THE KISS

     Memories amaze.  I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, but I hear a song and I remember where I heard it first and who I was with…

    And then I am sitting in a movie dreaming I was with Gigi (Virginia, but nobody called her that) the infamous best “kisser” of Millville High.  I did learn why - but it wasn’t to be easy.  

    For one thing her weekends were “booked” far in advance and she had the choice of the most popular guys in school.  And to make it  more fascinating.  She was only a sophomore!

(Editors Note:  A general rule of the instinctual pairing rituals of the high school boy. 1. Freshman males always find the junior and senior girls to be exotic but unreachable as they date guys who can  drive. 2.  Senior boys always find sophomore girls to be more exotic than the girls in there year - but very difficult to date as their father's rarely let them ride in cars with callow upperclassmen!)  But as for Gigi, she seemed to be allowed to date any boy who she care to from the long cue of suitors – even college guys made frequent trips home to see her (and get their moms to do their laundry!)  So, for days I thought about how to get a date with this tall, slim, freckled, redhead and my imagined smooching queen.

     Plan #1: Bump into her in the hall going to class – Rejected because of time factor with only minutes to engage target and converse before late bell rang.

    Plan #2:  Offer to buy her a cherry Coke at the Orange & Blue Hub, the soda fountain across from the school (this approach seemed to always work in the movies).  My spies had reported she was a frequent patron there after drill team practice – Rejected because I was also informed that her booth was always surrounded by guys.

    Plan #3:  Ask her to dance Saturday night at the “Y” --  Rejected because she always had someone waiting to dance with her and also the risk of being told “no thanks” was very possible and very embarrassing.

    So, I continued to rack my brain in study hall doodling “Gee Gigi” in my notebook instead of reading a chapter from my big, boring history book.  And then it happened by chance – without a plan.  It was my destiny.

     I was in the cafeteria  line waiting to see what “mystery meat” was offered that fateful day and Gigi, skipping her usual foray to the Hub, got in the line right behind me.  “Hi Gigi, want to go to the movies sometime?” (After all, the planning I couldn’t believe I just blurted this out,).  She stared at me for a very long moment, then with a devilish smile said, “Sure Cal how about this Saturday night, my date called and cancelled because he has to study for an big college exam so he isn’t coming home.”  I just stood there frozen in time.  Was I dreaming this?  Then Gigi said, “Well?”  I mumbled, “Yes…of course…sure…”  

    This was really real and Saturday night finally came after a nervous week of anticipation.  I chose my best button downed sports shirt and we went to the early show at the Levoy.  The movie was about two married drunks who tried to stop but couldn’t. It was fairly boring - but the theme music stayed in my head for a week.  Half way into the heavy film I tried to hold hands and wasn’t rejected - this was a bold move for me.  Matter of fact, in a few minutes, Gigi smiled and moved closer,  I put my arm around her shoulder and too my surprise she didn't flinch like most girls I have taken out.

   Good grief I couldn’t believe this was me.

     Afterward we quickly walked for an ice cream soda at the Goody Shop and I immediately drove Gigi home (since she was only a 14 or 15,  she had to home by 10 PM.  I parked the car and started the hope for goodnight kiss ritual, but without any dancing for position Gigi immediately turned toward me and gave me the most adult kiss I had ever had – she then giggled and said, “Thanks!” and was gone. 

     I just sat with my hands locked on the steering wheel.  Finally, I was able to drive and made my way home knowing now that Virginia was indeed the best kisser I ever kissed.  I was also sure I would never ask her out again – she scared me.

…But even today,  when I hear the haunting sounds of The Days of Wine Roses, like a taste of a fine rare vintage...I savor that sweet kiss as if it were happening once again.

THE TAKEN PATH

My senior year almost over, the year I waited for so long had disappeared in a flash.  I realized that my life was changing dramatically – I wasn’t a kid anymore.  Life was not going to be about playing anymore, it was about choices. Dad said the time had come to stop “red-assing”!  I always wondered what that meant.  (I know many years later, he was actually thinking about his life not mine…possibly he should have done things differently.  Maybe me too.

The graduation day as we readied for the ceremony he said, “Come here a moment I have your graduation present.”  He took me to our front picture window, put his hand on my shoulder (a very rare action for him) and looked me in the eye, “There my son is my gift to you, the whole wide world.  Now go get it.”  I thought at that moment - this was corny – but today it was one of the most profound statement I have ever heard.  He was right.  The world was right there and it was time I had started on my way and hadn’t even been handed my diploma yet. 

