David Shapiro's Pick:
Morning Deliveries
by Margaret A. Frey
I delivered newspapers one summer, the early edition. I wasn't a child whipping papers across my handlebars but a thirty-six year old woman driving a used Celica with a cranky carburetor. The job had been posted at the local grocery. I called the contact number, set up an interview with a district manager, and then accepted the position on the spot. I'm not one to make impulsive decisions anymore than I was seasoned for an early morning shift, so when I made the announcement over dinner, my husband laughed.
"You're doing what?" He looked up from his plate with a smirk, then realizing I was serious, added, "Ok-a-ay. But do me a favor. Blow a kiss on your way out."
We'd recently moved, a promising promotion for my husband but a major upheaval for the rest of the family. Our seven and ten-year old sons, miserable over lost friends and familiar surroundings, had turned angry grief into endless quarrelling. I was the all-day, no-break-for-lunch referee. I needed a timeout, I decided, even one at an outrageous hour. A few extra dollars couldn't hurt either.
I set the alarm for 3:30 a.m.
My first stop was the local drop-off center. Thirty-odd people milled around a shabby storefront, situated on a barren stretch of highway. A diverse crew, the workers ranged from rough-looking men with dusty pickups to men dressed in natty golf shirts and pleated Dockers. One guy drove an aging Mercedes. And then there was me — hair pulled up in a messy ponytail, face sleep-creased and puffy — looking like an unmade bed. I was invisible at night, or I so reasoned, but the men, yawning and bleary-eyed, seemed genuinely amused.
"Rough night, eh?" A round of weary laughter.
For the most part, there was little conversation — a cordial nod, a wave, an occasional faint smile. Once the door opened, we signed in, collected our bundled papers and were on the road by 4:15 sharp.
On the main thoroughfare, my tires hummed over the macadam and the traffic lights stayed gloriously green. Though the road was deserted, every store locked down and shuttered, numerous signs flashed with fast food ads, wholesale furniture deals and lifetime, no-risk guarantees. Zooming along, I had the peculiar sense of owning the road, even the world, a pocket of space and time that was not quite morning, not quite night. It was a small, exhilarating sensation.
Three traffic signals later, I turned into my territory, Whitman Square. Beneath a canopy of ancient oak, the route was significantly darker than the road I'd left. The air coming off the nearby reservoir was cooler, too.
I parked, folded a few dozen papers before coasting the curbs. Leaning out, I flicked the paper with a good, hard snap, waited for the reassuring thump, and then continued to the next house and the one after that. I didn't know it then, but this early morning ritual would season my arm for countless games of toss and catch, my younger son's All-Star dreaming. He would never play professionally, but I can still deliver an accurate pitch.
Sometimes, I shifted into park and ran a paper to a front stoop for an elderly or disabled customer then jogged back and paused before sliding behind the wheel. A sleeping street never failed to move me, in the same way checking my sons, sprawled across their beds — hair tousled, faces calm and dreamy— made my throat burn and ache.
On cooler nights, I heard people cough through opened windows, a dog scratch and snuffle or a shade click against a sill. Breezes rustled leaves and a thick mist rolled over flowerbeds and parched lawns. A sprinkler might tick and whoosh an invariably too-late warning, setting off a syncopated patter across my windshield and hood.
By the time I finished, the dark had given way to a grainy half-light. Birds chirped, dogs barked, front doors opened and closed. The world was intact, and I was its grateful, rumpled witness.
Hands black with newsprint, I often stopped for coffee at a local convenience store. One morning, a teenager behind the register ignored me while she admired her long, lacquered nails. I counted out change and smiled lamely when I dropped several coins on the floor. The girl looked at me then, only to stare at my grubby fingers.
"Delivering papers," she said, flatly.
I wanted to say the job was easy, that the moments of dreamy quiet and intimate observation were extra perks. I let it go. The boys would be waking soon, and the day, a pale, shaky promise, was too new to spoil.
My sons are young men now. My husband and I live in yet another city, another state. When the weather turns hot and steamy, I get up early, make coffee, and then let out our yawning dog. From my back door, I watch a throbbing sun push over the Great Smoky Mountains. Sometimes, I hear a car putt-putt along the curb, and then the smack of bundled papers hitting the concrete drive.
It's a reminder of those long ago mornings — the shadowy hush, the tender stillness, and the ordinary, yet ever startling promise of first light.
Margaret A. Frey writes from the foothills of the Smoky Mountains. Her work has appeared in Notre Dame Magazine, Thema, Christian Science Monitor, Smokelong Quarterly, flashquake, Byline Magazine, Cezanne's Carrot and elsewhere. Margaret lives with her husband John and canine literary critic, Ruffian.