THE FOURTH OF JULY was approaching and it was raining. It was raining buckets. The concrete floors of our parents’ basements were
saturated. This happened whenever it rained for more than a few consecutive hours. It poured for the last three days and nights, and my
parents spent several hours mopping up the rain-soaked basement floor.
Rain in and of itself was not necessarily bad; however, rain on the fourth of July was unthinkable. It was almost as bad as the dreaded
green Christmas. The rain didn’t bode well for the upcoming fireworks display.
Mike and I sat on my front porch, prepping our sleeping bags, unpacking bags of snacks, and preparing for the night’s sleepover. There was
no upside about the weather except that the night crawlers were out and about. Night crawlers were the perfect bait for catching fish, but
neither Mike nor I did much casting. We’d made a few bucks in the past catching night crawlers and selling them to the fisherman who
frequented nearby Indian Lake, but neither of us felt like schlepping about for worms. Besides, we were already employed by the Grit
organization of fine newspaper sellers.
“It’s gonna rain on the fourth of July,” Mike said.
“Never mind that,” I added, “we got more immediate problems.”
“Yeah, we probably should’a delivered them papers earlier in the week.”
“I told’ja that we should’a delivered ‘em on Monday.”
“Monday we wuz readin’ comics.”
“Or Tuesday.”
“Tuesday we wuz watchin’ movies. Wednesday wuz the Monopoly marathon an’ it’s been rainin’ ever since. I ain’t never seen rain this heavy for this long.”
The rain didn’t stop the mail delivery, and a second box of Grits arrived in the mail mid-week. We sat and stared at our merchandise, knowing that somehow we had to unload
two-hundred newspapers, half of which contained last week’s news.
“We gotta get out there tomorrow an’ sell some papers,” I insisted.
“We’ll see. Maybe—if it’s stopped raining.”
“Rain or no rain, we gotta.”
Mike continued to argue that we should wait for the rain to stop, but by mid morning on the next day it hadn’t stopped. If anything, its intensity increased and was accompanied
by strong, unseasonably cold winds. The rain pelted the roof and windows of our house with the ferocity of a horde of hungry zombies desperate for the taste of human
flesh. But we procrastinated long enough.
“Let’s go make some money,” I said, arriving at Mike’s door at 10:00 a.m., umbrella and papers in hand.
As we’d previously done, Mike and I decided it best to walk to the farthest point in our route and then sell as we headed back home. The official Grit newspaper bag couldn’t
accommodate two-hundred information-filled newspapers, so we split the load and each carried half. I carried my one-hundred in a Hefty bag I’d cleverly altered into a satchel.
“Nice sack,” Mike said. “Ya look like a reject from the Newsboy Legion. Sure that garbage bag is gonna hold all them papers?”
“Don’t worry; it’ll get the job done.”
“I’m just askin’ is all.”
The trek out past Hazuza’s was daunting. We carried the newspaper bags close to our bodies to keep the newsprint dry. At the same time, we struggled to maintain control of
our oversized umbrellas, which the wind wanted desperately to claim as its own. With each step, our journey became more exhausting, as if the elements of nature and the
weight of the papers were working in tandem to inhibit our best efforts.
“Cripes,” Mike said, “you’re soaked.”
“So are you. But it’s all downhill from here.”
“How ya figure that?”
“We look like a couple’a dogs that’ve been left out in the rain. Every adult in town is gonna take pity on us an’ buy a paper.”
“Sure hope yer right,” Mike said, and stuck the brass knocker against the wooden door of 877 Hillside Road.
“Easy money,” I whispered, as Mrs. Anderson slowly unlatched the door.
Negotiations were brief and went exactly as planned.
“Of course I’ll buy a paper from each of you,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling and opening her handbag.
“Ya heard the lady. Make with the news,” Mike insisted as I opened the makeshift flap of the Hefty sack carryall.
“One paper, comin’ up,” I said, and reached into the sack to wrench loose a paper.
“Whassa matter?” Mike asked.
“Um, slight problem.”
There were no papers. There was only one paper. The rain—the awful, indifferent rain—had infiltrated, permeated, and saturated the one-hundred newspapers in my bag.
The unforgiving storm met the newsprint and the two merged into a single, terrifying mass that was not quite liquid and not quite paper. Mike’s smooth salesman exterior
vanished faster than a shooting star.
“I told’ja that bag was useless!” he said, scowling like an angry parent. “Just look at that mess.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Anderson said.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Mike said, regaining his composure, “my copies are okay.”
