Paperboy: A Dylan Tomassi Novel

By Dan Romanello

EQUAL PARTS INSPIRATIONAL RAGS TO RICHES STORY AND

ENLIGHTENING NARRATIVE ON CONTEMPORARY SOCIETY

Raised by a single mother in affluent Fairfield County, Connecticut, Dylan Tomassi grew up poor. As a boy he is befrie

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sanitas Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798986315119

Book preview

Prologue

Dylan McDirt furiously pumped the pedals of his Peugeot ten-speed bicycle as he raced along Stillwater Drive. His eyes teared from the combination of a chilling autumn wind and the anger seething inside his body. It had happened again for the third time in the past two weeks. As he neared the end of his paper route delivering the afternoon edition of the Stamford Advocate , he discovered he was short three newspapers. By the time he got the replacement papers to his customers, it would be dark outside and well past the dinner hour. This was not good.

Dylan had been working the paper route for a little over two months. A neighborhood kid had retired at the end of the summer, following his middle school graduation, and bequeathed it to him. The boy had wanted to sell Dylan the route. The going rate at the time was two dollars per unit, and the boy had twenty-two customers. However, the boy’s father would have none of it. James Burns had a soft spot for Dylan. He admired the young boy’s chutzpah. The elder Burns had proudly stated as much while overseeing the transition of the route and secretly financing the sale to placate his son, Jimmy.

Privately, James Burns’s true motivation for the benevolent act had been his habit of sneaking lustful glances at Dylan’s mother, Cheryl McDirt. She was raising her son alone in a small house on Cold Springs Road in Stamford, Connecticut. The Burns family lived nearby on Windsor Street. It was the highlight of Mr. Burns’s day when he could steal a glimpse of Cheryl with her curly black hair, olive skin, and curvaceously taut body.

Cheryl McDirt was the only child of Anthony and Isabella Tomassi. The Tomassis still lived in Norwalk where Cheryl had grown up. Her father was tall and broad-shouldered with proportionately strong legs and a head of thick, white hair. He maintained defined musculature for a man in his early sixties, owing his physique to a good gene pool and a career as a self-employed mason. Anthony had begun plying his trade of laying bricks and concrete blocks not long after emigrating to the United States from Italy as a young teen and continued until his semi-retirement a year earlier. Anthony was known for his meticulous work, honesty, and easy-going personality. Accordingly, side jobs from word-of-mouth referrals had him out of the house most weekday mornings. Isabella, possessing classic dark, southern Italian features, was a homemaker who took exquisite care of her family. Among her fine qualities, she was an outstanding cook who specialized in cuisine from her native country.

Cheryl had graduated from Norwalk High School and received a degree in elementary education from Western Connecticut State College in Danbury. Her parents were proud of her for obtaining a college degree and hopeful she would escape the deteriorating conditions of their South Norwalk neighborhood and its loathsome characters. Unfortunately, things hadn’t all gone as planned. However, the Tomassis showered their daughter with love and support and doted over their only grandchild.

Cheryl, a devout Roman Catholic, taught fourth grade at St. Mary School and moonlighted on weekends as a waitress at the Rockrimmon Country Club. Money had been tight in the McDirt household since Cheryl’s husband and Dylan’s father, Colin, left home when Dylan was two.

Colin McDirt had been Cheryl’s classmate at Norwalk High School. The son of Irish immigrants, he had been a standout athlete. He’d achieved the rare distinction of being named to the Fairfield County All Region teams in football, basketball, and baseball in both his junior and senior years. He was handsome and charming and cut a dashing figure at six foot four. He was also gifted with tremendous speed and athleticism.

Colin went hard in everything he did. His highly aggressive style on the field and on the court earned him the moniker ‘McDirty.’ His high school career ended abruptly in the final game of his senior year after he initiated a bench clearing brawl during a baseball game against rival Brien McMahon High. Colin was ejected, suspended from school, and never graduated.

Colin began his post-high school career working the assembly line in a textile factory on the Norwalk waterfront. His shift ran from eight in the morning until four in the afternoon. He got a half hour for lunch and regularly spent it at Donovan’s Bar on Washington Street, a short walk from the factory. He also stopped by daily after work before heading home. On Fridays, Colin cashed his paycheck at Donavan’s, paid his tab, and brought home the difference.

