Paperboy (11 page)

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
W
s 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 glass 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 glass 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 assure 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 glass-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 pass 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 compass 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.

Existentialism simply means a person exists as a being because that person alone gives meaning to his or her own life.

I had trouble getting my brain to hold on to that so Mr. Spiro kept on going for me.

A pity that Heidegger fell in with the Nazis. Remember, my young Messenger, that intelligence doesn’t always equate to moral actions.

When most grown-ups talked about things you didn’t know anything about it was like they were trying to let you know that they were smarter than you. But when Mr. Spiro told me about something new all I felt was that I just wanted to know more.

Heidegger was a top crate for many years but he has slipped somewhat. He is still a valuable companion if you can winnow the immoral chafe.

Mr. Spiro was trying to let me in on one of his secrets and I had a hunch what he might be talking about.

You s-s-s-s-move these s-s-s-s-crates around a lot.

Right you are, Messenger. Knowledge is not static. It has an ebb and flow much like the tides.

Are all these s-s-s-s-books about s-s-s-s-philosophy stuff?

Certainly not. Too much theory makes for a secondary existence. One should practice as well as preach.

Mr. Spiro got up from his chair and walked around the room and put his hand on different crates.

English fiction. Russian fiction. The Medievals. Shakespeare. Biographies. Politics. Science, both modern and classical. Geology. I find myself fascinated by the study of landmasses. No doubt because of so much time spent bobbing up and down at sea.

I got up and walked around the room from crate to crate. The books were old and worn and most had pieces of paper sticking out the top.

s-s-s-s-Do you have s-s-s-s-p …?

Poetry
was a word I always had trouble saying but I was going to blast it out of my mouth if that was what it took.

Do you have S-S-S-S-POETRY BOOKS?

I had to shout to make the words come out. Yelling was like whispering. They both made words more of a sure thing. I never yelled words in school but I sometimes did it around grown-ups if I knew they wouldn’t think I was off my rocker.

You have so quickly discovered one of my many deficiencies. I
once considered poetry a form of indulgent shorthand but I have worked to overcome my bias.

I wrote a s-s-s-s-p— I wrote one.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing coming out of my mouth. I had never told anyone that I had written a poem. Not even Mam or Rat. I had hidden the poem away in an encyclopedia volume after I had typed it.

Perhaps you will help me with my bias. Shall we hear your poem?

I knew I couldn’t ask Mr. Spiro if I could write it for him. He wouldn’t let me get away with that. I sat down in the chair thinking about the poem smashed flat on paper in the
P
volume of the encyclopedia at home. I could say the poem in my head but there was no use trying to say it out loud.

s-s-s-s-Can’t say the words.

Shall we try reciting in unison?

It was worth a shot. I didn’t stutter when my class recited the Pledge of Allegiance or when I said the twenty-third psalm with Mam.

I’ll retrieve some paper. You transcribe your poem for me and we will recite together.

s-s-s-s-Do you have a s-s-s-s-typewriter?

Even better, Messenger. You are the modern communicator.

Mr. Spiro went into another room and came back with a gray case. He opened the snaps on each side and pulled out a typewriter. It was smaller than the one in my room. He put it on a table and brought the table over to where I was sitting. He gave me a clean sheet of white paper and I started typing. The typewriter keys didn’t feel like
my keys at home but the words started coming out on the paper just the same even though my hands were shaking a little.