"Carole"......"Carole"......if you want to help me you have to get up.
It was my brother Mike's voice. Mike was two years older than me. He was the youngest boy on my step-mother's side. I don't like that word, step, it's stupid. He was my brother and that was it.
"What time is it?" I answered.
"4:00 in the morning"
Oh. Ok, give me a second.
Mike had inherited Ricky's paper route and I had agreed to help him deliver the morning Sentinel in exchange for part of his tips that week. In those days there were two papers. The Sentinel and the Journal. Both could be delivered by the same kid or it could be split into separate routes. Mike was a dual route kid.
Paper routes in those days were nothing like they are today. Kids, as young as 12 could earn a nice bit of pocket change by pedaling their bike, or as was our case, dragging a wagon to the paper depot each morning and right after school to gather papers for delivery.
The whole process was manual. Papers were delivered in stacks. You would go and count out the number of main sections and insert the others inside of it. Once you had enough for the customers on your route you'd check out with the head person and head to the streets of Cudahy. All before the sun even thought of coming up.
Not only that, but paperboys delivered the paper - wait for it - TO YOUR DOOR! I know - what service, hey?
The paper paid a stipend based on the size of your route. But you could also earn tips, you needed to collect from the customers weekly and turn that money in to the foreman at the depot. Anything that was over the amount due was yours to keep.
Everything was done by hand, and if you ask me, the paperboy was the heart of the newspaper. Forget about the digital world ruining the newspaper industry, for me, it was removing the kids from paper routes that had me lose interest in subscribing.
Our current paper delivery person never gets out of the car and if the paper is delivered beyond the approach of the driveway then you are lucky. So many times I found our paper had blown down the street.
But today I had told Mike I would help out. I needed to earn a little money - I had my eye on a new opportunity for cash flow and I needed startup funds.
I dragged myself out of bed and dressed. It was fall and the weather was getting colder in the morning. I met Mike downstairs and we got the wagon ready to haul the papers. Ricky had built wooden walls that would allow the wagon to hold more than the three inch high metal walls, and after years of service were still useable. When we got to the depot I waited outside while Mike got his papers set and checked out.
He carried a set of cards held together with a ring. These were his subscribers and I checked off delivery addresses and pulled the wagon while Mike ran up and down sidewalks, placing the paper between the front doors.
It was a tiring start to the day, but working together made it go fast. When we were finished Mike treated me to donuts and milk from the Layton Liquor store our Aunt and Uncle owned. On Sundays they would have hot ham, rolls and beans as well.
I repeated this every day for a week. Helping Mike out. Then on collection day I went along to keep him company and smile at customers in hopes for bigger tips.
"Here you go, as promised", Mike said as he handed me the two dollars we had agreed on.
I took the cash and headed to the neighborhood pet store. Looking back all I can say is that the store was quite different than what we have today. It was on the first floor of a two story building. The living quarters were upstairs. Now that I think of it, it was probably a renovated duplex much like our home on Cudahy Avenue.
The store had small cages of various pets. I walked past the fish tanks, turtles, hamsters and stopped in front of a small aquarium filled with mice. The price - $.25 each. I asked for four. I used the other dollar for food.
The store owner, didn't blink an eye, packed them up in a box and handed them, along with the food, to me.
I took my new pets home and put them in an old metal bread box that I had found in the basement. I had it all ready to go with shredded newspaper and water dish. I added the food and hid them under the stairs. I knew my mom would freak if she knew they were there. I couldn't keep them in my room either.
Now parts of what I am about to tell you will seem unbelievable. But I swear that all of the memories are true and if any of my friends from Lincoln School in Cudahy can back me up, please respond!
The next day I went downstairs and took one of the mice, a white one with black spots, and put it in my lunch box. Taking it to school with me to keep in my desk.
OK - here comes the part you won't believe.
Our desks at the time were metal 'pan' style with a hinged lid. Many of my friends had done the same thing, purchased a mouse for 25 cents and had setup at school 'homes' for them in our desk. Oh, before you wonder, yes, our teacher knew about the mice and allowed it.
Some of the setups in the desks were quite elaborate. They had bedrooms, kitchens and play areas. We would carry the mice back and forth to school and take them outside to play with in the grass. Every now and then one would escape by burrowing deep into the thick lawn. But then you would just go get another one.
That's when the light bulb had gone on above my head and why I had purchased four mice when two would have been plenty. One for me, and one for Mike.
I had hoped that the remaining mice at home could be sold for a profit to other kids who had lost their mouse in the lawn, or to replace one that died. I was thinking maybe 50 cents each. I really didn't think through the whole supply and demand thing. I mean, why would they pay twice as much for a mouse from me when they could go to the pet store and get their own?
So here I was, using what little money I earned from Mike to take care of my fifteen mice.
Wait. fifteen?
I know, I said I had purchased four, and even though I had lost one at school and gave one to Mike, somehow I now had fifteen. I was as surprised as you, I had no idea how that happened. Well, I had some idea, but they were so young to have kids. Obviously other mice in the area had heard about how well I took care of my pets and crawled into the breadbox to be a part of the clan.
Fifteen turned into twenty-five. My small bread box was getting crowded so I found a card board box in the garage and moved half into each box.
OK - have you guessed what the problem was with that last sentence? You guessed it. I didn't separate them by sex. So they kept multiplying. Oh, and of course the cardboard box wasn't the best idea. I didn't realize (or didn't think it through) that the mice would chew their way through the box. In fact, I didn't know they had escaped at all until I heard it.
The scream heard around the world.
My secret stash of mice had been discovered. Not by opening the now foul smelling bread box, but by having them running all over the basement.
My mom was not happy.
I spent a good part of the day catching as many of the mice as I could and placing them back into the metal breadbox (I had by this time figured out the problem with cardboard). I'm really not sure how many found a better life in freedom and I shudder to think of the ones that met the fate of the mouse trap, but I did sell enough of the mice back to the pet store.
I used the money to buy a hamster.
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