My Life as a Paper Boy - Part I

My Life as a Paper Boy - Part I

I don't think the world has paperboys anymore.  How sad.  Years ago, when I was in grammar school, I wanted to make money as I needed money to buy the things I really wanted.  My family wasn't poor, but neither was it rich; so I either had to wait for Xmas, or earn money to buy things during the year.

A friend of mine, George Watters, got a job with the San Francisco Examiner as a paper boy.  After school, I sometimes would go with him as he made his deliveries, and watched what he was doing.  In those days, the Examiner paid really good money, and one could make a couple of hundred dollars a month just delivering newspapers.  That was big money.  Paper routes tho were really hard to get.  I applied with the S.F. Examiner, the S.F. Chronicle, and the San Leandro Morning News, but to no avail.  All the routes were taken and there were waiting lists.

Then I lucked out.  The Hayward Daily Review was expanding into San Leandro, California.  Because they were a small paper, had very little circulation, the pay was pretty low and they were begging for paper boys.  I signed up right away and got a route that was just huge.  Huge in area, but lacking any customers.  Not only was I supposed to deliver the paper, but I also had to get new customers if I was going to make any money at all.  One good thing, it was an afternoon paper as I hated to get up early in the morning.

I was envious of George as he had probably over 200 customers; I had 20.  However, not all was lost.  I had a supervisor, an adult, who was organizing circulation drives for all the new areas.  This meant he would pick up about 5 boys, drive us to a neighborhood and we would go door to door, trying to get people to subscribe.  If you signed up enough, you won trips to Disneyland, or Lake Tahoe for skiing.  If the supervisor picked your area or route for a circulation drive, you won again by increasing your circulation and got even more money each month.  I went on every circulation drive I could, and begged my manager to do the next one in my area.  Within months, I had over 200 homes to deliver, had won 3 trips to Disneyland and 2 to Tahoe.  Plus, I was in the dough every month from my commissions and tips.

Tips!  Yes, that was a new one.  Not many people tipped their paperboy in those days, except at Christmas.  I had to train my customers to tip!  What I would do is watch for them outside, or talk to them at the end of the month when I had to collect their monthly subscription fee.  I would always say "Sir" or "Mr. or Mrs."  We didn't have Ms. in those days, but boys were Masters and girls were just girls, or "Missy".  I'd ask them if there was a special place they wanted their newspaper, if they were happy with their service, did they have any complaints, and always, always, a "Thank You" when they paid their bills.

I was good at guilt-tripping them.  In our conversations, I would tell them that I was saving up for college, or helping my parents pay their bills, anything that would make them feel better when they tipped me.  If they were short of money to pay the subscription, I'd tell them it was alright and that I could give them a week to raise the money.  In the end, I was making so much money, more than I had ever dreamed of.

But then there were the dogs.  I don't know why, but dogs love to chase little boys riding their bicycles, weighted down by a canvas paper bag loaded up with 200 or more newspapers.  That was a lot of weight, and one just couldn't pedal that fast.  We didn't have bicycles in those days with gears; if you were lucky, you had a Schwinn and they were made from heavy metal and big rubber tires; no plastic.  My legs were very muscular and strong.  Very quickly, one learned where the bad dogs were and developed plans to thwart their chase.  Luckily, I didn't have a lot of dogs on my route; in fact, I only had one: A GREAT DANE.  He was taller than me even on the bicycle with huge legs and he could race after me like a bat out of hell.  He terrified me with his big jaws, always drooling as if he liked to eat paperboys.

The only saving grace is that he would never go past the end of the block, as if there was some kind of invisible barrier there.  If I could just get to the end of the block, I was safe.  When I got to that block, I would look real careful to see if he was on the porch waiting, hoping he was inside the house with the owners, or, worse, hiding in the bushes, waiting for me.  Then I would pedal like hell, picking up speed, going faster and faster, as I passed their house, flinging their newspaper onto the porch and sped away to safety.  Those people could never tipme enough.  Most of the time, this ploy worked.  Thank God, at night, when I collected the monthly subscriptions, he was always kept inside.  Yet, there were times when I hadn't built up enough speed, he was outside and a couple of times nipped my pants.  If I lost my balance, I was dead.

I had to do something.  It was then that George again came to my rescue.  He had the same problems; all paperboys did.  He suggested I buy a squirt gun, fill it up with bleach or clorox, and then spray the dog if he got near.  I did, and it worked.  From that point on, the Great Dane knew who was master and always whimpered as the newspaper hit the porch.

What did I do with all that money?  That comes in Part II.

Written by mrsquid1 (Link to this entry)