It all really started in my sophomore year after turning in my form for next year’s classes to the guidance office.  Soon after Mr. Vangilder (who we all called Van-glider) called me out of class and to his office.

“Cal if your take the art elective instead of advanced college prep elective you will never get into a “good” college.  You need to take calculus, trig, physics…algebra 3 & 4…”  I interrupted, “I guess I’ll have to go to a “bad” college then”.    “Hummm,” was his only response as it dismissed me.  And little did I know that my glib remark would alter my entire future. VanGilder, like my friends,  folks and teachers, just didn’t think “art” could be my career.  Frankly, I too wasn’t so sure I was talented enough either to make a living as an artist.  So to placate I said I was going to study industrial design which sounded a more legitimate endeavor.   

But I was always “different” as my mom would say.  While my friends listened to Rock n Roll I was listening to Wagner.  To make matters worse I was the only varsity lineman who wrote poetry. (Two of my poems, submitted by my English teacher were printed in the National Poetry Society’s National High School Collection – and to my chargin,  when the school received word of literary honor Principle Mike read them over the PA during the morning announcements and my football buddies quoted lines and heckled me for months. So, for the next two years I spend drawing bottles and fruit and creating grotesque things out of clay in the chalk dusty Art Room.  I can still smell that unique odor of paste and poster paint.   

But I hated math.  I could never really get it – well I chose not to get it. 

Perhaps if just one teacher had told me what algebra was for I might have done better.  And math word questions drove me mad more than trying to figure what a plus b equaled.  “A train is leaving Chicago traveling at 82 mph to New York make no stops for 1245 miles…what time do they arrive…ya da ya.  My answer for the  quiz problem – Why not take a plane and get there much faster!”  This earned me “F” that day and a dirty look from Mr. Riley my coach and albegra II torture master.

And so, the days dwindled down to a precious few…as the song said.  Where could I go with only algebra II in my record?   So after class I talked to my art teacher and asked,  “…do you think I have the talent to be accepted to a art school…?  She immediately said, “Of course you do, you are one of my best artists!”  And that did it.  alea iacta est (I did better in Latin II for those who didn’t take Latin, the dead language = the die is cast)

I applied to one of the best art schools in the country, The Philadelphia Museum College of Art. Hope springs eternal.  Mrs. P helped me assemble my “portfolios” of required examples of work and I sent them with the application to this hallowed institution.

And then the waiting began. Every day when I came home from baseball practice my mom would greet me with, “Not today.”   I started to think that perhaps I wasn’t as good as I thought when compared to the many other serious art applicants.  And then one day mom handed me THE letter with a big smile.  I was not only in, but I was offered their one and only yearly National Scholar Tuition Grant.

 I was going to art school! 

However, after the glow faded I realized that this was also a scary proposition – the pressure was on for me to be as good as the scholarship predicted.  So once again, I asked Mrs. P for advice.  She told me something that would last my entire adult life and help me make many future decisions.  “Calvin, the choice is this, do you want to be a big fish in a small pond…or a small fish in a very big pond?  That’s what you need to decide.” 

This advice hit the nail on the head. 

After working all summer, in my new madras shirt and chinos I took the bus for my first day of big time art study at the famed Philadelphia Museum College of art and attended exactly one day - But that’s the rest of the story.  (To be continued)

STARS & STRIPES FOREVER

As I do every year I watched my old friend Jean Shepherd’s the Great 4^th of July & Other Disasters and as always, I smile, get a bit misty-eyed when he closes with “…and the holidays when we were young are the sweetest of all…”

And I am immediately on High Street on a hot summer’s July 4th morning with the temperature already at 96 – this was going to be a scorcher, according to my grandmother, the weather vane of the family.  Already I could feel the sweat running down my back – no this wasn’t perspiration…It was sweat!  And no wonder my Official Cub Scout uniform was made for camping in Siberia.  Blue wool gaberdine my grandmother the seamstress reported.  It was made to withstand the elements on a fall hike and roughhouse games like “steal the bacon.”  It wasn’t good for July.  Plus, it was dark blue, and I literally could feel the sun rays burning my shoulders through my shirt.  

