By Les Linz
Let me tell you something you already know.
Life can be hectic.
Such was my life this past week, and as cherished readers, I didn’t want to hang you out to dry. I didn’t want you to have to suffer through the reading of a hastily finished work in progress. I hope you won’t be disappointed by today’s alternative. It revisits the second chapter of my book, “Confessions of a Job Gypsy.”
By way of introduction (and from its introduction), as the saying goes, try not to “judge a book by its cover” (or I would add, its title). Don’t harshly judge those who have had a myriad of jobs, at least not without first having heard their story.
While there are good reasons to reach a “bad” judgment of those having had jobs as numerous as the seashore’s sands, not all of them are evil. Some of them are good people trapped in challenging circumstances. I should know. I was one of them (note: “Gypsy” explores jobs I have had, beginning with errand boy at age 7 and ending with customer service work some 50 years later).
Chapter Two
Special Delivery
It wasn’t my idea — not really. Dad had a fabulous ability to bring something up in casual conversation, such that you would come forth with an “original” idea of your own — an idea so grand, that a loving, admiring father was helpless to do anything but lavish praises upon you for coming up with it.
I decided I would brave the world of newspaper delivery. The very thought of it brought trepidation, yet I was bound and determined to enter the big leagues — well, not too big. I didn’t want the Chicago Tribune route. Sure, it paid a lot more, but the responsibilities were much more grievous. After all, the Tribune had to be delivered by no later than 7 a.m. and was to be distributed seven days a week. And don’t forget that the Sunday version of the paper weighed about 50 pounds.
No, I was resolved to save the trees and deliver the Chicago Daily News and the Chicago Today instead — afternoon papers (now defunct) that were considerably lighter than their chief morning competitor and only required a mere six-day workweek, a paper route even God himself could be pleased with. Little did I know that learning the trade would require a liberal dose of Dramamine and an iron cup for good measure.
Bill was my boss. Bill was also psychotic. He used the term “acumen” like it was an altar to be worshiped at — it was a paper route, for goodness sakes — this guy was in serious need of a life. After the usual introductions and coverage of the basics, I was ushered up into a “news” van that Bill was going to drive. I wept openly, fearing I would never see my family again. I was nearly right.
Mr. H did not care for his carriers to sit shotgun. Instead, they were to sit somewhere between the back of the van and the back of the driver’s seat all within the same road trip. Seat belts were against Bill’s religion.
By the time we reached the second stop, I needed to have my spleen removed. The route consisted of 35 homes. Every time we came to a house that got the Chicago Daily News, Bill would stomp upon the brakes in unison with his boisterous war cry, “News! News! News!” For some reason, I never forgot that.
Thankfully, the time came for me to go solo.
I’m glad to say that during my tenure as newspaper boy, the bundles of papers I got went from being wrapped in copper wire to a mere blistering plastic strapping instead so as to help the independent contractors lose circulation in the fingers more quickly as they moved the “paper weight” to the front door from its original spot, strategically placed as far from the home’s entrance as possible. Characters help build character, I suppose.
Most of the people on the route understood the good job I was doing for them. A few would have complained if Jesus Christ himself delivered their papers.
Fortunately for me, Mrs. F and Mrs. B were both notoriously known at the office for unjustly complaining on just about anything. Mrs. F looked (and sounded) a lot like the Wicked Witch of the West, while Mrs. B looked like Bela Lugosi on steroids.
Over time, they got nicer, and so did their respective character in my mind. As it turns out, Mrs. B was secretly terminally ill. I went to her wake. It scared me. It was the first one I had ever been to.
Time on the route passed, and soon, the winter that had melted into spring (that blazed into summer) — that fell into fall — had once again been overcome by winter.
This time, the season was on a mission of vengeance, and I was its high-profile target. I delivered papers that week for my regular $2.50 (Yes, that was the result of a well-earned 25-cent-per-week raise I had achieved earlier in the year), but not without realizing a toll.
This is when I learned what 50 below zero wind chill feels like, or more appropriately, doesn’t feel like. I had frostbite, but at least the people had their papers. I had a good, warm feeling inside as I shook relentlessly under the covers.
To their credit, the clientele was appreciative, and as the Christmas holiday approached, I was happily astounded that I got more in tips from the readers than I got in two years’ worth of “salary.”
I felt proud. I also felt ready to move on. I wanted something that paid a little more and was less taxing on my rapidly aging body. Dish washing was just the thing.
Les Linz of Seymour writes the “Humor: More or Les” column. For information about Linz, visit his amazon.com author page. Send comments to [email protected].