It's 3 am....

...Do you know where your mother is?

So, before all the freaking out on Wall Street, before all the hoopla about bad mortgages, I decided to take on a paper route in order to pay off some of our bills. I do this every once in a while. I know...there are so many better paying, less tiring jobs that I could do part-time and still be a full-time mom. I can't explain why I choose this type of torture. But every time the money issue pops up, I automatically think, "Paper route."

Perhaps it's because I don't have to worry about competition, politics, or even what I wear. You just go a do and don't even have to talk to anybody.

The first couple of days are horrible. It takes a while to get used to the route and for your circadian rhythms to adjust. My mantra the first week was (brace yourselves):

Crap!
with a capital C
and that rhymes with P
and that stands for poop.

nice, huh?

I seriously think all those crooked brokers should do a paper route as punishment. Not only is it hard, menial labor, they would be forced to see how furious everyone is with them, right there in the headlines, every morning.

Getting up at an ungodly hour isn't all bad, though.
I'm forced to go to bed earlier. I actually net about the same amount of sleep as before.
It gives me time to think about a lot of things. Also, I get to listen to BBC and NPR, for a couple of hours, and I'm one of the first ones to read the headlines-- I am feeling so informed!
I'm gathering material for a book. There are so many quirky people who do paper routes. I think you have to be. I'm including myself. Also, I sometimes see some pretty interesting things on the route that early in the morning. I like to just let my imagination go wild.

Picture this:

A homely, middle-aged, never-did-much-with-his-life guy named Jim, has been doing a paper route for 15 years. In the afternoon he is a janitor at a local high school. In the evening he gorges himself with Cap'n Crunch and watches the news alone. One day, he pulls up to one of the more affluent homes, the home of a Mr. Caldwell, and he mentally notes that it his 5784th delivery to this man, his most consistent customer. Although he has never met him, Jim likes Mr. Caldwell. Mr. Caldwell tips well and leaves a good fruit cake for him at Christmas. This morning, as he is near the circular driveway, he hears gun shots and then sees a sliver car race away from the driveway on the side of the house. He doesn't own a cell phone and despite is instinct to turn around a drive away very fast, he doesn't. Tentatively, he pulls up to the circular drive way. His head lights fall upon a man lying face down at the bottom of the steps. He sits in his car for a few minutes debating what he should do. Then he sees the man lift his right hand ever so slightly. "He's alive!" Jim assesses, and carefully opens the door.

Jim takes a few steps closer to the unfortunate man. He has never been an actually witness to a crime. Information starts to trickle into his brain from years of watching the news. Phrases like, "Crime scene," "likely suspect," "finger prints," and "life sentence." Jim's instinct to run kicks in again and he turns back to his car.

"It's none of my business," he rationalizes. " 'sides, I couldn't help him anyhow." He thinks about going straight to the police station, but then worries about the questions he'll be asked. Instead he decides the best thing to do would be to phone the police, anonymously as soon as he gets home.

He takes a step and then his ears burn with a very feeble, muffled cry for help.

"Please...."

Jim turns around and looks at the man, still lying face down. He can't leave him now. He walks over, bends down, and gently turns the man on his side. Jim immediately regrets this, as now his hands and jacket are stained with blood. He wonders if this is Mr. Caldwell and assumes it is.

"Please..." he hears again, although more distinctly now.

Jim, figuring his jacket is already stained, gently puts his left arm under the man's head.

'Take.....this...." the man attempts to say.

Jim looks down at the man's right hand, clenched in a fist. He gently opens it.

Nothing.

"The....ring..."

Jim hesitates. Wouldn't this be very incriminating? Besides, it is an old, odd looking ring. A wide band of gold with one plain, brown pebble in the center of the band.

"Please....don't tell....anyone."

With that, the man's head dropped back on Jim's arm and his arms went limp. Jim sighed and gently laid the man's head back down on the ground.

He sat still for a long while, pondering. Should he call the police? The man asked him not to tell anyone. Should he just leave and pretend he didn't see anything? But he had, there was a silver car. Finally, he lifts the right hand of the unfortunate man and quickly slips off the ring from, his middle finger. His reasoning is this: Perhaps the poor man's ghost was waiting for him to take it and wouldn't be at peace until he did. No matter how timid he was, he could not refuse this dying man's last wish.

He didn't exactly feel like a stranger. After all, he had delivered the news paper to him for the last 15 years. He put the ring in his pants pocket, not wanting to even look at it.

Thinking about the silver car, and it's murderous occupants, Jim ran back to his old Mercury Mystique. Slowly he backed out of the driveway and carefully drove the rest of the way home. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over by the cops for speeding. He decided he wouldn't tell anyone. Shaking, he entered his sparsely furnished apartment, leaving 150 undelivered papers in his car.


Aaannnd....if only I could just sit and write all day. But, hark, the children, dishes, laundry, math facts, history, and all that calleth. Perhaps I'll try and finish one of these books someday. Then maybe I could give up the paper route.