Paperboy Part 7

I folded my papers in world-record time once I got the movie out of my head and the kid yelling Shane Shane Come Back Shane. I think that kid was lonesome like me but he was only in the movies and I was living my real stuttering life.

I noticed Big Sack sitting in his truck parked across the street and watching me. It was the second time during the week I had seen him just sitting like that which didn't seem right because he was usually mowing lawns or cleaning out flower beds.

Ara T hadn't been around all week but I spotted him a ways down the alley when I was lifting the bags off the fence onto my shoulders. The way he was sneaking looks at me made me wonder if Mam had gotten my knife back from him. One thing was for sure. Ara T was going through the garbage cans a new way. He would pull stuff out of a can and throw it anywhere. His neat way of collecting junk was gone.

I almost ran for the first part of my route. I was breathing hard by the time I got to Mr. Spiro's house. It wasn't time to collect but I had something special to talk to him about.

I had worked on a list of questions for Mr. Spiro all week in my room. I didn't want to forget anything important so I had typed the three questions on a clean piece of notebook paper.

1. Why do most grown-ups treat me like I'm not a real human being?

2. When does a kid become a grown-up?

3. What can I do to be smart like you?

That wasn't everything I wanted to talk about but that was all I could get out of my head and down on paper.

I didn't want to be out of breath if we had our talk so I sat down on the curb across the street and refolded some papers that weren't as tight as d.i.c.k's hatband. I asked my mother once who d.i.c.k was when she talked about his hatband but she never would tell me.

I noticed an old bicycle leaning against the side of Mr. Spiro's house. It had a basket on the front handlebar and a flat piece of wood on the back behind the seat. The handlebars and the spokes on the wheels were rusted but the chain looked like it was in good shape.

About the time my refolding was done Mr. Spiro came out of his door with a book under his arm and holding a thick white coffee mug that was steaming. I didn't see how anybody could be drinking hot coffee in the middle of the hottest part of the Memphis day but it seemed to suit Mr. Spiro. He waved me over when he saw me on the curb.

What news do you bring me today, Messenger?

I knew he meant newspaper news but it was my chance to see if we could have another long talk. I lifted the straps of the newspaper bags over my head and laid them on the porch.

s-s-s-s-Would you have s-s-s-s-time to s-s-s-s-answer some questions?

Certainly.

Mr. Spiro took a sip of his steaming coffee.

I have a good cup of joe and a good traveler at my side.

Anybody else would have answered with one or two words but Mr. Spiro made you feel like he was excited about the same thing you were excited about.

We sat on the porch swing. I reached into the back pocket of my shorts and pulled out the piece of paper with my questions. It was only a little wet from sweat. I handed it to Mr. Spiro. He didn't take it.

Our goal is dialogue, Messenger. That takes two. I have all the time we need so I would like to hear you ask your questions.

I should have known Mr. Spiro wouldn't let me get away with just handing him my list. I looked down at the piece of paper to start getting the first question lined up inside my head.

s-s-s-s-Do grown-ups think s-s-s-s-kids are humans?

Yes.

I waited because no eye blinks meant there was more coming.

That is the quick answer to your query but I believe the question you really wish to ask is: Are adults good at communicating with young people?

Mr. Spiro had hit the nail on the head. Then he answered the question.

I'm afraid I would have to answer that query in the negative.

Why?

I asked it without a stutter because Ws have built-in Gentle Air.

More reasons than we can know but I would sum up by saying it's because many adults are uncomfortable with themselves.

That answer took some going over in my head. Mr. Spiro gave me a few seconds and then went on.

Adults-or grown-ups as you most graciously refer to them-have a difficult time talking with children because young people don't understand the code.

Mr. Spiro twisted toward me on the swing.

Example. An adult says: I'll have to think about that. What do you think the adult means?

I shook my head even though my mother said that to me all the time.

The translation is: What you asked about is not going to happen so don't bring up the matter again.

I smiled because that was what it usually meant for me.

s-s-s-s-Tell me some s-s-s-s-more 'bout the s-s-s-s-code.

What do you think adults mean when they say: That's not something we should talk about until you're older?

I shook my head again.

It can be decoded as: I don't know how to answer you.

When will I be an s-s-s-s-adult?

Who's to say? You might be further along than you realize.

Mr. Spiro got up from the swing.

I am a rude host. I have this good cup of coffee and you are without sustenance. How would a lemonade suit you?

I wasn't all that thirsty because my father had bought me a giant Coca-Cola at the movie but Mr. Spiro was already headed into the house before I could get anything out of my mouth. He came out soon with a gla.s.s of lemonade about as big as I could hold in one hand. It was sweet like Mam made it because she always made sure the sugar was stirred up. The gla.s.s was full of big lemons that were cut in half and squeezed. Not like the thin slices my mother cut and that you couldn't do anything with. I took big swallows.

Now let me ask a few questions while you imbibe.

He asked me questions that I could answer mostly with a Yes or a No. The best kind of questions for me.

Do you like school?

s-s-s-s-Most times.

Do you have siblings?

s-s-s-s-No.

What does your father do for a living?

