December  23, 2017 – Newspaper boy?    

When you are out of a job – you just take any job . . .

         That is what happened about 1998 or 1999.  My husband found himself suddenly out of a job.  It was a shock to both of us.  While he made the rounds of trying to find work in his field and out of his field, he entertained any possible job that was available.  After dozens of interviews and cold-calls, things were looking pretty dismal.

         Unemployment had run out and I was working a modest job – enough to pay most of the bills and suck our modest savings down with mortgage payments.

         One day my husband said, “I’ve got a little job – hopefully it will give us some cash flow while I am looking.”

         “Yeah?”  I asked, as I am cooking dinner.

         “Newspaper delivery.” He stated flatly.

         I looked up surprised.  He told me more,

         “I was hired today and the current delivery guy drove me around the route in the daylight.  Tonight he will be showing me how he picks up the papers and takes me on his route.  He says after a couple of days I should have the route memorized.”

         I thought, well, someone has to deliver the newspaper.  We had it delivered to our house for years.  If people are doing this, there must be some “cash flow.”  I served dinner and he said,

         “I can’t eat much, I’ve got to get some sleep.  I’ve got to meet him at 11:30 p.m. where they drop off the papers.”

         “Where is that?”

         “At the corner of Broadway and Main Street in Forest City – used to be an old gas station.  The truck comes in from the printers and drops off the newspaper bundles.”

         I ate my dinner in silence.  He’d found a job at something, at last.  He’d worked night shifts before when he was younger.  He went off to bed and I tried my best to clean up the kitchen quietly and keep the TV low but ended up going to bed early so that I wouldn’t disturb his sleep.

         Of course, when he was up and around getting dressed, he woke me up and I heard him leave and drive up the road.  I laid there in the dark wondering how long he would be gone.

         Sometime after 2:30 a.m. he came home and made enough noise to wake me.  He didn’t say much just peeled out of his clothes and flopped in the bed.

         This continued for three nights, the third night being the Saturday delivery of the Sunday paper.  He came in later that night – err – actually morning.  So far these wake ups in the middle of the night had me off center and grouchy, but wait, it gets better.

         I arrive home Monday night and he says, “We’ll have to take your car, mine is a shift drive, that won’t work stopping and starting at all the newspaper holders.”

         “We?”  I asked.

         “It will be fun.  You can fold the papers and shove them in the slots and I will drive.  It will be quality “together time” for us. . . .” was his sales pitch.

         I am surprised I didn’t bitch outright, but somehow grace fell upon me and I fell in line. 

         “You’ll need to dress in layers, we’ll drive with the windows open.”

         I dug out sweat pants, long johns, a big sweatshirt, flannel shirt and a cotton undershirt, wool boot socks, and rain boots.  I scrounged around for a pair of old gloves.  I laid them all out on a chair and we turned in early.

         The alarm clock roused us.  I dragged on my clothes and out we went in the pitch dark, starless night. It was typical raw, damp, cold January weather.  Arriving at the newspaper delivery location the bundles of papers had just been delivered, and we met the other delivery people.  He introduced me around and they gave us some tips – all sort of nice folks.

         I was co-pilot and I had most of the papers on my lap in the passenger seat and I would fold them, and stuff them in the newspaper holders when he stopped, then we would go on. 

         We were midway through our route when we had to pull over near a manufacturing facility entrance.  I jumped out my car door and opened the back door to get the rest of the papers to put in the seat between us.  Suddenly a Patrol Car blocks our car.  The police spot light shines right is my eyes blinding me as I stand clutching a newspaper bundle to my chest with my mouth wide open in surprise.

         “Oh, you’re just newspaper people – new on the route aren’t you?” The officer calls out from his car.

         “Yes sir.” I mumbled and nodded my head. 

         The spot light instantly went out and the patrol car moved on.

         “Where did they come from?”  My husband asked.

         “I don’t know – we must look like crooks or something.”

         “Second story robbers,” He said.  We laughed, then we chuckled the rest of the route. 

“Our first run and we are stopped by the cops.”

         That first night it took us about 3 ½ hours.  We got home about 3:00 a.m. and I flopped in bed.  In a few weeks, we got the time down to 2 or 2 ½ hours a night. [Trust me, we put in our notice to quit in about a month – the money wasn’t there, but we were under contract for 90 days and had to work that out and train a replacement.]

         We can at least say, “It was an unforgettable experience.”

         Years later, we occasionally, mention the time we delivered newspapers and my husband always says, “second story robbers,” with a chuckle and I say, “Cash flow? It barely covered buying new breaks and paying for the extra gas we used.”  

         SO, Please tip your newspaper delivery person this Christmas – they go through snow, rain, heat, and gloom of night to deliver your news – I should know, I’ve been there, and done that!