The Scarvelis Dump

Early in 1981, when I was 14 years old, I got my first job. It was a paper route and I had some very big shoes to fill in its execution. I would succeed a neighborhood friend named TJ. TJ was a short, skinny, white haired kid with enormous Coke bottle glasses and he was a master of the newspaper delivery craft. TJ took great pride in his work and provided timeliness, excellent customer care skills and the highest level of professionalism and dedication to his duties. In retrospect, he didn’t really seem to have any friends, though he was always cheerful. The newspaper was The North Hills News Record-a Monday and Thursday bi-weekly covering the eponymous North Hills region of Greater Pittsburgh. The route consisted of 34 households throughout the one square-mile borough of Bradford Woods where I grew up. Although he was a grade above me, TJ and I became friends the year prior, sharing a seat on the bus ride to and from Ingomar Middle School and on walks to and from the bus stop.

One day TJ informed me that his family would soon be moving to Texas. He needed to pass the paper route to someone. I jumped at the chance and told TJ that I wanted the route (sure, it wasn’t The Pittsburgh Press, but it would be a start). Unfortunately, it turned out that there was also a very high level of interest from several other neighborhood boys for the job. Being the good and disciplined steward of the route that he was, TJ decided that the fairest way for him to choose a successor for the coveted role would be to hold scheduled, one-on-one interviews with his hand-picked candidates. These interviews would be held immediately after school hours on the back patio of his house a few streets over from where I lived. After much consideration, TJ informed me on our ride to school one morning that he had narrowed the field to five highly qualified, anonymous (to avoid potential conflicts of interest) contenders and that I had made the cut. He then produced a day planner and penciled me in for my interview which would take place the following week.

With my interview approaching, I agonized over several details. What should I wear? Should I take a token of friendship/appreciation (I still had an unopened jar of Slime, and I knew that TJ loved Slime)? Should I adopt an overarching theme to my interview responses, possibly “dependability,” or maybe “perseverance?” In the end I figured that “passion” would be the right approach, as it most closely matched TJ’s approach to his duties. And so the big day came. TJ and I walked to his house after the bus dropped us off at the stop. TJ offered me a seat across from him at the picnic table on his patio and was all business as he drilled me with a set of prepared interview questions. “How do you feel about being outside in the rain for extended periods of time?” “How often do you perform proactive maintenance and repair on your bike.” “Are you at all averse to walking in the snow and/or on ice?” “Do you have an action plan aimed at maintaining the TJ brand if chosen by me to take over the route?” “What enhancements or revisions would you make to my approach to the route?” “Will you write to me in Texas every other week to let me know how things are going on the route?” “Do you have any particular skills and/or hobbies that you think make you especially qualified for this job?”

TJ carefully recorded each and every lie I told in response to his questions on a legal pad he held deliberately out of my view on his knees under the table. I made a final, begging, passionate appeal for the job before TJ stood up, shook my hand and escorted me to the path in the woods leading to my street. “I’ll be in touch with all of the candidates late next week. If you have any additional questions or concerns, please give them to me in writing prior to next Wednesday.”

That following week was pure agony for me. I would still walk to and from the bus stop with TJ, but only shared a seat with him on the bus on one of those days. On the other four days he reserved the seat for one of the other four candidates, thus letting us all know whom we were competing against. Of the other four contenders, three of them were boys I despised and I didn’t really know the fourth. Finally, on Thursday of that long, torturous week, TJ asked me if I would be able to drop by his house on the following day after school. “I’ve made my decision and we should talk.” With that, I was sure he hadn’t chosen me to take over the route. He was going to let me down personally, and for that I respected his request and I told him that I was available.

That following day, TJ and I walked from the bus stop to his house in relative silence. We were usually a pretty gregarious pair, both on our walks and bus rides together. Now I was sure I wasn’t getting the route-TJ was feeling bad about giving me the bad news, and that was why he was so quiet. When we got to TJ’s house, he asked me to wait on the patio while he went inside to get something. When he returned, he handed me a cardboard box and said, “Open it.” I did, and it contained his canvas newspaper delivery bag. “I’m giving you the route because you’re my best friend.” I was floored. I never thought of TJ as my best friend, but looking back now, I think he was about one of the nicest kids I ever knew growing up. Had he not moved away that year, I bet we would have been best friends. Then he said, “You start your training next week. Be here with your bike on Monday at 3:45 sharp, and don’t forget to bring the bag with you.”

I hated that paper route more than I can even begin to say. I loathed it with every fiber of my being. I knew it was going to be a complete disaster that first Monday of training week. “Mrs. Fritchie likes her paper to be put in-between the front door and the storm door like this…” “The Schweiger’s like their paper to be put flat on the welcome mat by the side door, unless it’s raining, then put it in the mailbox.” “If the Faretto’s dog is chained up, walk to the left of this bush to avoid him, otherwise you might get bit.” “Mrs. Francis doesn’t like anybody to come onto her property, so you have to fold the paper like this and throw it as close to the steps as you can.” I would never be able to remember all this. Worse yet, I didn’t want to.

