He had held many jobs, not the least of which he liked to call “the newspaper business.” He put that on his resume with pride. He had worked for the little paper for many years helping his dad to get it going.
It was supposed to be an alternative paper with local features that would compete in contrast to the local rag which was filled with insipid stories about high school sports and local restaurant reviews. The reviews were always glowing since the paper relied on ad revenues to support itself.
Joe started out as a delivery boy and took Kristie along to toss the papers while he slowly drove through all the side streets. This job had to be the worst of the worst. After waking up before the crack of dawn to fold and band the individual papers, Kristie’s hands were completely black from the ink stains. No matter how many times she washed, it wouldn’t come off.
It was cold and rainy, and her right hand was just about frozen. Her fingertips had begun to look “old” from the hours of constant wetness from the rain. The ink stains were made worse by the addition of water to the mix. She came up with a partial solution.
She wore gloves and a long sleeved shirt buttoned at the wrist and then wrapped with a plastic bag. This did the trick. She stayed warmer and mostly dry, but she looked like a dork. Still, she really got the hang of throwing a paper.
She could estimate the trajectory of the throw by the speed of the car and the curve of the road. She got to where she could get it on the front walk at least, and quite a few porches too. Of course there were a few misses too.
She was sorry about that. Getting a newspaper out of a blooming hydrangea could be a challenge for that old lady on the corner. Joe stopped the car and made her go out in the pouring rain to fetch it for the old gal.
Back at the office, Joe’s dad got the idea of putting Kristie on the call board. She became one of those people everyone hates who calls at the dinner hour to try to hook them into a subscription.
If she thought throwing papers was a sucky job, this subscription call center was even worse. The whole day consisted of people telling you, “No, No, No, No thank you, No!” And then there were the insulting hang ups. “Fuck you! Don’t call again!” Slam!
At least she got to dress up for this job, and it was inside where the weather could be controlled with either heat or air conditioning. She sat in her cubicle day after day. “They don’t pay people enough for what they have to put up with,” she thought. Actually, they didn’t pay you “Jack” unless you made a sale.
It was very depressing, “No, No, No, SLAM!”
“Thank you very much for your consideration…”
“No, No, No, SLAM!”
“Thank you very much for your consideration…”
Oh, what the hell, she was just like that old song,”Just a Kid Named Joe… he sells the daily paper, and I buy all my papers from that kid named, Joe…”
(First published 8/20/12)
