the
original had been burned, was still referred to as the new courthouse. Everything
about it was massive: tall ceilings, large offices, and a wide hallway
extending from front to back. The oak floor creaked with every step.
“Yes, yes. Come in, come in,” Judge Grant said loud enough for everyone
on the first floor of the courthouse to hear. He didn’t have an indoor
voice; anything he said was echoed throughout the courthouse. The boys
had been told by their predecessor to collect from Judge Grant first so
that everyone else in the courthouse would know it was collection day and
have their money ready. It was a timesaving maneuver.
“So, Tommy boy, how was Philmont?” Judge’s previous paperboy,
Mickey Murphy, had gone to Philmont. Since Tommy and Booger had
taken over the route, Judge Grant routinely asked the same question. After
several attempts, Tommy gave up trying to explain that it wasn’t him
who’d gone. Judge had never fully understood, and Tommy had grown
tired of trying to explain.
“Philmont’s a great Boy Scout camp, Judge. Thanks for asking.” It was
an answer Tommy had grown comfortable with. It wasn’t a lie and satisfied
the Judge’s annoying questions.
“Yes, yes, seven dollars and eighty cents. Got it here in the envelope,”
Judge blared out for all to hear.
“It’s eight dollars ‘n’ five cents now,” Booger said. He had the receipt
book and timidly waited for the Judge to pay.
“Eight bucks and a buffalo nickel—my, my, my,” Judge thunderously
announced while giving Booger a death sentence glance, then, “My, my,
my,” again, clearly disturbed by the slight increase. His head continuously
shook, giving most the impression that he was in the final stages of Parkinson’s.
His smoldering cigar rested precariously on his lower lip, defying
gravity while barely hanging on. He continued to groan and dug into his
10 Stan Crader
pocket for more change. The more he talked, the louder he got. It would
have been annoying except for the fact that his boisterous behavior served
to save the boy’s time.
“Inflation, yes, yes, inflation … inflation, that’s what it is, Booger Boy,”
Judge said and handed Booger more change. Judge checked each nickel,
looking for a buffalo. Booger didn’t mind the extra tag on his name; the
fact that Judge had remembered his name at all was gratifying. Judge patted
Booger on the back with enough force to perform the Heimlich maneuver.
Judge’s spine-dislodging tap was no doubt a show of affection; at
least Booger took it that way.
Mrs. Burk, the circuit clerk, and Mr. Bailey, the recorder of deeds, had
their money ready when Tommy and Booger finally made it to their office.
They had, of course, heard the judge. Booger laid their receipts on
their desks. They were too preoccupied with the front page to offer an
obligatory complaint about the rate increase. Before getting on his bike,
Tommy stopped to take a look at the paper to see what the big fuss was all
about. The hat factory announcement was front page, but that wasn’t the
only thing. The new manager’s name was Carter Webster and the article
featured a photo of him with his family. Tommy had never seen a photo
of the new manager and hadn’t given much thought to what he might look
like. He was expecting a willowy man sporting a pocket protector and
horn-rimmed glasses. He didn’t need to read the article; the photo was
enough to help Tommy understand why everyone had been so interested
in the newspaper. Tommy looked across at Gooche’s and saw a few pods
of people standing and sharing a paper. The phones throughout Colby
were no doubt already ringing.

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