In the summer of 1974, Cheryl had returned home to Norwalk after graduating from West Conn. One night she went out to Donavon’s with some girlfriends and ran into Colin. A brief romance ensued, and Cheryl found herself pregnant. Given her devout Catholic beliefs, there was only one option. Against her parents’ wishes, Cheryl and Colin were married in a quiet ceremony and settled in a small guest house on the Tomassi property.

Dylan Anthony McDirt was born the following year. Cheryl wanted to name the baby Anthony, but Colin would not hear of it. Shortly after Dylan’s second birthday, Colin left for work one morning and never returned home. Neither Cheryl nor Dylan had heard from him since.

When Dylan first obtained the paper route, he’d set out an aggressive expansion plan for his fledgling business. He’d gone to the library, obtained a Xerox copy of a map of the surrounding neighborhoods, and sectioned off an area bounded by Stillwater Road to the west, Bridge Street to the south, and Route 137 to the east. He’d then knocked on every door and offered a subscription to the Advocate.

Aside from the usual negative reception resulting from door-to-door solicitations, additional unforeseen consequences had arisen. First, many of the households already received the Advocate. A small number had called the newspaper to complain, and Dylan had received a reprimand from his new corporate partner. Second, word had reached his fellow carriers and a few of those young entrepreneurs had been even less enthused with Dylan’s practices. One competitor, an eleven-year-old named TJ Marin, had voiced his displeasure to Dylan, threatening that if he saw him around town, he could expect to receive a beating.

Dylan had repeated the same routine each day after school since he started the route. He went home each afternoon and changed out of his Catholic school uniform. At the appointed time, he rode his bike down to the end of Cold Springs Road to pick up the papers. He was required to pay the Advocate in advance and collect the subscription fees from his customers. The difference between the wholesale price and the retail subscription fee, plus tips, represented his profits.

The papers were delivered to the carriers in bundles of twenty-five. Because Dylan had only twenty-two customers, he’d received a single, partial bundle each day. Although he’d stopped his door-to-door sales campaign, unexpected fallout had continued. On occasion, toward the end of his route, Dylan discovered he did not have all twenty-two papers. This required him to ride home, call the newspaper circulation department, and wait for the extras to be delivered. Five of the six customers at the end of his route who had received the tardy papers had canceled their subscriptions. The one who’d remained loyal lived in the large gray house at the end of Travis Avenue.

Frustrated with the experience, Dylan had taken up the issue with the Advocate. A cursory investigation concluded that all twenty-two papers were dropped at the end of the road each day. Beyond that point, it was Dylan’s responsibility. Consequently, each time the shortage occurred, he was billed for the original papers plus the replacements. Unfortunately, the problem persisted sporadically.

It became a simple matter of economics. Increased business expenses were cutting into his profits. The Advocate charged each carrier eighty-five cents for a week’s worth of papers. The carriers billed their customers weekly for the standard $1.35 home-delivery subscription rate. The customers obtained a discount off the newsstand prices of twenty-five cents daily and fifty cents on Sunday. Dylan had initially figured to make about fifteen dollars a week. However, he was billed fifteen cents for each replacement paper, which included an additional delivery charge. It would have cost him more on Sundays, but fortunately, the papers were never missing on Sunday mornings. Between the cost of replacement papers and the five lost accounts, Dylan’s profits had plummeted to about eleven dollars a week.

Dylan also had to cover an expansive area because his accounts were spread out geographically. They overlapped with other routes, including a significantly larger route operated by TJ. Marin. Consequently, it took him about an hour each day to deliver the papers. Accordingly, he was making about a $1.50 an hour, less than half the $3.35 minimum wage and well below what other neighborhood boys earned raking leaves or shoveling snow. Frustrated and losing money, he had been determined to take matters into his own hands but unsure how to proceed.