However, the heat was far outweighed by the anticipation that had been building for weeks – I was not going to watch the big 4^th of July parade this year - I was going to be in the parade. 

Our pack had been practicing marching for months all of us (except Carl) could march in unison.  As we waited for an eternity it seemed for the Millville band to strike it up I marveled at the many merit badges the older Boy Scouts had sewn to their uniforms.  I wanted so much to pass all the tests of craftsmanship, stamina and cleanliness that it would take to earn them myself.  At this point I only had one -  the Webelo’s badge that heralded that I had was now a Bear Cub – the first of the three levels of Cubing – to earn this I  had mastered the Cub Scout pledge, motto, song, mission and knew the location of the Sears where all of the needs of scouting were sold.  Mom had just bought me the Official Birdhouse kit and after the glue dried I would earn my first badge – for “carpentry“ or maybe it was “wild life knowledge”?  (I would learn years later that Sears & Roebuck’s and BSA had formed a partnership that had produced one of the most brilliant merchandising schemes ever –  selling millions of uniforms that could only be bought at – Sears!)

Scout Leader, Mr. Jones cued our bugler to sound revelry or charge – I couldn’t remember which but I had heard it many times at the Saturday matinee.  After he got our attention he addressed the  “troops”.  “Gentleman I am very please to see you’ve come to attention and at this time I want to select the scouts who will have the great honor of carrying our flags - our honor guard.”  He had brought 3 flags

He singled out our one Eagle scout to carry the Troop Flag, a Second-Class Scout to carry the State emblem which look like a picture of a snake and a farmer?  Then to my surprise he called me, a lowly Cub Scout, to carry the American Flag.  Our proudest banner topped with hundreds of steamers that memorialized  participation at the yearly Annual Region Camper-Rees.

I was honored – but later my mom reminded me that he picked me because I was the just the biggest kid and Old Glory had to be the tallest flag.  As I went to pick up my flag, Scoutmaster Jones said quietly, “Sorry Cal but I only could find two flag belts (leather-like holsters worn around the neck which made the flagpole easy to carry) you will have to make do.”   “What the…”, I said to myself, as he handed me the huge pole.  And as I struggle to get to my spot in line he added, “And whatever you do, don’t let the flag touch the ground!”

I lined up with the other two bearers and noticed that they had light aluminum flag poles – mine seemed to be made of oak and was thicker than the end of a baseball bat.  And no holder!

       “What the…”, I repeated.

A whistle sounded, and the high school band slowly revived up Stars and Stripes Forever (which would become a hated anthem for me from that day on) And off we went with dopey Jonesy (as most of the kids called him) barking a brisk cadence – Left-right-left-right…left, left…left, right, left right.

My flag immediately started whipping wildly in a hot wind.  It was marching me down the street.  I needed to do something quick to get it under control – so I stuffed the end of the flag pole into my right pants pocket which became my flag holder.  This was ingenious I thought as the pressure let up on my arms – but then I realized that the weight of the flag might cause my pants to fall to my knees or worse.  Mortified - I bravely tried to keep up with the other two guys. 

I could hear people on the sidewalks begin laughing as I marched sideways, one hand on the pole and the other on my Official Cub Scout Military-Style Web Belt with its imitation brass buckle.  The sweat was leaving a steaming trail behind me as I tried to keep in step - these older guys were proudly strutting away as I stumbled and fumbled with a load that was getting heavier by the step.  
The sun beat down and I was roasting.  My Keds sticking to the pavement.   The band blared on and the end of High Street looked miles away.  I started to believe that I may actually carry the “star and stripes” forever. 

 But eventually it was over.  I had made the half mile walk without fainting or letting the flag drag – and only a few hundred folks laughed at me.  The only lucky part of the whole mess was that none of my friends saw my flag fiasco – they were probably home in the shade getting ready for the roasted wieners that they were going consumer that day.  
As for me, I went straight home and went to bed; exhausted.  I didn’t wake up until afternoon to cook my hot dogs on the graying charcoal embers. 

And I learned an important lesson that day.  Everyone who ever got to carry Old Glory from 1776 to 1956 had all taken on a very heavy burden – even a new Cub Scout like me.

LONG SUMMER DAYS

The loud bell rang and filled the Bacon School halls and it was over - school was over for the summer...and those long summer days had begun...

Those wonderful days so long ago,

When kid’s games passed the hours

Lazy days in the sun.

