The Paper Boy Years
One lad’s erect (not really though) pursuit of donut cash.
From the age of 12 through my Junior year of high school, I delivered between 40–45 copies of the La Crosse Tribune on my paper route. I inherited said route from a neighbor named Sarah. I was watching WWF wrestling (probably Monday Night Raw while Heartbreak Kid Shawn Michaels was giving some fool the business) when she called, mentioned she was headed off to college, and asked me if I wanted to be a newspaper bearer. I saw dollar signs, financial freedom, and unlimited donut purchasing power. I accepted.
My dad was a paperboy, so I suppose the whole thing was fate, destiny, or genetically aligned to happen. When he was a kid he delivered his 6,000 papers after school, on the bike, and up myriad hills, seven days a week, 568 days per year. He delivered once with an appendix that was about to burst. That was his version of Michael Jordan’s flu game. That is how legends are made.
I never delivered the Tribune while fighting something that would require surgery, but I did poop in a person’s yard once. I don’t know why. Maybe I have IBS. It’s not like I was out eating curry or drinking Coors with my buddies the night before. I was 12! It remains a mystery.
My route was up, down, and around two local blocks and I walked it at dawn. Dad, the Andrew Jackson of paper carriers, served as my wake-up call many mornings.
“Eric, get up. Papers are here.”
That request would usually find its way to my bedroom at 6:30—a few minutes after I heard my alarm clock summon me out of bed. The clock/radio and I would do the same dance each day. It would make a horrendous sound, and I’d smashed the snooze button. And keep snoozing. Then, Dad would holler again: “ERIC. The papers are here. Get UP.” Some days I’d bellow back, “I’m putting my socks on.” That usually bought me a few minutes. Rarely I would rise and shine. I hated waking up. Still do.
It’s amazing my dad didn’t quit on me; curse me as a lousy bum and let me rot beneath the sheets. Let his resilience and love serve as an inspiration to parents everywhere!
Upon waking, I would oftentimes grab my San Francisco 49er sweatpants, put them on, don the closest baseball cap and be on my way into the kitchen to see the hefty stack of paper my dad brought into the house. The reason I wore my San Francisco 49er pants many mornings, is because I felt uncomfortable wearing them during the day. You see, they were purchased at a massive sales event in downtown La Crosse, Wisconsin and I believe the stitching in the crotch area may have led to that discount. They had a natural boner-like protrusion in the penis region that was amusing to a teenage boy, but also slightly embarrassing. I liked the 49ers, so they stayed but were only worn in darkness. I wanted to deliver the news, not make it.
“Area Paperboy Delivers With Erection That Won’t Quit”
Boner sweats on, paper carrier satchel slung, I headed out into the morning almost 364 days a year for five years. Christmas Day was an off day. And, I handed the delivery duties over to my mom during deer hunting season a few times. Other than that, I was the guy. And besides the getting out of bed around six goddamn thirty part, it was a good gig. I was the first to know what was happening in sports. My eyes read about every old F-150 for sale in and around La Crosse before most folks were awake.
Thanks, Sarah. Thanks, the college music program that accepted her.
My greatest achievement came when I was named La Crosse Tribune Paper Carrier of The Month. I got a write-up in the paper with my picture beside it. They asked for my name, my favorite food, and where I went to school. Stuff like that. It must have been during the winter of my sophomore year of high school because, at the time, I was playing basketball in a late-night Boys & Girls Club League. The reason these dots connect easily is because when the Tribune asked me to highlight my hobbies I wrote: Playing basketball with my friends on Phil’s Team. That was the name of our team. Other carriers of the month undoubtedly were in the National Honor Society or some such thing.
I don’t think I had my license at the time, so Phil drove me to and from the basketball games. Unfortunately, I recall listening to a lot of nu-metal in his truck—an early ’90s Ford F-150. It was dark blue with a short box and no rear seat. It was lifted, had an aftermarket exhaust, large speakers, and a bug shield on the front that read “RAINMAKER.” It was awesome.
Phil’s Team was like a prison league squad. We had six or seven guys who showed up each week—fellows with proclivities that might get them booted from a high school team. We played a physical brand of basketball, not by choice I suppose, but as a means of survival. The other teams in the late-night Boys & Girls Club League were also rife with unsavory characters. Everyone must have been listening to nu-metal. There is no other explanation for all the angst.
I’ll also blame Limp Bizkit, Coal Chamber, Korn, and Static-X for me quitting my route at 17 years of age. Though maybe I was just sick of waking up so early. I also had another job at that time. K-Mart! I wrote a thing about K-Mart once. I might write about it again. I remember working with a guy named Blair. His head was enormous. There was another guy who was working there while on parole and I knew his parole officer. Small world. More vividly than I should, I recall stocking toilet paper on shelves with a girl named Stephanie. To this day she remains the most oddly attractive person I’ve known. Anyway, I hung onto the route for a long time but had to let it go. Now people don’t deliver papers anymore, do they? Too bad.
“Back in my day, the news came on paper, to a person’s front stoop!” — me
I should have retained all the money I made in those years and invested it in Google’s IPO, but I did not. I invested it all in donuts, clothes, two guitars, hundreds of CDs, Subway sandwiches, various pizza joints, and movie rentals at Videoland. If my calculations are correct, I probably earned $6,500 from 1994–1999. If I saved all that and invested in Google circa 2004, I’d currently be swimming in about $7,000,000 give or take. Talk about something worth pooping your boner sweatpants about. Yikes.
Where was my wake-up call about that, Dad? He probably told me to do something smarter with my money. In fact, I know he did. But somebody was too busy snoozing. For many years, I could not be bothered to wake up.