As an eight-year-old, Dylan was naturally apprehensive about dealing with adults. On Fridays, customers were expected to pay him the weekly subscription fee. After initially knocking on every customer’s door and introducing himself, predictable patterns emerged. Some customers routinely left the money in a predetermined spot. Others answered the door and handed him payment in exchange for the paper. A few required several weeks to track down, compelling him to employ the dreaded practice of rousting the delinquent customers out of bed when he delivered the Advocate on Sunday mornings. On each occasion, Dylan promptly recorded payment in his notebook ledger, which included the address, full names of each household member, and any specific delivery requests. Likewise, in terms of gratuities, a consistent pattern developed. About half paid with a single dollar bill, a quarter, and a dime. A good number gave him a dollar bill and two quarters, and some a little more. Dylan had met all his customers, with a single exception—the one who lived in the old, gray Victorian house at 216 Travis Avenue.

On his first Friday on the route, Dylan had approached the old gray Victorian and noticed a note taped to its massive oak front door. It was folded in half, addressed simply to Paperboy and instructed him to leave the paper in the cedar box on the side of the porch. It further stated that payment would be inside the box each Friday. Henceforth, an old tobacco tin appeared on the fifth day of each week with an assortment of coins totaling exactly $1.35. The ritual had continued with remarkable consistency for the first two months.

The weather was miserable on the Friday following Dylan’s most recent encounter with the missing papers, another chilly, early-autumn day with intermittent drizzle. He shivered from the cold and wet as he came to the end of his route. As he approached the Victorian house, he dropped his bike, leaned forward, and ran onto the covered porch seeking a brief respite from the elements. As he walked over to the cedar box, he noticed a note attached to the front door. It appeared to be unaddressed. When he opened the box, the familiar tobacco tin was missing. Instinctively, he glanced around the porch, walked back to the door, and reached for the note. It read, Please come in.

Upon reading it, Dylan paced up and down the porch uncertainly as he pondered whether the note was meant for him. He took a moment to look around the property and focused on its details for the first time. It was clearly the largest house in the working-class neighborhood and situated at the end of the road on a deep, sprawling lot. In the distance, he heard the flowing waters of the Rippowam River. He stared up at the oversized front door. Dylan was big for his age, measuring just under five-and-a-half-feet tall, and the imposing door seemed almost twice his height.

Dylan stood there apprehensively a moment longer. He finally took a deep breath and pressed down on the brass handle. The door opened inward and he stepped into a large marble foyer with vaulted ceilings. The foyer opened to the second level, accessible by a spiral staircase with wrought iron railings. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the foyer and a large sitting room off to the right.

Dylan looked over and saw a thin, old woman with coiffed, gray hair dressed in a powder-blue pants suit and black orthopedic shoes. She sat on a couch opposite two matching upholstered chairs. A large, antique coffee table separated the furnishings and a fire blazed in the stone fireplace. A heavy, expensive-looking oil painting, framed in ornate wood, hung above the stone mantel.

Dylan felt a wave of relief wash through his body. He wasn’t sure what he had expected but it definitely was not a frail and indolent-looking old woman. She appeared able to pass for his own grandmother’s mother.

The woman spoke in a clear voice with a hint of old New England accent, Please come in, young man, and sit for a moment.

Dylan dutifully wiped his feet on the large mat in the foyer entrance and hung up his slicker on the corner coatrack. He paid careful attention to avoid shedding any excess rainwater on the foyer’s limestone floor before making his way to the sitting room. He took a seat in one of the chairs opposite the woman, sat up straight with his hands folded in his lap, and looked her in the eye. Good afternoon ma’am. My name is Dylan McDirt. I hope I’m not intruding. I’m your new paperboy. I didn’t see this week’s payment in the box and I read the note on the door. His eyes left her for a brief moment to scan the room. By the way, you have a lovely home."

Why, thank you, my dear. My name is Esther Lott. What is it about the house that you admire most?

Well, I don’t know much about fancy homes. My mom and I live in a small house. It’s very comfortable, but nothing like this. I would have to say, though, that I admire the fireplace. My grandfather’s a mason.

How nice. What does your mother do?

She teaches fourth grade at St. Mary’s.

Are you in her class?

No, ma’am. I’m in third grade. I’ll be in her class next year though.

My, young man, you’re big for a third grader. Were you held back?

No, ma’am. I do well in school. My mother sees to that. My grandfather is very tall, and I’m told my father is tall also.