Shagging flies in fields of weeds.

Playing catch, after steamy showers

.

Those were the long days…

On the porch out of midday sun

A hot debate;

“Ashburn’s the best in the game.

Never, Mays is, he’s the one!”

They were sweet days…

Water from the hose could quenched all 

Mom’s ham and cheese with yellow mustard

Wrapped with tender care

Would be a feast that soothed the soul.

Those were my days

Days that seemed to never end

We played hard from early morn

Until the streets light bade time to go

And fire flies led the way home again.

What full days they were

When I was young

And then to sleep with the crickets song

And gentle breezes through the pines

Accompanied dreams of homers and cheering throng.

I wish again for those boyhood days

Days I thought would never end

 But they did!

The school bell rang; winter came.

And we yearned for the sun to come again

We dreamed summer dreams

Dreams of games in the summer sun.

This year we’d bat 400…

This year we’d win ‘em all

And we waited for the long days to come again.

BRADLEY - THE WINNER

We were called the “South Millville Boys” and south Millville was literally on the other side of the tracks from the wealthier part of town where the “bosses” of the glass factories live.  South Millville was where the workers, the packers and sorters and makers of the millions of glassware that flowed out of our town lived.

And Brad was the alpha boy.  The best in all things boy.  Brad was competitive. 

We played everything on the sandlot fields of the Bacon Elementary schools across the streets from Brad’s house whose porch in summer was the meeting place for us.  And he was obsessed with winning ever game we played together after school.  Brad was a natural winner - the tallest of us all and his prowess dominated our baseball, touch football, half court basketball games each night until the street lights blinked on to tell it was time for supper.  But he was also very shy and would never have attempted to perform on a high school varsity team – of which he would have been a start there too.

In the short dark days of winter after “real” high school football ended (games in my day were seasonal; football in the fall; basketball in winter; tennis spring, and baseball summer…except, of course, bowling which was year-round. Today, I wait for the day when the Phillies, Eagles and Sixers are all on TV at once – so I can gripe once again that this just isn’t right.) we played half court basketball until the sound of bat hitting ball was heard in the land.

The buzzer in our classroom clock buzzed! And I rushed home on my Schwinn to change from my school clothes into my play clothes which were usually last year’s heavy corduroys that were now three inches above my ankles and a plaid flannel shirt which didn’t reach my wrists.  And I would be back to the school basketball court in under 5 minutes as our half-court basketball game would start once the teams were chosen.

Choosing sides was always one of the most embarrassing aspects of kid life - for at least one of the guys each night – the one who would get picked last.  Brad and brother Bobby always made the picks.  They were always the captains of the school yard which they considered an extension of their own yard.  Those who got on Brad’s team were assured of a win.  The choosing began with a flip of the coin.  Brad even won most times at this.  He chose Green a really good player.  Bobby chose Magoo, whose name was Charlie.  But he was Magoo because of his very thick glasses – he was a good shot when he could find the basket.  Next Billy, the foul-master, went to Brad.  Billy was a ruthless defender who rarely got the ball.  He just hacked at everyone under the basket.  And of course, to my chagrin, I was picked last again by Bobby – I was not built for b-ball; too big; too slow - it was not my game of choice – but the winter months would be very lonely if I didn’t play. 

The teams were set and once again the lost for Bobby was already inevitable and we knew that in an hour he would go home mad again and not speak to his brother for the rest of the night.

Now where we played was called a court, but it was just a corner of hard packed dirt school yard with just one rusting backboard and a net less net.   This setup to my great relief made our games half court contest – I hated running.  But playing on dirt had its downside.  The ball took crazy bounces and stones turned an ankle from time to time.  Then there was the ball.  Now I use the term “ball” but what we played with only relationship to a basketball was that it was round.   And it had certainly been around for generations in Brad’s collection for years – scared and scratched from many battles.  (Matter of fact it was leather.  No rubber basketballs were in my day – Brad was the provider of most of our equipment for the many games we played as riding a bike holding a basketball was not easy.

We began our game – Brad’s Warriors against Bobby’s Knicks, the brother’s always used team’s names and we pretended we were pros.  Brad was not only key player, he was also referee and arbiter for our own custom set of rules most of which have been eliminated from the game. 

He dominated the game with looping hook shots and great arching set shots, long before the 3-point play was even imagined.  Matter of fact, during our 3 on 3 games he was known to actual pass the ball to himself and then execute an impossible spinning lay-up as we watch in awe.

