The Newsboy

The Boy, Present Day: 1854

The newsboy shuffled his cap over his forehead as it threatened to blow off into the breeze.

He tossed a newspaper from the bag on his back onto a doorstep.

A lot of other newsboys he knew hated their jobs and wished that they could do something else, hoping to be called on for a different job so that they could make a bit more than a little less than a penny a day's work. But Paul couldn't complain. He loved his work and couldn't wish for any more—he didn't make much, but he didn't mind. It was just enough to support his father and himself. He didn't need to make any more than that. Life was challenging, but fun at the same time.

He didn't think his opinion would change, either. He had only been a newsboy for three years (and two days) but he found it fun. He loved getting up early. His father did not.

His father had been sick for three years as well, and Paul was glad that he had survived so long. But now . . . his father had gotten so sick that he had to stay in bed. He couldn't work at all, he could barely feed himself. He relied on Paul for his every need; and Paul was happy to comply.

Okay, "happy" might have been the wrong word. How about "willing"? Yes, "willing" worked. Paul was anything but happy about his father's sickly situation.

That was why he had to work—because his father couldn't support them anymore, and they had always been a little on the slim side when it came to money, anyway. But Paul still didn't mind. He didn't like the reason why he had to work—he tossed another newspaper onto the lawn of the next house but he didn't mind the work itself. It was rather refreshing, he found; the cold, crisp air of the morning; his feet bounding against the soles of his well-worn loafers as he pummeled them against the bike's pedals. Racing to finish his work before eight. It was all fun! It was simply something he looked forward to. It was the perfect job for him; he already had the cap—from when his father had been a newsboy, years and years ago.

Another paper thumped onto the sidewalk of the next house.

He pedaled past the courtroom and, staring a bit, wobbled and almost fell off of his bike before steadying himself and narrowly avoiding a fall.

"Hey, you!" he heard behind him. Not me, he thought, and continued pedaling.

"Hey! Come back!" The voice shouted. Whoever that was, he sounded angry. Glad it's not me he's yelling at, Paul thought to himself.

"YOU! NEWSBOY! ON THE BIKE!!!"

Paul's bike screeched to a halt as he rammed his feet down on the rickety brakes and he gulped silently, like he was swallowing a ball.

An angry, red man with a face like a bull stomped over to the side of Paul's bike, huffing steam. "I'm very sorry, sir," Paul apologized.

The man acted as though he hadn't heard him. Or maybe he hadn't. Either way, he snapped, "Newsboy! How is it that I never got a paper yesterday?"

Oh no. Was it possible that Paul had actually missed someone on his route?

"Sir!" he flushed. "I am so sorry! Where do you reside?"

"Where do I what? Oh—I am the butcher!"

Paul didn't know what to say. People were starting to gather around them to see what the commotion was all about. "And . . . um . . . where do you reside, sir?"

The man's face seemed to be getting redder by the moment. "Are you deaf, sonny? Or are you mocking me? I just told you: I'm the BUTCHER! I live above me shop!"

He looked at Paul as though the boy had just been born.

"Oh, I see!" Paul said. "I'm very sorry. sir, I meant no disrespect—" he began, but he was then cut off by the red butcher. "SO? WHERE IS MY PAPER???" the butcher shouted, spraying Paul with saliva.

"I don't know, sir!" Paul cried. Then he realized something else important: that the butcher's shop wasn't on his route. "Wait!" he shouted. "I do know—I mean I don't; but you see, I, my route—" Once again he was cut off by the man, who thundered, "DON'T PLAY GAMES WITH ME, SONNY! WHERE. IS. MY. @#!$%*&^#. PAPER!!!"

"It wasn't my job to bring it to you, sir, I swear!" Paul gulped out, trembling as he fumbled for the route map from his manager in his pocket, "It's not on my route, see?" He shoved the map into the man's beefy hands. The butcher scanned the list and growled, "All right, why didn't you just say so in the first place, you little troublemaker? And if you don't have me paper . . . WHO DOES?!?! I read my paper EVERY MORNING! Do you think I went to Harvard for nothing?!"

Paul highly doubted that this man had gone to Harvard.

"I'm sorry, sir, I couldn't tell you; that I have no idea," Paul told the butcher honestly. "But what I do know is that there are eight newsboys in this area; it could have been any of them. But I haven't seen their routes . . . only my own. I'm sorry, but that is all I know."

The man eyed Paul up, then he seemed to decide that Paul was telling the truth. Paul slowly breathed out a long sigh of relief. He hadn't met the butcher before personally, but tales went that if you got on the wrong side of him, he was the kind of man who would hang you off the roof of his shop upside down by your hair. Other children would say that when you finally died, he would chop you up and tell everyone you were pork. Right now, standing in front of the well-known man, Paul didn't doubt those stories.

Okay, he did a little. But still, the butcher didn't look like someone you wanted to cross.

He took his route paperback.

As he pedaled off, leaving the furious man behind him, he wondered exactly which newsboy it had been who hadn't delivered the paper to the butcher.