I thought that I had bought the wings of freedom when I paid five dollars for a used Schwinn bicycle. I would no longer be dependent on walking or taking the bus for my transportation needs. I could now fly through northeast Denver form sunup to well past sundown; my horizons were limited only by my endurance. I was fourteen years old and I knew I would need a job to maintain my new, fast paced lifestyle,
I raced to The Denver Post folding station at Colfax & Niagara St. where a newspaper route was opening up at the end of the month. The boss man at the station said it was mine, handed me canvas newspaper bags and told me to go out with an experienced boy to learn the route.
I would need box handlebars to manage the heft and volume of newspapers that would be delivered to subscribers. I took a “loan” from my brother’s cigar box while he slept.
The box contained money he had collected from his morning paper route. I rationalized that he was “loaning” himself money from the box and would not miss my withdrawal. He didn’t. I had taken “loans” from him before, but this time I promised I would pay it back if he caught me. He didn’t.
I pedaled to the bike-man’s house and bought a used set of box handlebars for one dollar and my old handlebars. The bike man worked the handlebars through the gooseneck backwards so that they reminded me of steer horns. He tightened the bolt on the gooseneck, slid the canvas bags through the “horns”, wrapped them tightly and secured them with rubber bands.
The new padding on my steel handlebars made for a more comfortable seat for my cousin Pat. I pedaled him down east Colfax to my new job where he jumped off and ran into the Ducth Boy Donut store, adjacent to the folding station.
While I waited for the evening Denver Post to arrive Pat returned and handed me an empty donut bag with a smirk and an assurance that he had left me the donut holes. I didn’t have time to protest. The truck was here with the papers and it was time to fold.
The folding stations, made of 2 x 4’s and plywood, lined the walls of a large room with a cement floor. Boxes of rubber bands were standing-by for each paper delivery boy who would pick up their allotted bundles, take them to a folding station, snip the wires that held them together, fold and band. The folded papers were then stacked evenly in the unfurled canvas bags until they skimmed the ground.
My route was the neighborhoods south and north of east Colfax, near Lowry Air Force base. I pedaled throwing papers backhand style and, if my memory serves me correctly, “porched” every paper.
Landing the paper on the porch was the key. It kept the paper from inclement weather and elicited larger tips when I went door to door to collect for the monthly subscription. Of course, there was never a tip from the chronically late paying subscriber.
Then I turned sixteen and thought I bought the wings of freedom again when I paid a man fifty dollars for a ’49 Chevy coupe. I would no longer be dependent on a bicycle for transportation. I could now fly around Denver, even the north side. My horizons were limited only by my ability to buy gas, oil and avoid Buster Snider, the motorcycle cop.
I put the newspaper route to bed.
I was reminded of those days when Monday’s Denver Post hit my driveway, not with the thud of heft, but with a whisper of plastic struggling against the wind. It was the death knell of the newspaper boy’s newspaper. The “paperboy” was a deliveryman who drove off in his 4-wheel drive vehicle.
My monthly payment would be automatically “collected” from my checking account. I was saddened when I removed the plastic sleeve and discovered that the front section contained all but the Sports and Lifestyles sections. It was just a three-section daily with abbreviated copy and advertisements outnumbering new stories.
When my grandchildren ask about those grand days when the newspapers dominated information flow I will tell them that I was a member of the Fourth Estate. I worked with the likes of Buchwald & Royko, Grizzard & Bombeck, Amole & Gavin who made words walk effortlessly on journeys of wit and wisdom. I will explain that I pedaled them around east Denver and introduced them to subscribers who paid me for the best reading bargain in town.
I am thankful I walked the journey and proud to have “porched” the Fourth Estate.
David O’Shea Dawkins lives in Denver. EDITOR’S NOTE: This online-only guest commentary has not been edited. Guest commentary submissions of up to 650 words may be sent to openforum@denverpost.com.
