The Route

Brittany and Clay are typical struggling, financially challenged students. When we visited them last week our goal was to hold Maeli and leave imprints of grandparent lips all over her head. However, every morning the bleeping of the alarm sounded like a truck backing up at a construction site. At 4 am I felt like that truck had backed up over me. A light came on down the hall and my eye lids began to flicker as the pupils adjusted to the brightness.

Like a bear waking up after hibernation I stretched and growled as I rolled off the air mattress Jan and I had been sleeping on. In doing so I upset the balance of air in the cosmic mattress universe causing Jan to suddenly sink lower into the mattress. The sudden decompression beneath caused her to let out a gasp.

Patting the floor to find my jeans and a shirt I drearily slipped into them only to discover my shirt was inside out and my feet had led my legs into the same pant hole. I thought the pants were awfully tight as I hopped around like a drunken Easter bunny with an arthritic knee joint.

After correcting the wardrobe malfunctions a surprised Brittany stumbling out of the bathroom asked what I was doing. I proudly announced that I was going to help them on the paper route they had started several weeks ago. She yawned and told me I was nuts. She also pointed out my shoes were on the wrong feet.

As Clay, Brittany and I approached the Jeep, Brittany made a confession. “I have to warn you, Dad, I drive fast and crazy doing this paper route.” I told her I wasn’t worried. After all I had ridden with her mother for many years.(1)

Brittany took her place behind the wheel while I was assigned the front passenger seat. Clay took the backseat I learned so he could sleep while we drove to the newspaper pick up and folding warehouse several miles away.

As we entered the warehouse I noticed several of the other carriers still wore their pajama bottoms and slippers. (No, they weren’t topless. They also had a sweatshirt or jacket on. I didn’t want you to think this was a risqué sort of a newspaper place.). I was waiting to see if any came in wearing a robe and eye mask. (2)
I don’t think I would trust a paper carrier driving around in an eye mask. It would be sort of like placing a blindfold on a sharpshooter aiming his rifle at his assistant with a red balloon clenched tightly between her front teeth. But in this case the shooter would be a newspaper flinger trying to hit the target of the porch, roof, car or cat.

Since the weather was gamey all the papers were bagged. I took a stack and began to zip through them, folding, bagging and stacking them into a cart. I still had the newspaper tri-fold touch. Then Brittany pointed out I had just folded the newspapers of the guy next to us. I’m sure he was appreciative when he came in and saw his papers neatly bagged and stacked. I love to give unexpected service.

Brittany and Clay have over 200 papers to deliver and the route is spread throughout Orem. I soon learned what Brittany meant by driving fast and crazy. Blue bagged newspapers filled the back of the Jeep and cascaded into the back seat with every sharp turn. Clay rode shotgun, literally. With the back left window down as they approached a house he would lean as far out as he could then hurl the paper Frisbee style toward the desired target.

Often this was the driveway but some customers preferred their papers porched. One would think he’d get out of the car to get a better shot, but no, Clay would extend his body even further out the window then chuck the paper toward the porch. He had varied results. Often he would have to leave the car to correct his errant throw.
Now, for the driver, Brittany. She would hurtle through the dark neighborhoods NASCAR style, barely slowing down for Clay to launch the newspapers. I kept Brittany alert with my snappy conversation. Here’s a sampling of our Father-Daughter dialogue as I sort of remember:

Brittany: “I told you this was fast and crazy.”
Dad: “You need to slow down when you take those corners. You’re going to flip this thing over when you’re only on two wheels.”
Brittany: “I’m not going that fast.”
Dad: “Just because its 4 am doesn’t mean you can buzz through stop signs!”
Brittany: “You’re’ sounding like when I had my permit and you were teaching me how to drive.”
Dad: “I never taught you to drive like this!”
Brittany: “We need to go fast so we can get done in time.”
Dad: “You need to be safer. I doubt you’re covered by insurance because you’re using your vehicle for business.”
Brittany: “We’re covered. Now hold on…”
Dad: “Yikes, there’s no need to make those joggers scatter like pins in a bowling alley!”
Brittany: “I didn’t hit anyone…”
Dad: “Maybe not, but that old lady walking her dog is lying on the sidewalk clutching her chest… I think she had a heart attack.”
Brittany: “That wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it if her dog pulled her into my path.”
Dad: “Yeah, path of destruction. Who’s that person curled up in pain in the middle of the street behind us?”
Brittany: “Oh great, Clay’s fallen out the window again.”
Dad: “Don’t back up so fast!”
Brittany: “Don’t worry he’ll roll out of the way.”
Dad: “I’m feeling car sick.”
Brittany: “Here, use this blue bag if you’re going to throw up.”
Dad: “But there’s a paper in there.”
Brittany: “That’s OK. I know just the person to give that paper to.”

Finally arriving back to their apartment I staggered out of the Jeep like a sailor on a wobbling ship. Brittany thanked me for helping out.
As we entered the apartment Jan was still stirring on the mattress. “Are you done already?”
“Oh yeah, I’m done.”

(1) Marriage saving disclaimer: Jan, you are actually a very safe driver. Now please, let me back in the house.
(2) See prior blog entry titled “Sleep Deprivation.”