The following Thursday was even more discouraging for me-it was monthly “collection” day on the route. Instead of leaving the newspapers, TJ would confidently ring the bell or knock on each subscriber’s door, hand them their paper, introduce me as the new “Route Specialist” and make his request, “Two dollars for the month please.” After leaving each house with the money neatly tucked in a zippered pouch (most paid in cash, a few paid with a check), TJ would give me the skinny on the idiosyncrasies of each customer. “Mrs. Volweiler never, ever gives a tip.” “Mr. Desch always gives an extra quarter.” “Mrs. Volk never has any cash and sometimes asks if I can try again the following week.” “Mrs. Wagner always seems mad when you collect, but you’ll get used to it.”

I was now sufficiently trained and my friend TJ and his family moved to Texas. With that, I proceeded to destroy the route from the inside out. One Thursday I came home from school to find the 34 newspapers in a bundle at the top of the driveway waiting for me and decided that nobody would notice if they got their paper on Friday. I wasn’t in the mood to tramp around the neighborhood as it was raining and there was an especially a compelling rerun of Star Trek on that afternoon. Knocking on strangers’ doors to ask for money made me very anxious, so I decided not to do it at all. I never once wrote to TJ to report on the status of the route. After a month or so it seemed like my customers were starting to seek me out. “Why did you leave my paper on the lawn-it was soaking wet when I got home!” “Why didn’t I get a paper last Thursday? This never happened when TJ was running the route.” “Don’t I owe you two dollars? Why don’t you collect like TJ.” The final shoe dropped on Monday, March 30^th, 1981 at around 3:45 p.m. I had managed to deliver around three newspapers when a kid named David rode up on his bike in a panic, “President Reagan was shot! He’s in the hospital-it’s all over TV!” Thus, I did what any red-blooded, patriotic young man would do in similar circumstances. I took the remaining undelivered newspapers, dumped them in the woods and sped home on my bike to watch the wall-to-wall TV coverage of the historic presidential assassination attempt.

The next day my Mom got a call from the sales manager of The North Hills News Record. I was fired. In order to straighten things out, she wrote a check to the paper to cover the outstanding neighborhood subscriptions for the month ($68.00, minus my paltry 20% commission of $13.60). Needless to say, she was not at all happy about this (“What the hell is the matter with you?”) and made me pay her back over time. Worse yet, one of the aforementioned despised candidates took over the route and did a bully job of it, growing the account to 60+ subscriptions after only six months.

This experience is notable in that it marks the first in a string of countless similar personal failures that have plagued me well into my adult life.

WEEKEND UPDATE

(This is a new weekly section that I am adding. Since this blog publishes on Monday, I thought readers would enjoy a short recap of my previous weekend, along with impressions/lessons learned, where applicable).

This past Saturday I got up late, did two loads of laundry and went shopping. I bought toothpaste, mouthwash, face soap, a PUR water filter replacement and a used $13.99 DVD of A Clockwork Orange from BuyBacks at Steelyard Commons (I got the previous items at Target in the same shopping center). I also twice checked in on and fed my friend Eran’s cats, Sophie and Lyle, while she was off whitewater rafting in Ohio Pyle. On Saturday evening, I treated myself to one of my favorite meals-Shake ‘N Bake pork chops, Betty Crocker Potatoes Au Gratin and canned corn with butter and pepper (altogether, now: “YUM!”). I also watched A Clockwork Orange, a picture I haven’t seen since the late 1980s. While and after watching the movie, I found myself thinking it puzzling that the director, Stanley Kubrick, who just four years prior made what I consider to be one of the most brilliant, prescient, timeless masterpieces of cinema-2001: A Space Odyssey (I will devote a piece exclusively to this film in the coming weeks)-could have been so off the mark with A Clockwork Orange. The movie has aged terribly. The plot is repugnant. If anything, however, it is worth seeing, if only as a post-post-modern, post-pop art-on-steroids, 137 minute document that could have only been made in that strange, strange, sickening hangover of the psychedelic 60’s that were the early ‘70s (the film was released in December of 1971). So, if any of you Droogies wants to see it, you’re welcome to borrow the DVD.

On Sunday I got up late, checked in on Sophie and Lyle and ate a Mr. Hero 7″ Original Italian Sub and a regular order of mozzarella sticks for lunch. This evening, I’m re-experiencing the Shake ‘N Bake/Au Gratin/Corn meal and plan to get to bed early, so I’m well rested for the almost-sure drama to come tomorrow morning.