Tales of a Forgotten Paperboy, '80's edition

When I was twelve years old and in the sixth grade, growing up in West Bradford, PA, I was given one of the best opportunities in life, to that point. At the advanced age of thirteen, the girl who’d been delivering newspapers in my neighborhood was ready to retire and offered me the job. I eagerly said yes. And so began my illustrious, roughly six-year career as a paperboy for the Daily Local News.

The year was 1982, a magical year for movies, including E.T., Tron, and The Dark Crystal. (It was also the year of Poltergeist, which burdened me with a lifelong phobia of dark water.)

I have countless memories of delivering that paper, walking around my neighborhood in snow, rain, and in the heat of summers. Trudging through the snow one winter, I remember noticing that I walked a bit pigeon-toed. I distinctly remember glancing back at my footprints to check on my progress as I worked to correct it. I remember having a small crush on Mrs. Scott and being warry of her German Shepherd. There was another dog across the neighborhood that would rush at me and bark and refuse to let me pass. I remember standing, pinned one day for what seemed like half my childhood, as that dog stared me down, growling, getting bored, then growling again when I dared to move. Eventually the owner came out, called it and apologized. After that, I knew the dog’s name; there was power in that. When I greeted it the next day by name, it decided I must be a friend and allowed me safe passage. I’ve forgotten his name since.

I remember getting bit by another dog, Rags. I wasn’t able to get his name out in time, as he rushed me through the open door. I remember his owner sitting and calming me down, checking my leg, and calling my mom to assure her that the skin wasn’t broken.

I recall quietly dropping the newspaper behind one screen door as a husband and wife screamed obscenities at one another inside and I remember thinking what a pointless “argument” it was. I also remember collecting money one Saturday afternoon at the house across the street from mine. After knocking on the screen door and replying that it was me, there was some shuffling, then the husband yelled down, “just a minute!” A second later, the wife rushed past the top of the stairs, holding an open newspaper to shield herself. Nine months later, they had a baby.

I remember reading the paper as I walked around the neighborhood. Run DMC and The Art of Noise playing on my Walkman. On Wednesdays and Sundays, the papers were the thickest, so I’d have to break them up into two batches. I remember the first time I collected the money due, then separated my profits from the amount I’d give my parents to send in to the paper. I remember rolling around on my bed across all those dollar bills, thinking I was rich.

My dad helped me buy bank CDs with the money I’d made. I bought my first TV, my first computer, and my first car with that money.

I remember the amazing tips at Christmastime. Some neighbors gave me gifts, always something involving a clock - a pen, a little soccer ball for my desk – like they were trying to subtly hint that as I got older, my deliveries were getting later due to my after-school activities. I remember one neighbor telling me he’d been to a mental institution after a nervous breakdown, but that he was doing much better now. He had a Doberman that he kept chained up outside.

I eventually gave half of my route to my younger brother, soon followed by the rest when I got a job as a busboy at a restaurant down the road. He kept it for many years after that.

Why do I remember and relate this all now? Because I remember walking my route, reading the Daily Local News, thinking that maybe I could be a professional writer one day. Because I remember feeling like I was succeeding and moving forward in life. And because last October, I released my debut novel, a dark psychological suspense-thriller titled, The Grotesque. And this summer, I’ll be doing two book-signing events in Exton, PA (“new” home to the Daily Local!).

On Saturday, July 18^th, I’ll be signing copies of my novel at Wellington Square Books from 1-2:30pm (549 Wellington Square). And the next day, I’ll be at Barnes & Noble at Main Street from 1-4pm (Main Street at Exton, 301 Main St).

Neither of those stores existed in 1982. But we grow, we progress, and we use the past to inform our futures. Delivering the Daily Local News was my first ever job. To this day, I’m grateful for it, and for all it taught me about money, responsibility, and the importance of learning a dog’s name.