The Paper Boy

The Paper Boy

“A man travels the world in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.”
~George Moore

         The old man coughed violently; his whole body seemed to ripple and reverberate with each cough. Bernard held his eyes closed and took a deep breath as the racking coughing spasm receded; he settled back in the ratty old chair, which had long ago refused to recline. He took a few more breaths with his head laying back on the cushioned head rest of the disabled recliner before he opened his eyes to the morning light seeping through the half drawn curtains of the window.

         With considerable effort he pushed himself from his old friend, the recliner, and shuffled back to the kitchen where the automatic coffee maker was finishing its last pop and gurgle, dripping the final drops of the ebony liquid into the pot. Bernard reached for the cup, fumbled with the pot removing it from in under the slowly dripping machine, and poured himself a half a cup of coffee. That’s all he needed right now, anyway. He grinned to himself as he considered he didn’t even like the stuff that much. He’d just convinced himself to drink it because he assumed he was supposed to. The joke was he’d been drinking this morning cup for the last sixty years.

         Bernard walked from the kitchen through the living area and out onto the front porch. He found the rocking chair, which his daughter Nicole had purchased from a Cracker Barrel restaurant. She was gone now; taken by cancer while she was still a young woman; he missed her terribly. She had either made or purchased a quilted cushion, he didn’t know which, and placed it in the seat to increase the rocker’s comfort factor. He liked the old rocking chair, cushion and all. Every time he rocked in it, it reminded him of Nicole. He was alone now. Everyone he had cared for or who cared about him was gone. He had come back to the home of his childhood to live out the remainder of his days in peace and comfort. All he had left was this place, memories, and the joy of each morning. Carefully placing his coffee cup on the rail which enclosed the small porch, he sat back in the chair and began slowly rocking, retrieving his cup and watching the morning unfold before him.

         He smiled as he heard the click, click, click, which signaled his newspaper was on its way. Billy was twelve years old and was quite a businessman. Faithfully he rose every morning and rolled and loaded his papers into the bag hanging from his bicycle for distribution to his clients who lived along his paper route. The kickstand on the bike was a little loose and that caused it to be slightly out of position. Every time the peddle made its circular orbit it struck the wayward kickstand, resulting in a discernable ‘click.’ The distinct sound caused the old man to look down the street in anticipation of his morning paper delivery, smiling as he chuckled to himself at the entrepreneurial fervor of the twelve-year-old.

         Bernard saw him turn the corner, methodically weaving down the street, tossing papers halfway up the front walkways. It was very efficient, Bernard considered; the twelve-year-old knew exactly where to steer the bike so as to make the best of the route—very little backtracking was necessary. Billy continued to toss his papers until he neared Bernard’s yard. With a yank on the handlebars the front wheel rose from the pavement and easily cleared the curb, allowing the rear tire to simply bounce up the curb. He cruised halfway up Bernard’s walkway, stopped, dismounted, clicked the kickstand down, and grabbed one of the rolled papers from his bag.

         Walking up the walkway, paper in hand, Billy smiled broadly and greeted the old man. “Hi, Mr. Bowtell! How’s the coffee this morning?”

          “Stuff stinks!” Bernard growled. “Nasty habit—don’t you ever start drinkin’ the stuff.”

         Billy chuckled, placed the paper on the porch beside the old man, and assumed his usual position sitting on the porch with his feet resting on the top step. “Oh, you always say that. My mom puts cream and sugar in hers. I tasted it; it don’t taste so bad.”

         Bernard shook his head and continued his ritual of growling at everything, “Hell, boy! That ain’t coffee; that’s more like soda pop. It takes straight black coffee, sliced right out of the pot to grow hair on your chest.”

         Billy grinned widely and replied, “I guess that’s why she puts cream and sugar in it.”

         Bernard snorted and tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. The grin turned into a laugh, and both of them laughed for a moment. Until Bernard’s laughter turned into a seizure of coughs. With concern Billy watched the old man endure his coughing fit. Bernard noticed his gaze and waved his hand dismissively. Soon the fit was over and, as far as Bernard was concerned, forgotten.

         This kid had a knack for worming his way into Bernard's heart, although the old man would never let on about it. He was just thankful every morning the two of them had this little get-together. Somehow it seemed to get his morning off to a good start. For a couple of years now he spent these early morning moments visiting and often telling stories about the places he had been and things he had done in his long life. The boy's freshness and quiet innocence filled a void in the old man's life--a void that no one saw or realized, except for Bernard. The relationship they shared, although quite simple, was something the old man had failed to find in the world beyond his front porch. It appeared to Bernard that the boy also valued those shared moments. Billy usually sat quietly mesmerized by the old man's tales occassionally sharing his own experiences now and then. It had gotten to the point where both of them looked forward to these daybreak meetings.

