Somewhere near the top of Maxwell Street, a man in a car stopped and asked if I lived nearby. I said I did, and he offered me a job. I believe I started the next morning. I remember meeting him on a certain corner. A shopping cart full of newspapers was involved, and folding. Folding was the best part.
The worst part was collecting. A lot of people on my route never paid me, and some even hid when I came to collect. Since I had to pay in advance for the papers, I never made a penny from delivering newspapers and quit after less than a month.
I don’t remember much else – not delivering the papers, nor getting up early, nor the man’s reaction when I quit. The only other thing that remains is the vague memory of standing in a sad man’s sad apartment, waiting for him to get the money he owed me.
Often after reading a newspaper, I fold it the way I was taught to, in thirds, tucking it into itself.