I thought about telling Mr. Spiro what I had seen on my birth certificate in the closet but decided the time wasn't right to talk about that.

s-s-s-s-He takes care of s-s-s-s-money for s-s-s-s-people.

Do you think he enjoys his work?

I nodded.

s-s-s-s-He spends s-s-s-s-plenty of time s-s-s-s-doing it.

Then Mr. Spiro said one of those things that seemed important without me knowing why.

One of the most beautiful happenstances of life is the person doing precisely what he knows is intended for him. Unfortunately a rare situation.

I let the words stay on the blackboard in my head.

I looked down at my wrinkled piece of paper for another question.

How s-s-s-s-can I be smart s-s-s-s-like you?

Mr. Spiro let out another one of his short laughs and then took a long drink of coffee. He looked straight ahead like he was working on the answer or making a plan.

Would you care to come inside for a moment?

I looked away and wasn't sure what to say. Rat had told me that going into a house on the route was against the rules. Mr. Spiro stood.

I know it might be against newspaper regulations or against your parents' wishes but I can a.s.sure you it is proper in this context.

I didn't have to think too long because I had wanted to see the inside of Mr. Spiro's house all along. I was nervous but not from knowing I might have to say something. The nervousness came from being excited just like before the first pitch of a ball game.

The house was not going to be like my house. I was sure of that. But I didn't know what to expect. Never in a gazillion years could I have guessed what I was going to see.

Books. Hundreds. Thousands. Wall to wall. Floor to ceiling.

But it wasn't like a library because the books weren't on shelves. They were in wooden crates with the crates laid on their sides and stacked on top of each other. The crates were different sizes and reminded me of giant alphabet blocks the way they were stacked on the floor. Some crates still had the bright-colored paper stickers on the side showing that the boxes had been used for oranges or bananas and some of the crates had words on them written in foreign languages.

In the living room the crates covered almost every part of the walls leaving openings only for doors and windows. A big stuffed chair sat in the middle of the room with a floor lamp next to it. On the left side of the room was a pair of gla.s.s-paned doors leading to another room that had even more crates of books. A small bed covered with a white sheet and a double-sized pillow with arms on it sat in the middle of the floor with books scattered around it. A ceiling light with an extra long cord hung down so that the lightbulb dangled just above the bed.

Mr. Spiro went somewhere in the back of the house and came out with a metal folding chair. He unfolded it with a pop and put it down facing it toward the big chair in the front room.

I don't receive many visitors so my accommodations are crude. But young bones like yours should not require cushions.

I walked over to the metal chair but couldn't make myself sit. I circled it and started walking around the room to see the books up close.

I finally sat down with my head still twisting on my shoulders. Mr. Spiro was in his chair but he wasn't saying anything. Like Mam he seemed to know when I was thinking too hard to be interrupted and he just let me twist in the chair for a while.

What's in the s-s-s-s-books?

With all the good questions I could have asked that was about the dumbest one I could have come up with.

All the world and more.

Even when I asked a bad question Mr. Spiro had a good answer for it.

But shall we get back to your prepared questions? I know they are important to you.

My sheet of paper was still in my hand but wadded up now like a popcorn sack at the end of a Memphis Chicks' game. I tried to smooth it and get my mind back on my questions.

Where s-s-s-s-do I start learning?

It wasn't the best question but it was as close as I could get to what I thought I wanted to ask.

Mr. Spiro was looking at me like when you're at bat and you look around at the third base coach for a sign and he's staring at you like he's trying to send you the words through the air.

You've already made good headway but let me warn you that the word Start implies that there is a Finish. That's something that we should discuss at some point.

I couldn't keep my head from twisting. I had never seen so many books outside of a library. I managed to come up with a question that made more sense than the last one.

Where s-s-s-s-did you s-s-s-s-get the s-s-s-s-books?

All over the world. At every port there are good books to be had for a pittance. Some merchant marines carve broom handles to pa.s.s the time at sea. I chose to spend my thirty years on the high seas reading and studying.

I knew about regular marines but not the merchant kind. Asking the question was going to be hard because two words in a row with the same starter sound usually did me in.

What are s-s-s-s-m ... What are s-s-s-s-those kind of s-s-s-s-marines?

Merchant marines are men of peace and cargo. Distributing the world's goods. A vital service and a proper vocation for the curious mind and restless heart.

s-s-s-s-How did you s-s-s-s-get to s-s-s-s-Memphis?

I found my books fit nicely on a towboat captained by a good friend going upriver from New Orleans. When I saw the city sitting high on its bluff, I knew I had reached my new anchorage from which to explore North America. My homeport is where my books are.

I made myself focus on one crate of books at eye level in back of Mr. Spiro. Somebody named Heidegger had written all the books in the crate.

What is your compa.s.s locked in on, Messenger?

I got out of my chair and walked over to the crates and put my finger on a book. Being and Time.

Martin Heidegger. A German philosopher who is still very much with us. He helps us understand existentialism. Something you may want to look at later on in your voyage.

What is s-s-s-s-exist ...? s-s-s-s-That word s-s-s-s-you said.