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The Columns (Volume One)
Tracy Lorenz
Copyright © 2012 Tracy K Lorenz
All the accounts in this book are true to the best of my fading memory.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
The Publisher makes no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any commercial damages.
2012-08-17
Dedication
To my son Q, the apple tree didn’t grow on the side of a hill.
Acknowledgments
I listed people in my last book and the one’s I didn’t list got mad at me. So thanks to everyone for all of your encouragement and support. Instead of listing individual names I’ll just put a blank and you can tell your friends that’s where your name should be.
I owe it all to ___________________________ if it wasn’t for him / her I never would have written a word.
Tracy
Tips
By Tracy K. Lorenz
Christmas was always a special time when I was a paperboy, not only did I get to dodge two kinds of bites (dog and frost), I got to try and work some tips out of my customers. Everyone on my route lived in a decent house, drove nice cars, and were just as friendly as could be all year long. But for some reason when Christmas time rolled around they developed deep pockets and a bad case of Bob Dole arm.
For the first few years I employed the time-tested “Do a good job and you’ll be rewarded” idiocy. I think I might have cleared ten bucks. Apparently people thought their paper appeared everyday via teleportation. That was the problem with being good at my job, no one noticed.
Well, I shouldn’t say no one. There was one woman on my route who was supposedly a witch. Not only was she a witch, her 14-year-old daughter was a witch too. I have no clue where the rumor came from because they looked and acted totally normal and the Mom was actually kind of hot.
Anyway, one day as I was trudging through the snow she came outside and said she had a Christmas present for me. Finally, someone appreciated my ability to open a door, toss a newspaper in, and close the door before the paper fell out the bottom. Cash-o-la was heading my way, I figured at least a twenty-spot because not only was I a diligent paper boy I was also always nice to her daughter the witch.
So she goes into the house and comes out with a baby food jar filled with homemade rock candy. The jar was spray painted with glitter and had a bow on it. I remember she made this big speech about how something homemade was so much better than mere money and the whole time I’m thinking “No it’s not.”
To add insult to the lack of a tip that folded, the candy was god-awful. Colorful, but awful. It’s only positive characteristic was when you tossed it on ice the ice would melt like the candy was molten. Every year she’d give me candy and every year my friends and I would marvel at how it melted ice like a hair dryer.
But I digress.
So after a couple years of doing the route the lack of appreciation I experienced every Christmas became a source of irritation. I decided to abandon trusting my customers to do the right thing. It was time for the wheel to squeak, squeak without making a noise.
At the time my Dad was the president of the local chapter of the American Cancer Society. Back then (and maybe now for all I know) you could buy your Christmas cards from the Cancer Society. They looked like regular Christmas cards but they said something like “These cards were purchased with a donation to the American Cancer Society” on the inside. Puzzle piece one.
My Dad gave me a bunch of “last years” cards to give to my customers. Puzzle piece two.
I decided not to just drop the card off with the paper, I would hand deliver every one. Ball game.
Those people didn’t stand a chance, I’d knock on their door all bundled up and rosy cheeked, I’d employ the big moop eyes and I’d say “I just wanted to drop off this Christmas card and say thank you for letting me deliver your paper.” And then I’d blink a couple times. The customer would, naturally, open the card and there was that Cancer Society logo. Those people were meat.
There’d usually be a moment of awkward silence and then the customer would say “Oh, and I have something for you too…” Then they’d go inside and come out with my just reward.
And no one escaped. It might have taken me three or four tries at some houses but everyone got a hand delivered card and everyone, and I mean everyone, greased my fuzzy little mitten with cash.
That’s one thing I miss about that route, the time to think. There were no iPods back then, no form of portable entertainment except your brain. For an hour and a half every night I had nothing to do but walk and think. If you give someone a goal (maximize tippage) and that much time eventually they’ll come up with a way to achieve it. The secret was putting the people in a position where if they didn’t yack up a couple bucks they’d look like a heel. Once that was achieved the rest was just a matter of taking the…candy.
Death
By Tracy K. Lorenz
I don’t often ask favors in this column but I’m about to now: I would respectfully request that people on or about my age quit dying; it’s freaking me out. Okay, Michael Jackson was 80% plastic and had more drugs in him than the front row of a Grateful Dead concert, and Billy Mays had a heart the size of a pumpkin, but they were still approximately my age and they still approximately keeled. I don’t remember that happening when I was ten.
This is how I saw my future unfolding. I’m the last of the “baby boom” generation. I figured all of the boomers ahead of me would be busting their butts curing everything so by the time I sauntered into middle age there’d be some gigantic Dick Clark miracle pill I could take so I could still leg out an infield hit when I was 75. Apparently that isn’t in the works so I probably better go with plan B.
THERE IS NO PLAN B!
All the money that’s been donated to health related research doesn’t appear to be doing any good. My great grandma lived to be 90-something and was still shoveling her own driveway when she was 88. My one grandma made it to 85 and the only time she put down her bottle of Drewry’s was to light a cigarette.
My other grandma planned on dying from the moment I met her. When my brothers and I were little and she was babysitting, she’d tell us what song she wanted played at her funeral and what bible verse she wanted read. She’d tell us how she wanted to be buried on the old family farm next to the chicken coop and at the time she was, like, fifty. She lived to be 86.
So