          “How much money you make this week?” Bernard quizzed.

         Billy furrowed his brow, squinted, and made a mental calculation. “Somewheres around twenty-five dollars. I got an extra five by mowing Mrs. Lowkoski’s lawn.”

          “Not bad,” Bernard mused and then continued, “You saving any of it; or do you spend it on junk?”

          “Oh, I spend some of it; but I wouldn’t call it on junk.” Billy responded. “Most of it I put in savings. Another seventy-five dollars and I’ll have enough for that new bike. I can’t believe those things cost so much.”

          “Well, yeah, most things of any value cost something. If you ever come across anyone wanting to give the stuff away for free, be very cautious. There’s usually strings attached; either that or it ain’t worth beans—one of the two. Just be careful.”

          “Oh, don’t worry, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Billy confirmed with a nod of his head.

         Bernard chuckled quietly. He may not have been born yesterday, but at twelve-years-old there weren’t that many yesterdays in the youngster’s life. However, Bernard was convinced this kid was smart, and even better, he was wise.

          “You’ve made a lot of money, haven’t you Mr. Bowtell?” Billy’s directness was refreshingly innocent.

          “What make’s you say that?” The old may answered while taking a sip of coffee.

          “Oh, I don’t know. I just figured someone who has been to as many places as you have, and who has done all the exciting things you’ve done, has got to have a lot of money to do that stuff.” Billy reasoned.

          “Well, Billy, some of those places I didn’t have to pay for. The Marine Corps sent me to the Pacific, and paid all my bills while I was there. The folks I worked for afterwards did the same. All those years spent in the South American jungles were on someone else’s tab.” Bernard let it sink in before he continued, “But, to answer your question, yeah, I’ve made a lot of money—a couple of fortunes, in fact.”

         Billy paused for a moment, looked down at the ground, anticipating that he was being a little forward with his next question, but asked it anyway.

          “Well, if you’ve made all that money, then how come you live in this dinky little house?”

         Bernard smiled slightly and looked around at his surroundings before he answered. “Well, I suppose it is sort of dinky; isn’t it? But, to tell you the truth, it’s all I need. And as far as making all that money, well, I forgot to tell you I spent a lot of it too.”

          “That’s too bad.” Billy responded sympathetically.

          “Why do you say that?”

          “I guess if you’d have kept all that money, you could be in one of those far away places right now instead of here in Pottsburg, Mississippi.”

          “Yup, that’s right,” the old man responded. “But, what makes you think I want to be some place else? What makes you think I wouldn’t rather be here…in this dinky house…on this porch…talking to you?” Bernard’s countenance softened and he spoke with gentle assurance. “Billy, some things you just can’t buy with money. Oh, money’ll help you to spend some foolish time, but money alone will never buy you the things which are most important. You don’t have to travel far to find those things. You may even often overlook them while you hunt for more exciting stuff in those far away places. But the really important stuff is all around you, just a hand’s reach away—even right here in Pottsburg, Mississippi. Believe, me; I know.”

         Billy stared at the old man for a moment, imagining all the wondrous things he had done in his life, just to end up here in this little town, sitting on a rickety old porch. He knew he’d just received some valuable information. He’d just have to let it soak in. For sure, he knew, he’d never forget Mr. Bowtell and all his fantastic stories and sage wisdom. Right now, however, he had a paper route to finish.

          “Well, I guess I need to get busy with this route or I’ll be late for school.”

         Bernard nodded affirmatively, “Yeah, I guess you had.”

         Billy walked to his bike, mounted it and turned one last time to Bernard, “See ya tomorrow!”

         Bernard just smiled and waved. He watched the twelve-year-old pedal up the street, occasionally tossing a paper strategically into the yards. Bernard raised his cup to his lips and drained the last remnant of coffee. He suppressed an urge to cough. The fits were coming more often now; just as the doc said they would. With a grunt he pushed himself from the rocker and walked into the house for a refill.

         Bernard stopped at the old roll-top desk and opened the little file box sitting to the side. He picked up the papers which would dispense and settle his last affairs. They were only copies; the originals were filed away in the offices of Burton, Jackson, Stone and Taylor, Attorneys at Law. On one of the papers he studied Billy’s name. He smiled at himself and affirmed that he had done the right thing. This dinky house and a trust fund worth one million dollars were allocated to his twelve-year-old paper boy. Billy would never know, until Bernard’s dying day, he didn’t spend it all…not nearly that much of it, in fact.

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