“Let me see where I put that envelope. [An eternity passes before she returns.] Here you are. You know, you should smile more, Chris. You’re so handsome when you smile. ”

Cringe.

She was the lady in the pink housecoat at 320 Lincoln, and each Sunday she opened her side door to take the Herald and pay me my $1.10. Most people left the money in an envelope the night before, so I wouldn’t have to ring their bell and wake them up at 7 am, but Mrs. Walker seemed to enjoy paying me in person each week. It was a ritual in which she would interview me, with questions about my mother, or my dog, or my school projects, and I would fail miserably to communicate.

I am not a talker. And 50 years ago, I also was not a talker. Some of my customers would sit waiting for me to trudge up their front walkway to drop off their paper, and they would say nothing as they handed over the cash. They weren’t waiting for me, they were waiting for their news. Mrs. Walker waited for me.

But she insisted on standing out of view so that I would be forced to ring her bell first. I think she thought she was giving me acting lessons in customer service, and the scene each week had to begin with me ringing the bell, as if the director were shouting Action!

“Chris, are you playing Little League this year? John is the coach, right?”

Cringe.

Please don’t talk to me about sports, especially Little League. I’m so bad at the plate they call me the Living Statue. Too afraid to swing. And I tower over the 8- and 9-year-olds they put me with. Almost everyone else my age has moved on to the minors or the majors, running and fielding on the lush green outfield at Vets School or Belmonte, but I’m still stuck at Anna Parker in the mud.

“Would you tell your mother that Bill and I thought she sounded just wonderful at the Lions show? Do you have a lovely singing voice like her?”

Cringe.

“Why don’t you come by after school one day next week? Bill needs some help pulling out the bamboo in the back, and I’m sure you’d like to earn a little extra money for your magic tricks.”

Cringe. Why did I ever tell this woman I do magic? Face-slap.

My brother started this paper route by himself, and then he pulled me in so we could expand our range. Every Sunday starting at around 6:30, he’d go down one side of the street, and I’d take the other, in neighborhood after neighborhood. We’d race to see who could finish their side first before we moved on together. He always won.

We were almost done with our route now, and headed back up Lincoln Avenue. The Walkers’ yellow house was one of the last stops before the long walk home.

“Oh, I see John coming. I’ll let you boys keep working.”

Grown-ups love John Michael. Tall. Industrious. Athletic. Personable. I turn around and see him, glowering at me from three houses away one second before he casts a polite over-smile to Mrs. Walker. Suckup. He waves but doesn’t approach. Uh-oh. I took too long again. We’ve got to get moving, or else we’ll miss the crowd at St. Margaret’s leaving the 8 o’clock Mass. That’s where we make the real money, selling from a cart at the foot of the church steps. The home deliveries are just one part of our long Sunday mornings selling papers, and the more I dawdle the more it’ll cost us.

I take the envelope from Mrs. Walker, crank up the charm and beam her a full 40-watt grimace, and get the hell out of there.

“Aww that’s it. Thanks for that smile. So handsome. See you next Sunday, Chris.”