Thoughts on the Death of the American Paperboy.
Back in the 1970s all my friends and I had paper routes. It was how we managed a small income through which we could afford extras at the school cafeteria (like two ice cream sandwiches) and supported other hobbies (like baseball cards). For myself, it was the money with which I bought the supplies to make possible my dream of writing. That paper route money bought a typewriter, reams of paper, new typewriter ribbons, mailing envelopes and the postage to send my creative efforts out to publishers.
At the same time we evolved the ability to manage money at a young age. We had to deal with odd and sometimes downright evil supervisors. Mr. Paradise was our "coordinator" and he chewed cigars, smelled like he was allergic to soap, and always seemed to cheat us out of our earnings when it came time to "settle up" for the week with him.
"How can I only have five dollars for the week? I made more than that in tips!"
Some customers would avoid paying on a weekly basis. I remember two that routinely ignored the bell after seeing me through the window. If we cut off their delivery, they would call the paper, rant and rave and scream of injustices until we reinstated their delivery, often without any back payment. We took the loss, and this was not that uncommon. At the same time, we had wonderful customers who greeted us at the door in the morning, cup of coffee in hand, and asked us about school and our future plans, and tipped well. Most of the time their tips were making up for the non-payment of their neighbors.
The paperboy is lost amongst the backdrop of history. The newspaper delivery these days is most commonly done by older folks in station wagons or pick-up trucks. Instead of walking door to door (we were reported for throwing the paper to the doorstep from our bicycles), these new fangled paper adults toss the newspaper from moving vehicles, sometimes leaving an entire neighborhood's newspapers at the foot of the stop sign at the end of the street.
In my generation, being a paperboy was a rite of passage and definitely a most sexist profession. There were few, if any, "paper girls." Actually, I never knew a girl who wanted a paper route back in those days. Having seen what earning a small, but disposable, income was like we sought other jobs as we entered high school. We mowed lawns, weeded gardens, painted houses, and then went after the big fish... jobs we needed a social security number for. Still, being a paperboy was our first exposure to working for someone other than our parents, someone we couldn't throw a tantrum in front of because we wanted more money. People for whom we had to settle for what they granted us. Tantrums were an offense for which you would lose your route. Mr. Paradise would have none of that, and when he came to your house on Saturday morning with a cigar clenched between his teeth and his filthy pants rubbing against your parents' wallpaper he wanted his money. You had to give it to him. Whining wouldn't help.
Is the American paperboy gone forever? Electronic media has rendered our old cash cow of two editions per day, morning and afternoon, obsolete. Where does American youth get their first exposure to the cruel elements of Capitalism? We did our share of hanging out on street corners looking for trouble, but we earned the few dollars we had in our pockets.
These are days
Wake up too early
Get on our bikes
Pick up that bundle
By the side of the road
Count our papers
We're always shortchanged
Got there too late
Damned morning commuters
Always stealing copies
They think these are free
Need to think fast today
Who won't get a paper?
Mr. Ray never tips
He gets no paper
I pretend I forgot
Mr. Johnson's big dog
Looks angry today
I remember last week
He bit Charlie's sister
Do I have enough time
To finish before school
Maybe I'll call Paradise
Tell him I'm sorry
I need an afternoon route instead
What's this breaking story?
No time to read
Feels like dawn is breaking
Full speed ahead
Just three more streets
And I'm done for the day