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From: Incest Man <familyincestfamilyincest@yahoo.com>
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Subject: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" Part 9A
Date: Sat, 17 Dec 2005 04:43:16 -0800
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/marthaj.html
The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane
Part 9A
Working at Liberty Cash Grocery Number 23 was more challenging than
I'd expected. The store occupied the corner of Exchange and
Lauderdale, across the street from the same project and the same
corner where Martha and I grew up. Two stock-boys worked in the
store, and three delivery boys worked outside on the clunky old
utility bikes.
On my first day at work in early July I was assigned to young,
dark-haired Anthony, a distant cousin who lived with his widowed
mother in the project. He could shuck a bushel of corn and trim
lettuce so quickly that his hand movements seemed a mere blur.
During the first couple of days I almost managed to compete with
him, as well as learning how to stock canned and boxed goods in the
aisles and shelves as neatly as did George, the oldest stock boy.
But after I learned the basic layout and operation of the store by
the end of that week, I was assigned to a delivery bike. That job
confronted me with my physical limitations. Though I was not small
for my going-on-fourteen years, I was neither hefty nor strong. A
customer's grocery order contained from one to several stuffed bags
in addition to an occasional case of canned goods or beer. The
bikes themselves were ancient chain-driven units with gigantic wire
baskets over the front and rear wheels. They had fat metal seats,
no center bar, a chest-high bare metal handlebar, undersized wheels
designed for heavy loads and rough streets, and a low-ratio single
gear for hauling rather than speed. They were slow, rusty, noisy
machines. But when loaded with several heavy grocery bags that
would be pedaled over a pitted street or along a gravel driveway,
they were stronger and more manageable than a recreational bike.
One of the older boys, a chesty, tough-looking but friendly blond
kid named Charlie, took charge for the first few days and showed me
the ropes. He saw to it that I started out with one-bag or two-bag
loads for customers who lived no more than three blocks away. I was
slow at first; although I had once lived in the area, the building
numbering system in the project and on some of the more obscure side
streets were unfamiliar. This brief training reduced the number of
daily deliveries I was able to make. The job paid ten cents per
order. At that stage I averaged seven to ten orders daily.
By the end of the second week I was getting the hang of things.
That Saturday was particularly busy. Under the additional pressure
of a blistering noon sun, Charlie and another kid and I were on the
sidewalk in front of the store loading bags onto our bikes, along
with a fourth boy who had been drafted for the day from the
part-time pool. Charlie helped load the first two bikes and sent
them on their way. He had already loaded three orders onto his own
bike.
He pointed to the last group of several bags. "They been here over
an hour. We better get caught up." He surveyed the bags. "We got
one for 236 Exchange, I can add that to my load. But all the other
nine bags is Miz Gaston's order. You'll have to make two trips
outta this, maybe three. You up to it, Speedy?"
"Sure," I said. "Load me."
Charlie helped me load the first four large paper bags onto my bike.
"That looks steady enough," he told me, checking the bike for sway
and balance. Then he climbed on his fully-loaded machine and
steadied himself with one foot on the ground. Pointing at the
one-bag order still sitting in the corner, he told me, "Gimme me
that order."
I gaped at him. "You gonna carry that with five bags already on
your bike?"
"Hell, give it to me. C'mon."
I handed him the bag, which was no lightweight, and he held it
pressed to his side with one hand grasping the bottom. Wobbling
slightly on the bike, he settled onto his seat, grabbed the
handlebar with his free hand, shoved off with one long push of his
feet, and started pedaling rough-and-ready down the street in the
hot sun, gritting his teeth and looking in all directions for the
traffic.
I watched with admiration as he drifted slowly up Exchange Street,
steering one-handed and hefting a full sack under his free arm.
Climbing onto my own bike, I was surprised as the stubborn weight
caught me off-guard and almost felled me. Grunting, I forced the
bike upright and made sure of my balance. I proceeded slowly,
knowing I'd have to be careful with this monstrous load.
But before I could get moving, my step dad rushed out of the front
door and pointed at the remaining bags on the ground. "Wait up!
Wait! Ain't all this part of the Gaston order?"
I told him it was all one order and that I'd make it in two trips.