Where is your father?

I don’t know. He left us when I was a baby. I don’t remember him.

Oh , that’s very sad. A boy needs a father.

Yes, ma’am, but I’m very fortunate. My mother is a special person. And my grandmother and grandfather are around. We all take care of each other.

You seem like a remarkable young man. But I sense something is troubling you.

Since taking on the job, Dylan had become remarkably well versed in focusing on his customers’ interests and concerns when interacting with them. However, on this occasion, Dylan inexplicably found himself opening up to Esther Lott. He told her all about his saga with the missing newspapers and the resulting financial repercussions.

Esther Lott sat back in silence and listened patiently, seemingly in deep thought. Finally, she spoke. It appears to me that some investigation is required on your part. What’s been done so far?

Dylan summarized the response from the Advocate. I was told their investigation showed they delivered the correct number of papers to me each time. And once they’re dropped at the end of the road, it’s my responsibility.

What if you were to arrive at the drop-off point early each day, meet the delivery driver, and count the papers together.

That’s a good idea. I usually go home after the bus drops me off. But I could go straight to the delivery spot and get there in time to meet him.

Well then. Why don’t you do that and let me know how it works out.

I’ll do that, Mrs. Lott. Thanks for the advice. It was a pleasure meeting you. Again, you have a beautiful home.

Dylan left, somewhat relieved and excited about the new plan to address his problem. As he pedaled home that day, he realized he hadn’t collected from Esther Lott for the week.

Following his meeting with Esther Lott, Dylan formulated his plan. In the morning he packed a duffel bag with a change of clothes and an afternoon snack. After the final school bell, he quickly changed out of his uniform and ran to make the afternoon bus. He got off at the end of Cold Springs Road where the papers were delivered.

The initial meeting did not go well. Dylan waited along the side of the road for just a few minutes before an old, brown cab-over-van slowed down and briefly pulled over. The driver was an acne-pocked teen hippie with a trace of stubble around his mouth and chin. He reminded Dylan of the Shaggy character from the Scooby-Doo cartoon series. The driver stopped just long enough to throw a bundle of papers out of the van’s passenger side window. As the van started to pull away, Dylan ran alongside and waved his arms frantically. Hold up.

Yo, li’l dude, what’s up? the Shaggy look-alike replied.

I need your help. I keep getting shorted on my papers.

"Yeah, I heard something about that. You trying to get me in trouble? I don’t have anything to do with counting out the papers. They come prepackaged from the printing plant. I’m just the delivery guy, and I got a lot more stops to make."

Dylan saw this was going nowhere fast. Man, that’s a cool flat nose. You got a custom interior in there?

What’d you know about vans? You’re not old enough to drive.

"No, but I’m huge into cars. I read all the magazines while I’m at the store. Car and Driver, Motor Trend, even Van World."

"Whoa, Van World is the bomb. I just finished carpeting the interior and putting in a turntable with new speakers. Wanna check it out?"

Sure. By the way, I’m Dylan. What’s your name?

I’m Ralph Johnson, but everyone calls me RJ.

Nice to meet you, RJ. Are those Jensen speakers?

A half hour later, after discussing custom vans, Jethro Tull, and the Kiss stage show, RJ agreed to stop and count papers with Dylan each day, provided he was there waiting when RJ arrived.

If I pull up and you’re not here, li’l dude, I’m gone.

No problem, RJ. I’ll be here.

Cool, anything for a fellow rock ‘n’ roll gear head.

The new routine worked smoothly for a couple of weeks. RJ usually arrived within ten minutes after the bus dropped Dylan off. RJ stopped, quickly counted the papers, and after a friendly exchange, the two went their separate ways. Each time Dylan then lugged the bundle of papers back to the house, dropped off his books, and grabbed his bike.

One day, RJ showed up, counted out seventeen papers, and handed them to Dylan. He then motioned to the back of the van. Hey, I just got these new struts installed. The van’s all jacked up with the front end dropped down. A real badass ride. How ’bout we go for a spin?

Sure, Dylan stated as he subconsciously dropped the papers on the side of the road and hopped into the front passenger seat.

