Short Story: "Paper Round"

I was not much of a first jobber. I can remember getting a paper round when I was about 12 or so, not because I really wanted one or because my parents pushed that I should have one, or even because I could use the money. I think mostly it was because it seemed like the thing to do. It was the con of the day, “Paper boy/girl wanted”, not an hourly wage of course but based on how many papers you dropped. I think I probably stuck it out six weeks or two months…maybe. Probably not even that long. And now I only remember three or four instances from it. I think, and my memory is hazy of the whole affair, that the papers where dropped off in bundles to my house. The leaflets. That was the first hidden chore. They’d drop off papers and you’d put leaflets into each of them. Maybe three bundles. All different leaflets into three or four hundred papers. You got paid for how may papers you dropped. And then there were the dogs. I seem to remember a particularly savage one right at the end of Tudor Gardens, just to the left. Tudor Gardens, an all the more upmarket road, even though it were just a few streets from my house, but it had an air, it had no life, it was peaceful, it was stagnant, it had ornaments and dogs barked ferociously through letter boxes. One friend in particular, well a few friends had paper rounds but they were just things they talked about sometimes at school. I remember staying one night round a friends, up till the early hours, or as early as it can get for a kid, checking the clock, competing and eating sweets. We all went out in the morning and did the paper round with her. I probably thought, yeah I could do this, walk around with friends, push some papers and eat more sweets, or perhaps an older friend had bought us some beer that night. I forget. But of the three things I remember once I’d got my paper round, well Number one. It was the free paper I delivered and so there were houses which had specifically asked not to receive it. About ten or eleven houses in all. Trouble is I could never remember which houses. I could remember vaguely. Was it one hundred and thirty seven or one hundred and seventy three? One hundred and twenty four or one hundred and forty two, thirty four or forty three, fifteen or fifty one and so on and so on. None of the above ever got their paper. It seemed to me that it was better to not give someone something that they may very well not miss than to give someone something that they had specifically asked not to receive. It was therefore a lot safer this way, and though even at this stage I cared little for the job or indeed employment I still had an irrational fear of getting fired. So then that brings us to number two. I remember setting off having done the leaflet filling (no doubt with the help of my mother) to drop these pieces of crap through the letter boxes of people who would doubtless ever read them. It seemed like a perfectly calm afternoon, if a little cloudy and I had already done one road so was now at the very least a third of the way through. Torrential rain isn’t a particular pick me up for any outdoor worker, least of all I imagine, if you are working for pay per paper. Another road down, I was sticking sodden news through angry doors when I saw my dads car, blinking headlights through the all too thick downpour. I can’t remember if we finished the rest of it together. I dare say we did. And I dare say if we did I had both feet and arse and almost teenage head planted firmly in the car while he dashed about and dodged dogs. All I remember was that I was glad to see him and his covered transport. And so the third and final thing I remember about my first dart into employment and independence, well I had no part in it whatsoever. It was the eve of my thirteenth birthday. A party planned by me and hawked around the school, my parents knew just enough so that it was their plan too. A party for mostly friends and our few formative romances, all due to arrive to look scared and awkward yet expectant at each other. And of course I was to be thirteen. Teenage. Not to give a fuck-age. Angry and analysing. My dad did the paper round that night. It didn’t rain, 137 didn’t get their paper, 173 did, It was a pleasant night. I kissed a boy. I stayed up passed two and I didn’t eat any sweets. I was never much of a first jobber. I earnt £11.26 a week. And I don’t think I ever thanked my Mum or Dad.