Newsboy Special
It was Mike who talked me into getting a paper route with the Houston Chronicle. He had a way of talking me into things, he was the best of friends, and sometimes the worst. In preparation for the job, I would go with him on his route to see what it was like. He pedaled me and the newspaper-filled rack on the back of his bike up and down the streets of his route delivering papers. This was Q-district, which was the last one that ruled papers had to be delivered onto the porch, “porched”, unless there was no porch, then on the steps. The challenge was to porch the papers from the street. And Mike was remarkably good at it. He had never broken a window. A flower pot or two got broken, and maybe the screen door got torn, but no windows were broken.
We rode on the street, the sidewalk, and down and back up the many drainage ditches of the neighborhood. Mike was simply good at what he did and I learned a lot about how to do this new job. One time however he misjudged the steepness of one water-filled ditch and crashed, with me on the back, head-long into the ditch. There were no serious injuries and the papers were ok. From that point on, I rode along with him on my old bike.
My working career had started two or three years earlier. I made maybe $15 a month cutting grass and doing minor yard work. I made enough money to put a brand new lawnmower using the lay-away plan at a local department store for $7 a month. Six months later I had new equipment for running my business.
But a paper route could bring me $25 per month for 50 subscribers and eventually, as much as $50 a month if I could handle a route with around 100 customers. This was a huge increase in pay for 1967.
But it was not going to be enough, in the beginning at least, to pay for a new bicycle. The bike I had was a second hand one that I got for $12 a long while back with my grandmother’s help. The bike wheels wobbled and rubbed the fender braces and it was just old and beat up, quite unstable. But it was all I had.
As for the other required equipment, Mike had an old metal mounting frame that I could put on my bike to hold the wood and canvas bag rack over the back wheel that would carry the papers. It would have to do.
Mike had a red Columbia Newsboy Special. It was a specially designed heavy duty bike that was perfect for a paper boy. It could handle anything, even a crash into a ditch. Both of Mike’s parents worked and could afford the $75 I remember this bike costing. That kind of money was not available in our household. My current bike would have to do.
One afternoon after I had signed up to start, I was riding over to Mike’s house a couple of blocks away to help him wrap papers and ride along the route with him. We planned to see if there was anything we could do to improve the old bike’s performance. We had recently adjusted the spokes of the rear wheel and the tire rubbing problem was better.
I was riding on the sidewalk along Pecore Street and I heard the rubbing sound again. While looking back at the wobbling rear wheel, I felt a sudden and severe impact; I had hit something big and hard. The bike and I went end-up in the air and over to the lawn of a house. A car had turned from the street into the driveway and as it crossed the sidewalk ahead of me I had run directly into it.
I was stunned but not unconscious. The driver was a teenager who did get out of the car to check on my condition. I don’t remember what I said to him. I was always afraid of being in trouble with somebody, especially with my grandmother, and made a hasty departure from the scene.
However my bike took the brunt of the collision and the damage was extensive. I could barely get it to Mike’s house. We determined that there was nothing we could do to improve it. The fork and frame were bent and the front wheel was in worse shape than ever. It was never going to work for the job that was to start in a week.
I couldn’t ride along with Mike and he had to deliver his papers so off he went. I had no choice but to get my bike home and figure out what to tell my grandmother. I don’t remember if I cried as I dragged and shoved my bike home. I just remember being in a state of panic and shame. Somehow I was bad and wrong for having had the accident. I had a new job to start, what was I going to do?
As she usually was, my grandmother was on the front porch watching me bring the bike toward the house. I decided the truth was the best story this time and told her the whole story when I finally made it into the yard with my wrecked bicycle.
“What happened to your bike?”
“I hit a car.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” I may have been but could not register any harm to myself and could not have added personal injury to my story.
“Where did this happen?”
“Across from the church, just before Bruce street.”
She went inside to get her purse.
“Show me where it happened.”
We walked to the house on Pecore where the crash took place. I was terrified of being in trouble now with the owner of the house. My grandmother knocked on the door of the house and a man, the father of the teenager, answered.
She explained why we were there and had me tell the father my story of the crash and describe the extent of the damage to my bicycle. The teenage boy was there and agreed with my telling of the incident. The father said something to my grandmother I didn’t understand which seemed to satisfy her so we left.
Two days later a man came to the door and had a tape recorder to make a record of the answers to a few questions and papers for my grandmother to sign. The settlement was for $75 and he had a check ready to hand over once the papers were signed.
As an authorized paper boy for the Chronicle, I was entitled to a discounted price for the things a paper boy might need. This included the mounting frame, the wood and canvas rack for the papers, and Columbia Newsboy Special bicycles.
I ordered a black one and it arrived a day before my newspaper delivery career began.
On my last day as a paper-boy, two years, two months, and two days later, I threw my last paper from the street and broke a flower pot and a window.