Dylan strapped himself in with the lap belt and RJ peeled out with Twisted Sister’s I Wanna Rock blaring from the speakers.

RJ shouted above the music. I just saw them live this past weekend at the Fore and Aft in Brewster. Dee Snider really puts on a show.

Cool, Dylan yelled back.

RJ had driven down Route 104, turned around, and headed back to Dylan’s drop-off point. Only gone about ten minutes, what they saw upon returning surprised them both.

Would you look at that. That’s that Marin punk, RJ said. I caught him throwing eggs at my van one time. No one messes with my ride.

Dylan thought fast. Hey, RJ, pull over here and wait a minute. Let’s see what he does.

RJ pulled over behind another parked car, about fifty yards from where TJ Marin stood over Dylan’s paper bundle, and turned down the music. Marin was older than Dylan but slightly shorter. He was stocky and built like a fire plug. He had long, black hair that reached below his shoulders and concealed his short thick neck. It almost appeared as if Marin’s head rested directly on his shoulders. His hair was tucked behind the ears and a cigarette protruded from the right ear. The balance of the smokes in the Marlboro Red box was folded into the left sleeve of his T-shirt, unseasonable attire for that time of year. RJ and Dylan watched as Marin removed three newspapers from Dylan’s bundle, got on his bike, and rode off in the opposite direction.

Dylan was visibly shaken. What should we do about this? he asked.

Let me handle it, RJ replied. I’ve known this thug for a couple years, and he’s nothing but a loudmouth bully. He drove up to the remaining papers, and Dylan jumped out of the van. RJ continued, Grab your bundle and get back in. I’ll give you a ride back to your house. I’ve got some extra papers in the back. Go ahead and take what you need.

Dylan was quiet on the short ride to his house, but internally he was a mess. When they arrived, he’d gathered up his papers, thanked RJ, and departed the van.

Don’t you worry, I got this, RJ said as he sped off.

Dylan seethed with anger as he thought about all the trouble TJ Marin had caused him and the money he’d lost. However, he felt equally helpless and frustrated as he was unsure what to do about it. He finally decided to let RJ handle the matter. RJ appeared to fit the classic hippy profile he’d often heard about, part of the establishment’s message that today’s youth was going to hell in the proverbial handbasket. Still, he’d trusted him and figured he had no other options at the moment so he’d wait and see what happened.

Dylan had found out a week later when he was summoned to the Advocate offices in downtown Stamford. It was too far for him to travel on his own, so his grandfather picked him up early from school and drove him to the appointment. They were quiet on the trip as Anthony’s old green Ford pickup truck rambled down the road. Upon their arrival, they met with Bill Pullian, the Advocate’s circulation director.

Dylan had heard of Bill Pullian but they had never met. He was a slightly built man with a bald pate and thin hair on the sides. He wore wire rimmed glasses and dressed in khaki pants, plaid shirt, and Spot-Bilt athletic shoes. Pullian met Dylan and Anthony in the lobby and led them to a small conference room on the first floor.

After introductions were made and everyone was seated, Pullian began. "First, Dylan, I want to thank you for your dedication and service to our customers. It’s a tough job and a big responsibility delivering the Advocate to our subscribers’ homes each day. You’ve done an excellent job, particularly for someone your age. Most of our carriers are in middle school, some are even high school students."

Thank you, sir, Dylan replied.

Pullian continued. I also owe you an apology. Perhaps my department was a little harsh when the matter of the missing papers first arose. As the head of the circulation department, any omissions in the work we do here fall under my responsibility. We reopened our investigation, and it has now been brought to a final conclusion. TJ Marin has been expelled. Consequently, he has forfeited his route. The next issue we must address is the continued servicing of his former accounts. My department has been covering the deliveries, but, of course, that’s just a temporary fix. I’ve made a decision as to the permanent solution and am offering the route to you.

Dylan was initially speechless. He was flooded with a mix of emotions before they quickly subsided. Then questions arose to the forefront. Pullian sat patiently across the table, a slight smile pursed his lips.

Dylan composed himself, gathered his thoughts and replied. Well, sir, I appreciate the apology and the additional work the paper did to get to the bottom of things. However, I don’t have the means to purchase the route, especially one that size.

