I’m not going to lie to you. I was a terrible paperboy. If you were on my route and wanted to skim the headlines before work, you were probably out of luck. I’d have it to you by noon, though, I swear. Maybe a little later if my bicycle chain broke or if I was distracted by some shiny thing off in the woods.
Sooner or later, I’d deliver the news to your doorstep, by God. It wouldn’t necessarily be that day’s news, but what do you want from me? My alarm clock was broken, my dog ate my shoes and I think I might be coming down with something. Here. Feel my forehead.
Before my delivery days were over, I had inspired sweet old ladies to take up swearing. They’d stand on their stoops, all hunched and red-faced, waiting for me to come by. When I did, usually around 2 p.m., they’d launch into profanity-laced tirades, unleashing swear words they didn’t even know existed in their personal lexicons.
“Well, it’s about #@!#@$ time, you $%$#@! newsboy. If you don’t have the $%$#@! paper on my $%$#@! doorstep by 5 a.m. tomorrow, I’m going to take this cane and $%$#@! your $%$#@! $%$#@, you $%$#@!”
So it was for the sake of my safety that I bowed out of the delivery game. Entire neighborhoods held block parties in celebration. I wasn’t invited.
I switched gears and took a job as a gas attendant. All was well. Pump the gas, clean the windshields, check the oil. Is the air in your tires OK, mister? May I clean your ashtray?
The trouble began when I was assigned to open the station each day. We’re talking about an hour so early, a rooster would punch you if you suggested it was time to get up. My alarm clock would clang, one of those ancient things with a pair of bells and a knocker having seizures between them. I’d gaze at it through one squinted eye, mumble some bit of profanity learned from the sweet old ladies and fall promptly back to sleep, cozy in my footed pajamas.
By the time I got to the station most days, the line of cars at the pumps would stretch back into the next city. Businessmen and working Joes would be standing next to their cars and trucks, glaring as I yawned my way into the lot. Before dawn was anything more than a skinny pink band on the horizon, I’d be beaten a dozen times with windshield squeegees.
I learned some exciting new swear words while working in fuel distribution. I also learned how to take cover beneath a K2 delivery truck. It’s pretty roomy under there.
So, here’s the thing. I never had a problem with work ethic. I had half a dozen jobs before I was 16, including Grit salesman, hot dog vendor and busboy at a truck stop, where every other trucker advised me that I’d “make somebody a good wife someday, haw haw!”
Trouble arose only when the occupation in question required me to be somewhere before, say, noon.
“You’re late,” snarled the owner of the kitchen shop, where I mainly held things so other people could cut them.
“You’re $%$#@! late,” barked the foreman at the furniture store for whom I delivered sofas, credenzas, chifforobes and other things I couldn’t currently pick out of a furniture lineup.
“It’s half past $%$#@! noon, you $%$#@! $%$#@! moron,” screeched the nice old lady at the bait store where I — I don’t know — sold bait or something.
The art of early rising has always vexed me. Back in the day, I figured it was one of those things I would grow out of, like acne or drooling. But no. The morning aversion comes down to biorhythms or vampire blood. To this very day, I struggle with it, crawling out of bed sloth-like at an hour when most people are halfway through their days.
“So far today,” chirps some annoying morning person, “I’ve filed my taxes, built a deck, delivered a baby, got a haircut and then grew my hair back. On to brunch!”
Me, I’ve had three sips of coffee and scratched myself.
I’m due for a little break.
Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. If you see news happening at 2 a.m., especially when it’s weather-related, email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.
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