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From: Incest Man <familyincest@graffiti.net>
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Subject: story: "The Adventures of Me and Martha Jane" (bf mF mF+) Part 9A
Date: Sat, 12 Aug 2006 14:15:07 -0700
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http://www.incesttabooo.com/mathaj.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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