He yelled impatiently about the order having been delayed too long
and demanded that I load it all at once and get moving. I was not
that good at loading up yet, so Tony grumbled shoved me aside.
Hastily, he began stuffing the bags into the large carry baskets,
shifting and shoving until the bike was so heavily loaded it seemed
to sag. The tires were slightly but visibly pressed flat where they
touched the sidewalk.
I eyed the load fearfully and mumbled something about not being sure
I could handle that much weight.
"Hell you can't!" Tony retorted, "Get on that damn bike and move
this order outta here! Go on, get movin!" He chomped on his unlit
cigar and strode back into the store, glaring back at me hotly.
At first it was all I could do to disengage the kickstand and simply
hold up the bike. The cargo's weight was considerably more than my
own and the slightest tilt of the machine required serious effort to
keep the bike balanced. I carefully walked the bike to the curb and
slowly let the front wheel off the sidewalk and into the street,
then the rear wheel. At that point the shifting weight almost
pulled the bike ground ward. Desperately, using both arms and
heaving my back and legs into it, I kept the bike upright while I
haltingly moved onto the seat, checked my balance, hopped up onto
the big metal pedals, and shoved my legs forward.
The bike seemed to move in slow motion. Before I made it across
narrow Exchange Street my ankles were sore with the effort.
Checking the traffic in both directions, I let the bike roll
lethargically toward the six-lane breadth of Lauderdale Street.
Then I tried pedaling to gain the speed I needed to cross the
boulevard. But the weight I was pedaling seemed to mock my efforts.
I could not gain speed. Seeing traffic approach, I knew I had to
head back toward the curb to avoid being overrun.
Helplessly, as if in a bad dream, I felt the bike tilt sideways as I
turned; then I felt the overwhelming weight shift the undersized
wheels with a sharp scraping sound; the front wheel began slipping
underneath the bike, and the bike started tumbling. I jumped off
the seat and with my arms, back, legs, and any other leverage I
could muster, I vainly tried to keep the load from forcing the bike
on its side in the middle of the roadway. But the weight shoved the
wheels over the surface of the pavement and pulled both me and the
bike toward the curb. With a loud crash the bike fell on its side,
half on top of me, and several bags tumbled into the street.
Groceries went everywhere. The traffic caught up with me and one of
the speeding automobiles, swerving away from me, smashed a cabbage
into shards. Other cars crushed oranges and a canister of bug
spray. A can of creamed corn exploded sticky yellow grit into the
air, and several other items were smashed and smeared in the
roadway.
Across the street, Tony ran out the door and screamed "God DAMN!"
Pitching his cigar aside he dashed across the roadway toward me,
with Anthony following. Anthony himself rushed to me in concern and
alarm and helped pull me from under the bike. But my step dad Tony
flew into a rage. Kicking a couple of smashed cans out of the
street and into the gutter, he flared angrily at me and screamed,
"How fuckin' stupid!"
Anthony uprighted the bike. Just as he wheeled it onto the
sidewalk, Tony stomped over to me and yelled, "Cain't you hold up a
damn bike?" He slapped me across my face so hard that my head
jerked and I found my startled eyeballs suddenly staring down the
street in the opposite direction. I turned back to him, my neck
aching from the blow, and saw his reddened face glowering into mine.
"Get this shit outta the street and get that bike loaded again! Now
we're gonna have to rebuild this whole damn order! And whatever's
missin' comes outta your pay, goddamit!" He spit on the street and
pointed to the trash around us. "Anthony! Help this idiot clean up
and get 'im back on the road!" Tony turned and stomped off, toward
the store.
"Right, Tony," Anthony murmured after him, looking almost as
startled as I must have looked. Shaking his head and eyeing me
sympathetically, he said, "That Tony's a tough customer, Speedy."
Enraged and humiliated, I avoided his eyes and began fetching the
litter out of the street while Anthony walked the bike with its bent
baskets to the storefront. Five minutes later I trekked wordlessly
into and through the store, into the rear stock room. Storming into
the restroom, I slammed the door shut behind me and threw the bolt
lock into place, then untied and removed my garbage-stained,
shin-length cotton work apron and, wadding it up tightly, slammed it
into the wall and screamed "Son of a bitch!" at the top of my
lungs.