All of us wondered why he never “went out” for a sport in high school – but never asked him why.

The dusk came early on this gray day.  Brad’s team as usual was ahead by 20 points as brother Bobby tried his best to catch up with his best trick shots – he always got a bit maniac as his team neared another loss to his big brother.  But once again Bradley was the winner and as ref of the contest declared, “Whatever team scores two in a row will end this game.”  With a strong drive to the basket, followed by a steal from me as I tried my best to raise my shooting average, Brad capped the game with a twirling layup that a Globetrotter would be proud to execute.  Game over.

It was time to go home and Brad with a broad smile walked away following Bobby once again muttering that his brother was a cheater…passing to yourself is not fair.  And so, another day of play ended as I pedaled as fast as I could home – my mom always hated it when I was late for the supper.

THE HAIRCUT

Ever since I could remember my Pop Pop Herb took me for my haircut to an old Italian barber on High Street .  And no matter what you asked for – everyone got the same haircut.  No sideburns and short on the top.  But everyone in my sixth grade at Wood School was touting the merits of George’s Barber Shop on North High as the best flattop in town.  Pop’s haircutter didn’t even know what a “flat top” was – short on the top he said when I asked him.  

George R. was famous for actually using a “level” to make certain the flattop was flat. 

So I talked Pop into trying this new young barber that ever had a striped mechanical barber pole revolving next to his door.  Pop was dubious – but always aimed to please me in every way – spoil me my grandmother said, but Pop never paid much attention to her.

At the regular day and time we enterd the new shop on a Saturday morning in a warmer than usual spring.  There were three ahead of us – which was great as I got to look at the usual present pile of “men’s magazine” which were ubiquitous in all barbershops.  And this well thumbed pile was a great one.  Girlie magazines rather than old Popular Mechanics and Field and Stream!  This got a raised eye brow from Pop, but he didn’t intervene.  I guess he figured I was old enough to see some wanton flesh?

 

I flipped  through a two year old edition of  Men’s Digest and a tattered Esquire looking for the “pictorial”.  Then I saw for the first time a Playboy Magazine and the unbelieveable centerfold.  A publication I could never buy at the news agency on High Street for want of discovery as a perverted voyeur.  I immediately went to the centerfold that was always bantered about on the playground by my wiser chums – their lurid review always starting with “did you see Miss September?”

Now I could say YES.  And Miss October, and December.  Pop interrupted my lustful fantasies – “You go first and tell him what you want, he said,”

I got into barer chair with it’s interesting green leather head and foot rests.  George the barber then began his unending chit-chat which I now notice was laced with the F-word and all the other curse words known to kids.  I thought this was very funny for an adult to use the words we used everyday out of ear-shot of our matronly teachers, words that would always get us expelled for a few days if heard.

I caught my Pop in the big mirror wall and with every curse word his grimmace got darker. 

I asked for a flat top  and George the Barber put a giant flat comb on my head and to my amazement with one swipe of his whirring clippers I had a precise quarter inch of hair runway on my head that a Thunderbolt fighter plane could land on.  After a few buzzes here and there I was done.

“Next”, he yelled.   And Pop said no just the kid this time.  Pop paid him the three bucks and we left.

When we got in Pop’s big Buick I asked why he didn’t get his haircut?  He muttered, “Not from a foul mouthed jerk.”  Now Pop wasn’t a prude for sure, but I know now he must have been embarrassed that I was hearing these curses with him.  

For years I returned to George’s Shop and laughed at his antics. 

But Pop and I never had a haircut together again.

KIRBY, THE PAPERBOY

Kirby was our paperboy and he was the best ever – I’ll tell you why. 

You see being a paperboy is a calling and one has to have a “knack” to be good at it.  There are few who make greatness – Kirby was one of the few.

Most people don’t realize just how much work goes into the job.  One doesn’t just become a paperboy (and by the way there were very few paper girls – this was not sexist and not that girls of  the 50’s and 60’s were afraid to venture out in rain, snow or dark of night – they weren’t allowed by their parents because this wasn’t “good” for them“ – time has proven this to be a profound mistake.)

