My First Job; Paperboy – Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dr. Ed Iannuccilli, Contributor
My First Job; Paperboy – Dr. Ed Iannuccilli
Dad peered over his paper one day and said, “President Truman was a paperboy.” I got the message. No, not to be a President, but rather to “Start saving for college,” recollecting that he never had the chance for a high school education. So, I became a paperboy.
Every afternoon, I went to the depot and, at tables abuzz with eager newsboys, stacked the papers in my Journal-Bulletin bag, and draped it along my right side to just above the knee. I delivered The Providence Journal’s Evening Bulletin to sixty-five families.
GET THE LATEST BREAKING NEWS HERE -- SIGN UP FOR GOLOCAL FREE DAILY EBLASTCollecting money was challenging and fun, especially at Christmas when I made fifty dollars in tips. The cost of the daily and Sunday papers was forty-five cents. Customers flipped me a fifty-cent piece and said, “Keep the change, Kid.” With my pay of one penny per paper per day, five cents for Sundays, I averaged ten dollars a week and, at school, I added the money to my Old Stone Bank account.
Collection day was Saturday. I had a coin dispenser like the trolley conductor’s, with slots for quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies. Fast enough, I flicked my thumb and the change dropped into the fingers of the same hand. I made change for a dollar with a flick, flick, slide and flick and there it was, fifty-five cents. “Gimme fifty.” I slipped the nickel into my right pocket. Tips did not belong in any slot.
Most of the customers were genuinely nice. I remember one stop when, after knocking, I heard the slapping of cards, the clinking of ice in glasses, the scrape of a moving chair and then, silence. I paused as I heard gorilla feet thump across the kitchen in two steps. A giant in slippers opened the door. With a comforting smile and his hand on my shoulder, he said, “Hi, Kid. Come in. C’mon. Come in." I had never seen him in the neighborhood.
I hesitated, stepped gently over the threshold, and entered a dark kitchen where I spotted card players who suffered my intrusion, having laid down their cards. The brightest thing in the room was the stark white icebox in a corner; a puddle beneath it. A dog growled from behind a closed door.
I flashed a sidelong glance at the slightly ajar doorway, slouched and put a foot in the entry. “Wait, wait, son. Wanna Coke?”
“No, thanks.”
He handed me fifty cents. “Keep the change. See ya next week.”
“Thank you.” Whistling, I hustled down the stairs two at a time.
There were good tippers and poor tippers. There were those who called me a cute kid and those who never spoke.
There were houses with dirty stairs and houses with clean stairs. There were smells of cabbage, cigarettes, cigars, meatballs, old wood, Lysol, sweat, dust, mold, wine, damp cellars, and onions frying.
There were sounds of kids crying, people arguing, tenors practicing, dishes rattling and radios blaring a Red Sox game.
I smelled of newspaper ink and loved it.