But they weren’t. The same storm whose watery agents ruined my newspapers wreaked equal havoc upon those in Mike’s care. I wanted to bellow a shows-what-you-know
laugh, but the harsh financial reality settled in too soon and too sharply, leaving me feeling breathless and nauseous.
We were obligated to either pay for or return our unsold copies to the Grit organization, but these copies—these two-hundred copies—were neither sellable nor returnable.
Perhaps, I reasoned, all was not lost, recalling how my mom once pressed the food section of the Sunday Tribune Review newspaper with a steam iron in order to restore a
few water-damaged ice cream coupons she wanted to clip and redeem. I momentarily entertained the idea of letting mom sort out the mess, but it was obvious that no amount
of ironing in the world could undo the damage the rain brought upon our newspaper business.
Mrs. Anderson’s face was flustered. If she had a solution to our dilemma we didn’t ask and she didn’t offer. Her discomfort became ever more evident and she ran her fingers
along the edge of the door, anxious to close it and continue along with the afternoon, rainy or otherwise. To her credit, Mrs. Anderson bowed out with aplomb.
“Here you go boys,” she said, handing each of us a dime. “Come back again when you have a new paper to sell.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” we said, though our gratitude was lifeless and, in the face of our unfathomable crisis, lacking sincerity.
We dragged ourselves off the Anderson property, neither of us bothering to open our umbrellas. I held the thin dime between the thumb and index finger of my right hand. Mike
pocketed his and murmured beneath his breath.
“Chump change,” he said.
There was no need to reply. I arced my hand back and threw the ten-cent piece onto the street. It was the only action I could think to take—a poetic gesture and a rejection of
the cold cruel world that elected to set fire to us as if we were the merest of kindling. The coin hit the asphalt and rebounded back into the air before returning to the earth
spinning to a halt on the rain-soaked roadway.
I dropped my makeshift bag onto the street and sat down alongside it. Mike stepped into the street and retrieved the coins.
“C’mon,” he said, extending a hand to help me up.
“Thanks.”
“Put this in your pocket,” he said. “Believe me, we’re gonna need all the dimes we can find.”
“This is…this is so bad.”
saturated. This happened whenever it rained for more than a few consecutive hours. It poured for the last three days and nights, and my
parents spent several hours mopping up the rain-soaked basement floor.
Rain in and of itself was not necessarily bad; however, rain on the fourth of July was unthinkable. It was almost as bad as the dreaded
green Christmas. The rain didn’t bode well for the upcoming fireworks display.
Mike and I sat on my front porch, prepping our sleeping bags, unpacking bags of snacks, and preparing for the night’s sleepover. There was
no upside about the weather except that the night crawlers were out and about. Night crawlers were the perfect bait for catching fish, but
neither Mike nor I did much casting. We’d made a few bucks in the past catching night crawlers and selling them to the fisherman who
frequented nearby Indian Lake, but neither of us felt like schlepping about for worms. Besides, we were already employed by the Grit
organization of fine newspaper sellers.
“It’s gonna rain on the fourth of July,” Mike said.
“Never mind that,” I added, “we got more immediate problems.”
“Yeah, we probably should’a delivered them papers earlier in the week.”
“I told’ja that we should’a delivered ‘em on Monday.”
“Monday we wuz readin’ comics.”
“Or Tuesday.”
“Tuesday we wuz watchin’ movies. Wednesday wuz the Monopoly marathon an’ it’s been rainin’ ever since. I ain’t never seen rain this heavy for this long.”
The rain didn’t stop the mail delivery, and a second box of Grits arrived in the mail mid-week. We sat and stared at our merchandise, knowing that somehow we had to unload
two-hundred newspapers, half of which contained last week’s news.
“We gotta get out there tomorrow an’ sell some papers,” I insisted.
“We’ll see. Maybe—if it’s stopped raining.”
“Rain or no rain, we gotta.”
Mike continued to argue that we should wait for the rain to stop, but by mid morning on the next day it hadn’t stopped. If anything, its intensity increased and was accompanied
by strong, unseasonably cold winds. The rain pelted the roof and windows of our house with the ferocity of a horde of hungry zombies desperate for the taste of human
flesh. But we procrastinated long enough.
“Let’s go make some money,” I said, arriving at Mike’s door at 10:00 a.m., umbrella and papers in hand.
As we’d previously done, Mike and I decided it best to walk to the farthest point in our route and then sell as we headed back home. The official Grit newspaper bag couldn’t
accommodate two-hundred information-filled newspapers, so we split the load and each carried half. I carried my one-hundred in a Hefty bag I’d cleverly altered into a satchel.