 THE DAILY REPUBLICAN – the title did not refer to the party but to the form of government established for our nation and it was the one and only local paper.  The chief scribe for our daily, except Sunday, garbage wrapper was the high authority who chose those he thought worthy to deliver “his” paper.  Most homes in town wanted their paper at “supper” time, and no misses or father would have nothing new to gripe about after dinner from their favorite chair.

Kirby was 6 feet plus tall in elementary school and was immediately added to the Daily’s team the same day he applied – the Editor decided he didn’t need a trial of his skills and assigned him a “route” near his home.  
Over the next 5 years Kirby added customers until he had over hundreds waiting for the sound of their paper hitting the screen door or...

A key component for a paperboy is the bike – which is my day was their only way of conveyance available to them – today our  paper persons have momma drive them around when it sprinkles or the temperature drops below 50 degrees.

Kirby’s bike was a hybrid put together from junked bikes he found around the neighborhood.  It had no fenders, a frame that look like a Schwinn brand and high handle bars that were vertical to match his tall frame.  The most striking aspect of the bike was the extended seat which accommodated Kirby long legs.  When he sat on the seat he could fully extend his legs all the way.  Kirby was the fastest rider I ever saw.  He would have burned up the Tour-de-France.

One didn’t actually see him ride by - he was a blur and the only evidence of his being there at all was the telltale sound of the paper hitting something.

But I get ahead of myself.  The routine of all paperboys goes like this.

They rush to the newspaper office after school and fight to be first or near first in line to get their allotment of papers.  Most get a small stack that was easy to handle.   Kirby got a five big stacks and immediately went to work.  
Paperboys throw the papers to save time as they ride by the customers houses.  They don’t deliver them neatly like the mailman.  They wing them in the general direction of the front door or sometimes toward a special place requested by the customer.  Winging them requires that they be rolled as they come flat and impossible to toss.   Each paper is rolled and fastened with a red rubber band that seems to have been made for this purpose.

  Kirby was a master roller upper.  His hands flashed as he attacked his piles of papers – time was essential and being on time meant better tips when he made his Saturday rounds to “collect” his bounty.

The rolled papers were stacked vertically into a bright orange canvas bags with the label of the DAILY REPUBLICAN in big black letters – these bags were proudly hung on the handlebars nearest the tossing hand.  Having a paperboy bag was a badge of pride for this small group of entrepreneurs – they were thought of by their peers as the chosen few.  They were kids with a job and not beholden to the largesse, whims or punishments of parents.  

Back to Kirby.  All of his preparation led up to the delivery.  Each boy had his own method of throwing the paper as he biked by the customers home.   And it took practice to achieve consistent accuracy while pedaling and steering with only one hand – while going at a “breakneck” speed.

Kirby didn’t just throw the papers – he had turned this task into an art form.  Most boys use the “across the body right hand vertical slinger.  Kirby had mastered that he first day.  Like a jazz musician he prided himself on his tossing improvisation.  Sometimes he used the underhand hurler.  Next house behind zinging one from his back.  Next he let one fly from under his leg – the most difficult and dangerous of all paper recognized paper tossing techniques.

Each late afternoon my grandmother would pause her household chores when she heard Kirby’s fierce peddling a block away.  She waited for the “thunk” of the Daily as he slammed it into her front door.  Occasionally however she would hear it bang on the roof which would always result in a loud curse – “Dammit Kirby slow down…you put it on my roof again.”

These wayward throws seemed to only happen when Kirby was off his schedule – I surmised when he was very late that he had to serve detention for a minor school misdemeanor which put him an hour behind his routine.

My everlasting memory of Kirby will last forever.

Going to the shoot some hoops at the playground I saw him hurtling toward me.  He was much later than usual and peddling faster than ever – going at a rate worthy of a Guiness Record.  He was riding without using his hands to steer and tossing papers with both hands, firing left and right and actually hitting some of his customer’s lawns, some not so close.

 As he passed me he stopped firing for a moment to say “Hi Cal” – and then it happened.  His foot slipped off one pedal and he slid off the seat and straddled the bar between his legs.  This caused him to uttered a desperate scream that still makes my hair stand on end when I think of it.  I imagine the pain as his private parts rolled wildly on the frame of the bouncing bike.  His arms started to fail like a windmill and his long legs shot out sideways – but he didn’t crash. Somehow he regained control, plopped back on his seat and without stopping to attend to his body or injured pride he continued on his appointed rounds.

This indeed was a real pro, a Master Paperboy named Kirby.