This is my second submission for this week’s Memoirs Group prompt, Remembering Red. Although I announced that my entry would be a tough one for me to write and post, I decided to keep it personal and submit a second entry that may not be much prettier as depressing images go.

I will talk about some of what I felt when I wrote that personal entry, because I believe that is the main importance of these exercises. The conjuring up of clear, unblemished visions and how we felt about them then and how we feel about now is part of what gives or existence depth and meaning.

No Filters.

When I started penning that entry I could taste the moldy chill of the light stabbed darkness within the cement block and wood garage; an alley facing building that was an afterthought during the 1940’s, and nearly forgotten on a lazy summer afternoon sometime in the late 1960’s.

I could feel the fear and disgust. I could see the dirty carrot colored curls of a boy five years my senior as they danced in and out of the sunlight shards that were allowed to squeeze past cracks and through not completely painted out windows.

I felt long forgotten threats. I felt hurt for my parents, who may have never known what happened on that day.

Remebering Red

The stories I could tell about my days as a paperboy in the inner city of Dayton, Ohio. Whore houses, 220 Sunday customers, fresh donuts on Sunday mornings, the Island Park Band Shell, losing 195 Sunday papers to a group of  strong arm thieves in a 1965 Impala, home run derby in Danny Davis’ backyard, struggling customers who always tipped, well off customers who never tipped; the poor elderly woman who worked at Cassano’s Pizza on Salem Avenue.

Christmas week was always a thrill for paperboys. If we busted our ass providing good service all year, we could take home handsome holiday bonuses from some of our better customers. Oh, believe me; we knew exactly who would fill our pockets, as well as those who would give us the usual dime tip for the week.

Just because we were 10-12 years old didn’t mean we thought of money as nothing more than a shiny object.

There were several apartment buildings on my delivery route, and in one of the lesser ones I had a fairly new customer. She was an elderly woman that worked at the pizza place a couple of blocks away; I knew this because I saw her working there, in her dogged white shoes and pizza sauce stained white service dress, on several occasions as I waked to and from school.

Christmas week.  I show up at her apartment door on time for the weekly collections (sounds hauntingly like an extortionist) and knock. The door opens and the loud smell of bean soup races out to punch me in the  nose.  She is standing there, wearing nothing more than a bleached crimson nightgown and a lifetime of tired.

She was shaking,  I could tell she was anxious, yet she started a pleasant conversation about the season and the service I had given since she moved into the building.

She was also peeing down her leg.

I thought I smelled the pungent odor mix in with the soup beans, and I also heard a slight trickling, but I didn’t have the heart to take my eyes off of hers as she was talking.

Finally, she apologized for never tipping me on a weekly basis, but she didn’t make any excuses, she didn’t have to; we 10-12 years old paperboys knew money was more than a shiny object, and we knew that we weren’t the only ones in that boat.

She eventually reached into one of the patch pockets sewn to her gown and retrieved an envelope. Handing me the envelope as she wished me a Merry Christmas, she closed the door; but not before I glanced down and saw the puddle she stood in.

The envelope contained two five dollar gift certificates for Cassano’s.

I never saw her again and the rumor was that she was dead before the New Year rang in.

That was forty years (an entire lifetime) ago, and though I have often thought of that poor woman, I never told a soul; not even back then.

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© 2010, Alex Crabtree. All rights reserved.

Years ago I started writing Flash Fiction for just the sheer enjoyment of writing, and now it has turned into a full blown addiction. I can't quit the horse, man! Another dirty little secret about me is my ability to write all kinds of web content. SEO content, articles, blog posts, manifests; you name it, I'll write it. Looking for some help? My gun hangs at r.alex.crabtree@gmail.com

Alex Crabtree

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Tags: alex crabtree, memoirs, paperboy, remembering red

This entry was posted on July 14, 2010 at 1:18 pm and is filed under Alex, Featured, Memoirs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.