“Nice sack,” Mike said. “Ya look like a reject from the Newsboy Legion. Sure that garbage bag is gonna hold all them papers?”
“Don’t worry; it’ll get the job done.”
“I’m just askin’ is all.”
The trek out past Hazuza’s was daunting. We carried the newspaper bags close to our bodies to keep the newsprint dry. At the same time, we struggled to maintain control of
our oversized umbrellas, which the wind wanted desperately to claim as its own. With each step, our journey became more exhausting, as if the elements of nature and the
weight of the papers were working in tandem to inhibit our best efforts.
“Cripes,” Mike said, “you’re soaked.”
“So are you. But it’s all downhill from here.”
“How ya figure that?”
“We look like a couple’a dogs that’ve been left out in the rain. Every adult in town is gonna take pity on us an’ buy a paper.”
“Sure hope yer right,” Mike said, and stuck the brass knocker against the wooden door of 877 Hillside Road.
“Easy money,” I whispered, as Mrs. Anderson slowly unlatched the door.
Negotiations were brief and went exactly as planned.
“Of course I’ll buy a paper from each of you,” Mrs. Anderson said, smiling and opening her handbag.
“Ya heard the lady. Make with the news,” Mike insisted as I opened the makeshift flap of the Hefty sack carryall.
“One paper, comin’ up,” I said, and reached into the sack to wrench loose a paper.
“Whassa matter?” Mike asked.
“Um, slight problem.”
There were no papers. There was only one paper. The rain—the awful, indifferent rain—had infiltrated, permeated, and saturated the one-hundred newspapers in my bag.
The unforgiving storm met the newsprint and the two merged into a single, terrifying mass that was not quite liquid and not quite paper. Mike’s smooth salesman exterior
vanished faster than a shooting star.
“I told’ja that bag was useless!” he said, scowling like an angry parent. “Just look at that mess.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Anderson said.
“Don’t worry, ma’am,” Mike said, regaining his composure, “my copies are okay.”
But they weren’t. The same storm whose watery agents ruined my newspapers wreaked equal havoc upon those in Mike’s care. I wanted to bellow a shows-what-you-know
laugh, but the harsh financial reality settled in too soon and too sharply, leaving me feeling breathless and nauseous.
We were obligated to either pay for or return our unsold copies to the Grit organization, but these copies—these two-hundred copies—were neither sellable nor returnable.
Perhaps, I reasoned, all was not lost, recalling how my mom once pressed the food section of the Sunday Tribune Review newspaper with a steam iron in order to restore a
few water-damaged ice cream coupons she wanted to clip and redeem. I momentarily entertained the idea of letting mom sort out the mess, but it was obvious that no amount
of ironing in the world could undo the damage the rain brought upon our newspaper business.
Mrs. Anderson’s face was flustered. If she had a solution to our dilemma we didn’t ask and she didn’t offer. Her discomfort became ever more evident and she ran her fingers
along the edge of the door, anxious to close it and continue along with the afternoon, rainy or otherwise. To her credit, Mrs. Anderson bowed out with aplomb.
“Here you go boys,” she said, handing each of us a dime. “Come back again when you have a new paper to sell.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Anderson,” we said, though our gratitude was lifeless and, in the face of our unfathomable crisis, lacking sincerity.
We dragged ourselves off the Anderson property, neither of us bothering to open our umbrellas. I held the thin dime between the thumb and index finger of my right hand. Mike
pocketed his and murmured beneath his breath.
“Chump change,” he said.
There was no need to reply. I arced my hand back and threw the ten-cent piece onto the street. It was the only action I could think to take—a poetic gesture and a rejection of
the cold cruel world that elected to set fire to us as if we were the merest of kindling. The coin hit the asphalt and rebounded back into the air before returning to the earth
spinning to a halt on the rain-soaked roadway.
I dropped my makeshift bag onto the street and sat down alongside it. Mike stepped into the street and retrieved the coins.
“C’mon,” he said, extending a hand to help me up.
“Thanks.”
“Put this in your pocket,” he said. “Believe me, we’re gonna need all the dimes we can find.”
“This is…this is so bad.”
Copyright © 2001-2008 David Yurkovich and Dianne Pearce. Unauthorized reproduction is prohibited.
E x c e r p t f r o m B A N A N A S E A T S U M M E R b y D a v i d Y u r k o v i c h