Covered with sweat, I bent to the sink and splashed my head and neck
with cold water to cool me down both physically and emotionally. I
held my dripping head over the sink and massaged my sore neck,
muttering "Son of a bitch" again, and then paused and took several
deep breaths.
"All right," I muttered aloud, hearing my voice sound grim and
wobbly with hate. "All right, dammit."
I fetched a new white apron and got back to work. I'd kept track of
Mrs. Gaston's sales receipt. I repackaged the entire order, noted
what was missing, and retrieved new items from the shelves. When
the order was complete I got Mrs. Gaston's telephone number from the
delivery listing and gave her a call, explaining that her order had
been damaged but that it was fixed and ready to go. She was very
gracious and said she knew that Saturday was always a busy day and
she wasn't annoyed.
This time I packed the bags myself, making certain that the load in
each bag was evenly distributed and that each bag weighed nearly the
same. I managed to reduce the original nine bags to seven. As I
began carrying them outside and loading them on the bike, Anthony
paused in his work to speak to me briefly.
"Don't take it too hard," he said. "You're his son and he expects
you to do better work than the rest of us."
"I have my own expectations about how good my work'll be," I replied
angrily.
Outside, I loaded and unloaded the grocery order onto the bike
several times, until I was certain the cargo was perfectly balanced.
"What the hell 're you doin'?" said a burly young voice behind me.
I turned to see Charlie, his hands on his hips and a wry grin on his
face.
"I'm takin' this order," I said flatly, grabbing up the last bag.
"I heard about what happened, " Charlie said, his tough-kid's voice
slightly taunting. "I know he shouldn'a done that to you, and I
know it was too big a load for that bike, but you ain't gonna tell
me with a straight face that you intend to deliver all this in one
trip."
"That's exactly what I intend to do!" I said, jamming the last bag
into the rear basket.
"Hell, man, I weigh twenty pounds over you and my legs are longer,
but I wouldn't carry that in one load. You trynna get yourself
fucked up again?"
"Not this time," I vowed. I held the bike straight and level,
disengaged the kickstand, and then let go of the bike altogether.
For a brief moment it stood still and upright until I grabbed the
handlebar again.
"Not bad, tiger," Charlie said, nudging his lips in approval. He
grinned and threw me a salute. "But this time, if you fall, try t'
land on yer butt instead of yer head."
I turned the bike toward Mrs. Gaston's and walked it off the curb.
The bike landed on the street surface and remained level, with no
bounce. Mounting, I tested the sway range of the weight piled
around me. I found that managing the weight from the front was the
key tactic, rather than trying to manipulate everything at once. I
engaged the pedals and began pumping my legs with all my might.
Soon I was rolling fast enough to make a rapid shift to the right.
I glided almost gracefully across Lauderdale Street.
My initial optimism was short-lived. As I slowly progressed down
the street the load seemed to get heavier by the yard. Mrs.
Gaston's address was three blocks into the project. The last leg of
the trip was a segment of rising driveway that led to her building;
unable to pedal uphill, I dismounted and walked the bike to her
building. It was touch and go all the way, with several close calls
as the weight persistently forced the bike toward or away from me.
Finally, covered with salty sweat and grime, I arrived at the front
of her building. For some reason the cargo was now too heavy for
the kickstand, so I leaned the bike against her building. There was
no elevator, so one by one I began hefting the bags up the steep,
narrow stairwell to Mrs. Gaston's third-floor apartment.
She was a tiny, elderly woman in a dark flowery dress who expressed
alarm at the sight of my sweat-soaked face and clothes. She gave me
a glass of ice water, smiled and thanked me, and gave me a ten-cent
tip.
Later, leaning in the shade at the side of her building, I cooled
off and caught my breath. I looked down at the shiny dime in my
hand.
I told myself: you made it, dammit. And with a dime to spare. An
extra dime for New York. One step closer to the big city.
Mounting my bike I grabbed the handlebar, shoved off with both feet,
and went into a long glide down the driveway toward the street, the
cool wind now flapping my apron around my shins. I pumped the
pedals swiftly and pushed the bike through the breeze that mounted
with my speed. I spotted Charlie under the front awning of the
store two blocks ahead. He glanced in my direction and grinned and
gave me the "OK" sign with his raised hand.
