The first paper I ever delivered was ‘The Springster Tribune’ on August 13th, 1962. It was a sweltering Monday morning as I pedaled my chipped green bike down the dirt road to Mr. Kennedy’s trailer. The pathway ended a few yards away from the busted old thing. The trailer was originally white, with a thick, striking red line wrapped along the midsection, but age had weathered the color to a pale cream and sections of the red paint had flaked away. There weren’t any tires holding the trailer above the ground. Instead, day after day, the camper sank deeper and deeper into the earth. I distinctly remember ditching the 1936 Schwinn Aerocycle on the yellowing grass near the towers of frying rubber tires and thinking about what game my school friends were playing that moment. Maybe Scott and Robbie were racing back and forth along the courtyard, their rubber soles slapping against the asphalt with sweat running down their backs. The chain-linked fence would rattle as they slammed against it. As I pounded against the metallic camper door, I grinned at the thought of riding my bike over to Scott’s house after the last paper landed on the last porch. A grimace took its place as the door wobbled open with a creak, revealing Mr. Larry Kennedy.

            “Well, if it ain’t Allan Nash,” His southern accent was prominent, despite the fact that he had lived in Springster, Ohio longer than I had been alive, “Got a lot of nerve showin’ your face here after what you and that—”

            “I’m just here to deliver your paper, Mr. Kennedy.”

            I rarely interrupted adults, my dad had made sure of that. He was a sergeant during the second world war before he met my mom, but some of his training in the army held fast through the years. More than two hands were needed to count how many times Ralph Nash whipped my backside for speaking out of turn. Dad would’ve snatched his belt off right then and there if he’d seen me cut off like that, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear more of Mr. Kennedy’s slurs.

            “When’d you start bein’ a paper boy?” Mr. Kennedy raised a bushy grey brow at me, his brown eyes fixated on my face, “Those little ladies at the school makin’ you do this?”

            “Nah,” I answered, thinking about how I wouldn’t call the teachers at the school ‘little ladies’, “It’s just a part-time gig for some extra cash, that’s all.”

            It wasn’t exactly a lie, but I doubted that dad would appreciate me blabbing about our financial problems to everyone and his brother. The newspaper found its way into the withered, boney fingers of Mr. Kennedy, who promptly spat in the direction of my bicycle.

            “Don’t need to tip you, do I?”

            “No, sir.”

            “Good. Now get your damn bike off my lawn.”

            I thought about how I wouldn’t call the overgrown weeds around the dilapidated camper a ‘lawn’, but I figured it would bring me more trouble to argue with him. Besides, the faster I got the papers out, the longer I’d have to gawk at the new model at Eddie’s shop.