Pullian’s smile expanded, revealing coffee-stained teeth. I think you can handle the price. There’s no charge. We’re giving you the route. As part of our investigation, we talked with some of your customers, including ones who received their papers late through no fault of your own. Each one expressed glowing reviews of your service and the way you’ve conducted yourself. You’re the type of young man we want as the first line of contact with our subscribers. My office will be in touch with you to discuss the details and assist with the transition. He stood, indicating the meeting had come to a conclusion.

Hands were shaken all around, and Dylan thanked him for the opportunity. On the drive home, he looked at Anthony and said, I noticed you didn’t say anything in the meeting, Grandpa.

I didn’t need to, Anthony replied. You taught me something today.

The balance of the week was a whirlwind. Dylan received the new customer list and, for the first two days, the circulation department drove him around in one of their vans. Once Dylan began delivering his new route by bicycle, it took over three hours. He had inherited fifty-eight new accounts. A few were even outside of the boundaries Dylan had drawn as part of his original expansion plan.

One Friday, the new business problems were weighing on Dylan’s mind as he arrived at Esther Lott’s house. He’d opened the cedar box, finding it devoid of the venerable tobacco tin as it had been for the past several weeks since their initial meeting. He checked his ledger and confirmed that she now owed for five weeks. Instinctively, he rang the doorbell, something he had been doing every Friday without success. He wondered if something had happened to the old woman.

As Dylan waited, he could hear the cadence of footsteps moving toward the other side of the heavy front door. It certainly didn’t sound like Esther Lott. A fit-looking man with a military-style crew cut answered the door, sporting tailored black pants and an open-collared white shirt. He appeared close in age, if not appearance, to Dylan’s grandfather. Mr. Dylan, Mrs. Lott has been expecting you. Please follow me. The man led Dylan into the sitting room where Esther Lott was seated on the same couch as their first encounter. Mr. Dylan here to see you, ma’am.

Thank you, Franklin. That will be all.

And with that, the man had disappeared into the bowels of the house.

Esther Lott took a moment to observe Dylan. I sense some resolution has come to the problem we discussed on your last visit.

Yes, ma’am. Dylan then provided a summary of what had transpired over the past several weeks.

Well, it sounds like you have a new problem, but a good one. Have you given any thought as to how to streamline your operation?

Streamline?

Take steps to adjust your business so that you work more efficiently. Work smarter, not harder, as the saying goes.

That sounds like good advice, but I’m not sure where to begin.

Well, your problem sounds like a logistical one. Dylan stared back at Esther Lott with a blank look on his face.

Esther Lott smiled. What I mean is you need to reduce the physical size of your territory without sacrificing the number of customers you serve.

But how could I do that? I suppose I could tell some of the new customers that they’re too far for me to travel. But then I would lose business and could even harm the paper’s reputation.

You’re a very mindful young man. I see you’ve put some thought into this, but you’re still young, nonetheless. I’m going to make a suggestion. It appears that this RJ fellow might be willing to assist you further. He must know the other carriers in the area. Ask him to set up a meeting to discuss a plan that would make everyone’s job easier and more profitable. Then, prior to the meeting, get a list of the addresses for each account and suggest tradeoffs. Each carrier takes a smaller geographic area and trades customers so that everyone stays in their territory with the same number of accounts. Everyone will make the same money working less time. You might even reach an agreement with the others whereby you agree to only solicitate new business in your designated areas. That could help avoid future problems like the one with TJ Marin. Perhaps, Mr. Pullian can assist if need be.

Dylan listened intently and thought for a moment before responding enthusiastically, That’s a great idea, Mrs. Lott! You sure are smart. Did you run a business when you were younger?

Mrs. Lott laughed. No, dear, I never worked outside the home, but I went to college and did a great deal of work from the house. My late husband, Hendrick, worked as a custodian at Westover Elementary School and taught swimming lessons at the local YMCA for many years. Someday I’ll tell you more about that.

Dylan reflected further. It was Mrs. Lott who had made the initial suggestion to elicit help from RJ. That had worked out splendidly, and now she was providing more advice on how to manage the substantial increase in his business. Dylan, against his standard business practices, did not raise the subject of her past-due bill.

