In
my mid-teens I worked for one Joe Zagarri who
owned
and operated a St. Louis Post Dispatch
Newspaper
Route in the St. Louis Area. I rolled
and
tied newspapers in the cargo area of Joe’s
International
Harvester utility van weekdays after
school.
And on late Saturday evenings, early Sunday
mornings
we delivered the Post’s gigantic paper.
Joe
paid me and a friend of mine $10 a week. We
rolled
hundreds of papers and used a machine which
clanked
along tying the papers with string into a knot.
By
the end of Joe’s territory after all the papers had
been
delivered, my friend, Dennis, and I had black
hands
and streaks of newspaper ink on our faces.
On
rainy or snowy days we would hand wrap each
paper
individually in a plastic sleeve. Joe, not trusting
the
accuracy of our throw, pitched the papers out his
window
onto the lawns or porches of his subscribers
as
he drove. It was a fast, furious and dirty job trying
to
keep up with Joe as he negotiated neighborhood
after
neighborhood of his extended route.
What
stands out most in my mind remembering my
job
with Joe way back then was the cramped quarters
and
pungent smell of than utility van on Saturday
evenings
especially. Not only were those Sunday
papers
stacked row after row to the ceiling, but Joe
enlisted
the help of his two grown brothers, Vince and
Dino.
Had their last name, Zagarri, not tipped you off
previously,
the brothers three were of Italian decent.
Now,
I personally have nothing against Italians, a warm
hearted
and boisterous people, I’d say (I am of Greek
heritage
myself), but late Saturday into early Sunday
morning
the confines of that International Harvester
reeked
of newspaper print, garlic, sweat and the
blaring
conversation of bickering brothers. It was a
potent
combination, the residual of which remains
permeating
in my brain to this day. And that not-
withstanding,
for a paltry $10 a week, Dennis and
I,
we most certainly worked our asses off for way
too
cheap.
-30-
Chris
Hanch 3-6-2020
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