A Bells Toll

I heard the bell toll and wondered what it was like to die. An odd thought at the moment. I had only stepped into the kitchen to fetch my pills when I heard the church bell and felt death all around me. The kitchen had taken on a creepy day-of-the-funeral vibe. 

I imagined folks mingling in the kitchen. Family, friends, acquaintances. Engaged in small talk. Sipping coffee. Nibbling sandwiches. Exchanging memories about a life that often confused, amused, and sometimes distressed them.

‘He died doing what he loved. I’ll give him that.’

‘Too bad he never knew it until he neared the end.’

‘I know. We used to joke that he was a founding member of the Career of the Month Club. It made him smile, but I don’t think he thought it was funny. He was always serious about his endeavors.’

‘I know. But how did he end up a newspaper delivery man? Riding around the neighborhood, tossing papers from his old Schiwnn bicycle? The old fool!’

‘I know! It had tassels on the handles and a little bell that rang when you pushed it with your thumb.’

‘And that little wicker basket! I mean, really? Bit of an imbecile if you ask me.’

‘Well, nobody asked you. I think ending up with a career like that was pretty cool. It’s the way he started you know.’

‘For Christ’s sake! It’s how we all started! But we grew out of it!’

‘He never grew out of anything. He always wanted to be everything at once. That he ended the way he started is wonderful. A lovely full circle story.’

I did always want to be a newspaper delivery boy. When I was twelve years old, I’d see our neighbor’s fifteen year-old son Tom Lincoln fly by on his Schwinn bicycle without a care in the world. Flinging newspapers from one side of the street to the other. And no wily-nilly flings, either.  He always had a target in mind. It might be a rose bush, or it might be a pink flamingo. But never, ever, the front door. If you wanted to read your morning paper, you had better be prepared to  climb a tree or fish it out of your swimming pool. 

Tom didn’t keep the job very long. I remember looking out my window a few weeks after he started his paper route and seeing a U-Haul truck in the Lincoln’s driveway. I also remember seeing my dad struggling to retrieve a lawn mower that Tom’s dad was attempting to put on the rental truck.

‘Where on earth do you think you’re going with that?’ said my dad.

‘Oh, is this yours?’ said Tom’s dad. ‘Sorry. I thought it came with the house. Are you sure it’s yours?’

‘Damn sure!’ said my dad.

‘Hey!’ said another neighbor. ‘What’s my garbage can doing in your truck. It’s got my house number right there in big bold numbers! What’s going on here?’

The rest of the neighbors soon gathered and spent the remainder of Saturday morning retrieving borrowed items from Mr. Lincoln’s rented U-Haul truck. After many harsh words and the wagging of fingers in Mr. Lincoln’s face, my dad and the neighbors decided not to press charges. 

‘Oh, come on now! Is that my jacket you’re wearing! Geez!” my dad said. “Please, just leave and don’t ever come back!’

 After the neighbors left with their things there was nothing much left in the moving van but a few miscellaneous pieces of furniture, assorted boxes and Tom’s Schwinn bicycle.

When Tom Saw me eyeing the truck he came over and asked me if I wanted his job.

“They don’t know I’m not coming back,” he said. “But if you show up with your bike tomorrow I’m sure they’ll let you deliver papers. they’re not to fussy as long as you show up on time. They were ready to fire me anyways. Said I was reckless with my tosses. But I figured a kids gotta have some fun in this boring town.”

I told Tom I didn’t have a bike yet. Maybe by Christmas.

“Listen” said Tom. “If you promise to do a reckless toss once in a while I’ll let you take the Schwinn. It’s a pretty sweet ride, but I’m sure they’ll have sweet rides in New Jersey. My dad’s pretty good at finding things. Too good. that’s why we have to move. Again. 

“And make sure you lock it up when you’re not riding. Bikes are way too easy to steal. You just never know who’s sneaking around your neighborhood after dark. Happy riding, kid.”

That was the last I saw of young Mr. Lincoln. And there wasn’t much fuss about scoring his newspaper route. I always showed up on time and it was the most care-free and joyous job I ever had. I was no Tom Lincoln when it cane to flinging. I hit the door every time. And, unless I’m really dead, I’ll be hitting it again tomorrow. 

To hell with the neighbors think. You can climb a corporate ladder and keep up with the Joneses if you like. Me? I’ll stick with the Schwinn’s.

Photo courtesy of Wiki Pics:https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=bicycle+paperboys&title...