Dylan was no longer concerned about the integrity of his newspaper count. He’d even picked up a few new customers by word of mouth from their neighbors. He went back to his original schedule of going home after school, picking up his bike, and riding to the drop-off spot. His profits had increased fourfold, but the extra work meant getting home late each evening, often after dark during the fall and winter months. Each night Cheryl would have dinner waiting and, despite Dylan’s hectic schedule, mother and son always made time to talk about their day and catch up on things.

They continued to ride to St. Mary together each morning in Cheryl’s yellow 1978 VW Bug. Once they arrived at school and the first bell rang, they rarely saw each other. He took the bus home in the afternoon because Cheryl was always busy with after school activities. She regularly worked on lesson plans and assisted students after classes. She also coached the girls’ junior varsity basketball team and worked with the theater students on their annual production.

One night over dinner, Cheryl had asked about the new paper route. How’s it going with all the new customers? I miss seeing you when I get home from work.

It takes me longer, but I’m making a lot more money. Maybe I can start helping with some of the bills.

Cheryl giggled. That’s very generous of you, Dylan. Before too long, you’ll be paying bills for the rest of your life. While we’re on the subject, we should probably come up with a plan on how to handle your earnings. What have you been doing with them?

I haven’t spent anything since I started. Of course, I wasn’t making much at first with all the problems I had. I put everything I made into the shoebox in my closet.

Well, I think it’s time to open a savings account for you at the Fairfield County Teachers’ Credit Union.

Dylan chewed a bite of his minute steak thoughtfully for a moment. "I’ve been thinking about talking to the other carriers about trading some customers so we can all streamline our routes and be more efficient. Mr. Pullian set up a meeting with the other kids for the day after tomorrow. Do you think Grandpa can give me a ride down to the Advocate office after school?"

Wow. Streamline and efficient. Those are big words for a third grader, even for a budding entrepreneur. I’m sure he’ll be happy to.

The meeting with the other carriers went well. It didn’t hurt that Bill Pullian had already worked out a plan and pre-drafted new geographical territories. He had carefully worked out the numbers in an equitable manner, and then encouraged everyone to call on those households within their territory who were not currently receiving the paper about purchasing a subscription.

Dylan had spent a week meeting his new customers and getting his ledger revised and organized to reflect his new customer list. His conversations with Esther Lott continued intermittently. His redrawn delivery route still concluded at the end of Travis Avenue. Since Esther Lott wasn’t paying anyway, their conversations were no longer being held on Fridays. Besides, he was busy with collections for all his other accounts on that day.

One midweek afternoon, Dylan knocked on Esther Lott’s door.

Franklin answered. Good afternoon, Mr. Dylan. What can I do for you?

I’m here to see Mrs. Lott. Is she available?

Mrs. Lott is out in the greenhouse. Please follow me. Franklin turned and headed down the main hallway toward the back of the house with Dylan in tow.

As they’d passed the sitting room, it occurred to Dylan that it was the first time he had seen any other part of the spacious home. Beyond the sitting room was an open door to an office paneled floor-to-ceiling in mahogany. An entire wall with built-in shelves was stocked with books. Beyond the office/library was a large dining room and a kitchen that sparkled clean and smelled fresh but was otherwise outdated with avocado-colored appliances and yellow cabinetry with Formica countertops. They passed through a sunroom and out a set of French double doors, into the back yard. Farther down the property sat a greenhouse enclosed in framed plastic windows. Dylan entered and the considerably warmer temperature was a welcome relief. The interior walls were lined with planting boxes set on top of elevated metal framing. There were vegetables, flowers, and other assorted landscaping plants. Esther Lott had been tending to yellow roses with pruning clippers. She wore a denim dress covered with a dark-blue apron. Her head and face were somewhat concealed in a floppy straw hat and oversized sunglasses. She’d looked much younger and more energetic than in her previous position on the sitting room couch.

Mrs. Lott turned and greeted, Hello, Dylan. So nice to see you.

"Nice to see you, Mrs. Lott. I came by to tell you that I took your advice and my territory has been redrawn. I now have seventy-five accounts, and