Cold,
Autumn,
Morning,
3AM.
Waking up,
for Sunday
newspaper delivery.
11 years old -
not excited about
the dark,
the cold,
being awake.
Slowly moving around,
so I don’t awaken five people.
Making my way to my bicycle
and the heavy cotton
newspaper bag -
faded white,
name of paper in large red letters.
Slinging bag over my shoulder -
some mornings
wrapping around
handlebars.
Down our hill,
towards Wild Horse Creek,
up the hill,
towards the railway tracks.
Past the tracks and to the office,
where six other boys wait for office to open -
I hate small talk,
even at this age.
Stacks of papers arrive on back of truck -
We carry stacks into office,
placing a certain number at each of our stalls,
finally sitting to fold -
bending large Sunday papers into thirds,
then rolling from the side,
wrapping a red
rubber
band
around each.
After a certain number,
they are wrapped in cotton cord,
a large bundle,
first one to be taken,
the others to be dropped around town,
by Woodrow.
I still remember
the streets -
Apache,
Ash,
Choctaw,
Elm,
Chickasaw,
Broadway,
Comanche,
Fourth Street,
Kiowa,
and so many others.
Heading down Second Street -
I still do the route in my head,
almost 50 years later.
Turning right down Nabor,
the darkest street on my route,
which I do
quickly as possible.
Back to Second Street,
past the elderly couple,
now asleep in their bed -
now truly asleep in their beds -
who would rush out on hot days
with a huge glass -
iced tea.
Into estate newly built,
of cheap houses,
where recently stood an airfield -
I remember climbing fence,
to look through planks
to see an aeroplane
from earliest days -
now nondescript boxes of
houses
designed
to reflect
the simple minds
of their occupants.
I make it to the far end of my route,
circling at donut shop.
200 dollars a month was a lot -
would buy many donuts,
milkshakes,
burgers.
Past mean old lady’s place
she hasn’t paid me in six months.
I knock every weekend,
but she never answers.
Eventually,
Woodrow will call her,
telling her that if she doesn’t pay,
then I pay for her paper.
She eventually,
shamefully,
pays -
but this morning,
I contemplate -
either dropping her paper at the road,
or throwing so hard
it hits her door,
loudly.
I opt for the latter -
satisfied
she is now awake.
So many houses,
so many doors,
so many barking dogs,
so many early mornings,
so many rainy days,
so many hiding on collection days
and
in the midst of everything -
a few like the couple with the tea.
For decades,
I resented that paper route.
Today,
I am thankful
thankful my mother pushed me,
knowing I needed this.
Still moving through this route,
in my head,
48 years later,
and as far as you can get,
from that small town.
My wife is calling out -
time for Sunday morning bike ride.
My legs still turning.
Lee Sturgis