bundle

Sometime in the late nineties, my parents both began working as newspaper delivery workers. It was the time before the internet was common, and the most popular way to read the news, want ads, and articles on fashion and books was through newspapers and magazines. I'm not sure who found the job, but I have a good feeling it was my mother. She was usually the one to find jobs and, like in this case, my father was the one who helped her with the job, but worked much less than she did.

Not being able to afford babysitting, my mother would wake my older brother and I up early before dawn. I don't remember the warmer months when she did this because the colder months are much more visible in my mind. I remember my arms and legs being stuffed in pink puffy snowsuits and a fleece hat pulled over my ears and forehead. I don't know if I wore boots but eventually I had to when I could walk. Then I would be strapped into a child's car seat facing forward. My brother didn't need a car seat as he was older by eleven months, and I envied him.

My mother would place us in the car and then I would fall asleep. When I woke up, we would be at the huge warehouse, the outside parking lot lit brightly by spotlights. My brother and I sat in the car while my mother got the bundles of newspapers. She would stack them in the front seat, on the floor of the front seat, and on the floors behind the back seat. The car would fill with the smell of black ink and oily paper. Then came the plastic bags, which, depending on the newspaper brand, season, or year, would be clear, white, blue, or green. I liked the clear ones because I could still read the headlines, and I had thought it was important for the customers to know what they were getting before they pulled it out of the bag.

My mother would back the car up to a different spot in the parking lot, allowing other delivery workers to fill up their own cars. Then my mother would sit in the driver's seat and prepare the deliveries.

Each bundle of newspapers held about twenty or so copies. The bundles were held together by thick, yellow, plastic cords and the ends of the cords were super-glued together. My mother would use scissors to cut the cords, and if she didn't use scissors, she would use her manicured fingernails to snip the ends apart. When I was old enough to help her, I learned that the best way to do this was to find the long end of the cords, see the one that was mostly loose, and grab it between my thumb and index finger. Then I'd pull hard and with purpose, or else the cord would partially come off and then I'd be a bitch to disconnect the cords, like when you try to open a wrapper at pre-cut section but it doesn't open correctly, and you have to use scissors anyways and you’ve ruined the whole process.

Once the bundle was opened, and the newspapers hopefully didn't spill all over the place (the key was to open the bundle with the crease of the newspapers facing her lap), then you'd grab one of the copies, fold it up either tri-fold like a letter or roll it like my brother did, and slip it into the first plastic newspaper bag.

Now, the fastest way to do this was to place the cardboard holder of the newspaper bags over the rearview mirror. Then you could fold and slip, then pull the filled plastic bag right off the cardboard holder. Then, tuck the opening edge of the plastic bag into the middle of the newspaper, and drop it on the floor. When it rained, my mother told us to double-bag the newspapers, where the opening of the first plastic bag was at the bottom of the second bag. Customers would complain if their newspapers were wet, and my mother needed the job. We needed her to keep the job. Her money paid for our Happy Meal toys and, inevitably, our breakfast.

Once enough newspapers were bagged, my mother would set off to the first neighborhood or apartment complex. I preferred the house deliveries because I would watch my mother drive around the quiet suburban streets with both front windows down, and she would pick up a prepared newspaper and fling it like an athlete into the driveway of a house. She knew exactly how to bend her wrist and elbow, flick her hand, and how fast and how hard to toss that newspaper. It rarely hit the window frame of the car, and it always landed where she wanted it, either close to the two-car garage doors. If she was feeling really ambitious, she would get it on the stoop of the front door. If, for some reason, her game was off and it landed on the grass or the street's curb, she would ask my older brother to hop out of the car, grab the newspaper, and place it on the driveway. She never asked me, and I would kick at the pile of paper-filled plastic resting under my tiny feet. The cold wind that blew through her window would hit my tears, and I would say it wasn't fair.

The time would come when the piles on the car floors would diminish, and my mother would stop somewhere and begin to bag more newspapers. When I was old enough, I would tie a collection of newspaper bags to the metal spokes of the headrest on the driver's seat, and make sure the ties were secure so when I slid a newspaper into the bag, the holder wouldn't slip off and fall, or worse, break. If the cardboard holder broke, the whole experience was ruined.

My brother and I would race to see who could prepare the most newspapers. I would huff and puff, my small fingers trying to open up stubborn plastic bags, their openings not opening though I willed them to with my shrieks. My brother would laugh, his pile of bags already reached his knees. My mother would shout at me to stop crying, and sometimes I listened. Sometimes my mother said we'd go to McDonald's early if I would just be quiet. I'd listen for sure then. Strangely, I don't remember what I'd get for breakfast at "Mickey D's." I love food, but all I can think of is the styrofoam box of two small pancakes, two sausage links, and a milk. I don't even remember the toys I got, but I always got the girl toys while my brother got the boy toys. I didn't complain until the nineties were over, and by that time I stopped getting Happy Meals. 

I don't remember the last time I went to deliver newspapers with my mother, or when I first started going to groceries stores to help my mother fill magazine stands. The grace period where my younger brother, the middle child, was born and my mother was the happiest. She and my father owned and ran their own newspaper, where they wrote about homeschooling their children and only feeding us organic food and using cloth diapers. Then 2008 happened, and the newspaper went bankrupt, which meant my parents went bankrupt, and had to work more at delivering paper products instead of creating them. It sucked, though I didn't know it then. It's the difference between working at a bookstore and having your book sold at a bookstore. There's a big difference, even if there's three copies of your book on a shelf in the far back corner and no one picks it up to purchase. It's still on a shelf, even if it's not on display.

Now, when I drive to my own job at two or three or four in the morning, and I stop at a red light, I expect to see my mother in the car next to me. I expect to see plastic bags filling the back seat, pressing against the windows. I expect to see headlines of newspapers that are going out of business because everything is electronic, which is good because that means it's sustainable and that's exactly why my job exists. 

At the end of the day, if I can't wait to eat when I get home, I'll stop by McDonalds and grab a Diet Coke and some fries. Maybe chicken nuggets. And I'll see that the toys in Happy Meals aren't separated into "boy toys" or "girl toys." It shouldn't matter to me as I'll never buy a Happy Meal, but I'm happy for the siblings that won't fight over getting different toys, though they'll probably still fight over other stupid shit. 

I'll toss the paper takeout bag onto the passenger side floor, where other trash collects and, I'll be honest, I have the time to clear out but I'm just too tired to do so when I get home. The smell of yellowing paper and oily black ink mixes with greasy wrappers that held the fast food, and I feel all is right in the world and all is wrong in the world. Everything is different and nothing has changed. I get home and I wrap myself into blankets, holding in the warmth. I keep one foot out, from the ankle down, so I can feel the cold breeze from my fan on my skin.

Gabrielle Rupert is from Framingham, MA, and has a B.S. in Biology and an M.S. in Marine Biology. She is currently working as a fisheries observer in the Northeast Atlantic Ocean, fulfilling her dreams of making the world more sustainable. While she's not working on fishing boats, she writes short stories and novels. Her work has been published in Pif Magazine, Ripples in Space, Transfer Magazine, In Parentheses, the Coffin Bell Journal, and Forge & Flint.