For the rest of the afternoon the orders proliferated. Charlie and
I and the two other boys kept loading and shoving off with one
delivery after another. Charlie kept his eyes on me, sending me on
the lighter, nearer orders. Finally I told him I expected to be
treated the same way the others were and that I should carry the
same loads as they.
"Take yer time," Charlie told me as we loaded up yet another group
of bags. "You're smaller than the others, and your legs are
shorter." He paused to reach into his shirt pocket for his
cigarette lighter. He retrieved a cigarette from the pack he kept
in the folds of his rolled-up shirt sleeve. He took a quick puff
and extended the pack toward me. "Smoke?"
"Thanks," I said, even though I didn't know how to smoke.
He gave the pack a quick, short jerk and the tips of several
cigarettes protruded from the pack. I grabbed one and put it in my
mouth, instantly feeling the mild burn of tobacco on my inner lips.
I resolved that whatever could be done by Charlie, who was robust
and taller and three years my senior, I could do as well.
He flipped open his Zippo lighter and lit my cigarette. I puffed.
I coughed several times.
"Shit," he said, grinning with his cigarette dangling from his
mouth. "C'mon, man, take it one thing at a time. That ain't no way
to smoke, you got tobacco all over your damn lip. Maybe you oughtta
start out with filters instead of straights."
"I'll start with straights," I said, embarrassed but grinning back
stubbornly. "There's a four bagger over there. Come on and load me
up."
He took another puff and sighed. "Man, what a glutton for
punishment."
For the rest of the afternoon I watched Charlie closely, chiding him
when I saw him pass up a large order and assign me to a much smaller
one. He smirked and warned me, "Don't pass up all the small
orders," he cautioned. "They're short and quick. And they pay the
same ten cents as the big ones that take longer."
As dusk neared and the flow of business waned for the day, I loaded
one more four bagger onto my bike and was just getting ready to
shove off when my step dad came out of the front door and stood near
my bike. I averted my eyes from his and pretended to be engrossed
in straightening a bag in my front basket.
He spoke evenly and calmly. "All right, I have to apologize for
losin' my temper today. You cleaned it all up, and you got the
order to the customer all by yourself. The customer called up and
said nothin' was missin', and nothin' was damaged. So you did a
good job. And forget about anything comin' out of your pay this
week. I'm sorry I got so angry about it." Without another word, he
walked away.
His apology changed nothing. At that moment I deeply resented him
-- not for his anger, but for the humiliation I felt at being
struck. Even before he disappeared into the store, I had turned my
bike around and was on my way with the next order.
Soon I was cruising in the cool late afternoon breeze with a four
bag order, my sore thighs arduously pumping at the pedals that
pushed my squeaky, straining bike down Lauderdale Street. Earlier,
when no one in the store was watching, I made Anthony sell me a pack
of Chesterfield unfiltered cigarettes. As I turned into the project
driveway and slipped out of sight of those in the store, I reached
into my shirt pocket under my stained work apron, pulled out the
pack of cigarettes, jerked the pack in the manner I had learned from
Charlie, and pulled out a cigarette by holding the tip with only the
dry, outer portion of my lips. Using another technique I learned
from watching Charlie, I struck a match on my blue Jean leg and lit
up. The smoke was bitter and hot. I vowed I'd learn to inhale the
way older kids did, and the thought that my step dad would be
incensed at my smoking merely firmed my resolve to smoke as much as
I wanted, to carry my own load, to ignore him and be free of him. I
told myself that it was what my real father, Steven Senior, would
have done.
In my pants pocket I had the tips I'd earned and that I didn't let
Tony know about: two quarters, two dimes, and some pennies. That
day I had already broken my previous record by carrying thirteen
deliveries, and the store would not be closing for almost three
hours.
I knew I had considerable growing and building-up to do. Charlie
and the others outclassed me in every way. But I had a goal ahead
of me, a goal far beyond the grocery store, beyond Memphis.
By mid-September I was running thirty orders a day, and over fifty
on Saturdays. The savings account that Tony managed for me slowly
grew. Slowly. But as soon as it looked as if I might be getting
somewhere financially, I had to register for my last year of grammar
school. This meant that I could earn money only on Saturday
deliveries and on Sundays when I typed menus at the Tremont.
I began looking for more work and more money.
Continued...
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