From When I Had a Dad

I don’t know why mom let me go to work with dad at one in the morning. When I was eight. It was our little secret. Something the other kids at school didn’t get to do. While they were deep in slumber like children do in the early hours of a Sunday morning, storing up sleep for soccer games and earning sugar cereal I could never convince mom to buy, I was doing what the adults do: work.

We awoke early. If we were late, we’d miss the fresh donuts by six and the neighbors would wonder what in the world had happened since yesterday’s delivery. I don’t remember if I brushed my teeth, but I think I changed my clothes and I know I put on shoes.

“You ready, kid?” Dad asked just above a whisper.

“I can’t find my jacket.” My organizational skills didn’t kick in until high school and at this point “cleaning” meant shoving everything under the bed.

“Just grab whatever you can find, I’m sure your sister has something.”

The drive was dark, and the warehouse was big—bright. Tall ceilings beyond the roll-up door that jolted you awake when it opened if you weren’t already. The smell of ink made me nauseous and I immediately felt like I could puke.

Pull it together. Don’t be a baby.

I find my station next to dad at a table with at least one other guy who has his own route. He’s nice, but he calls me “Big Al” and I’ve never liked a name less, to this day. It’s a man’s name. I am not a man. I do not own a repair shop or fix toilets for a living. I am a worker, not a plumber or a sports bar and I don’t have a beard or a belly. But I guess it makes me one of the guys.

I roll up the oversized, too-long sleeves of the blue pull-over hoodie I borrowed off the couch. The waist touches my knees and the shoulder line slouches off to the side making it difficult to grab each newspaper when I reach. 

“You lookin’ for a job there, Al? You’re pretty good at that, you know,” the man across from me asks. “I think you might have a thing or two to teach some of these old guys!” 

I’m too shy to reply but smile and chuckle under my breath before grabbing the next paper from dad’s ink-stained hand. I fold the paper in half and add it to the top of my pile.

“Finished,” I announce as dad walks behind me to tie my stack with plastic twine.

We make a great team.

Once we load each of my carefully stacked piles into the tan and rust-stained station wagon—the one with the bench seats and the loud doors, we shuffle into position.

Whack! Our doors slam in tandem.

“Ready to get this show on the road?” Dad asks as he reaches for the radio dial.

“Ready!”

With my head barely above the dash and dad’s farmer-tanned arm already perched in position where the window disappears, I click my seatbelt into place and we begin our drive.

Dad’s lucky he’s a lefty.   

We didn’t talk much, although this must have been when dad convinced me to perform The Shangri-Las “The Leader of the Pack” in my fourth-grade talent show. The time when the tape skipped, and I stood frozen with a thousand eyes staring and half a dozen tears falling onto my pink poodle skirt, wondering why I ever thought lip-synching to the classics was a good idea. I should have left performing to the girls in high-waisted black and white-striped shorts and oversized jerseys dancing to the 69 Boyz’s “Tootsee Roll.” I blame the nauseating smell of current events and the promise of fresh donuts for my compliance. Also, dad.

“Alright, you’re up.” Dad hands me a paper.

My only real job is hand-delivering newspapers to the doorsteps of rich old people too rich or too old to wander out to the end of their driveway looking for their copy of The San Diego Union Tribune. Instead, they pay extra to have the daily news delivered to their doorstep where they can keep their bathrobes and morning breath to themselves.    

Must be nice.

Every couple of blocks I hop out of the car, newspaper in hand, run up five or six long steps, and place the goods on one intimidating doorstep or another. I love having a job, but as the morning drags on, I pray no one opens their door on me. I hate small talk and never know what to say.

By the end of our route, I wake up parked outside Heavenly Donuts. For my earnings, one large apple fritter I can never quite finish and a hot chocolate to fill in the gaps. An assorted dozen for the sleepers at home.

Better than eating Rice Krispies with sugar at the bottom. 

The drive home is short, and the sun is out. With a box of donuts on my lap, we listen to the local morning radio show—a repeat from earlier in the week. Even they are just rolling out of bed to put on a pot of coffee and scuffle outside for their Sunday paper, full of ads and the colored funnies, my favorite. 

Dad crashes on the yellow satin couch in the living room while I settle for three-quarters of my fritter followed by half a jelly-filled, the other half of which spills past my chin onto my chest. 

Missy is gonna kill me.

I’m tired but satisfied. This is the most time I ever get with dad. Maybe that’s why mom lets me go.