I guess I had several “first” jobs. My very first time I received money for my time was when I was 6 and my Uncle Rocky needed me to bag rolls for the bakery shop store on Sunday mornings. After mass got out, especially 9 and 10:30, the line was out the door for bread and cakes and almost everyone wanted fresh rolls for Sunday breakfast or dinner. My Uncle, in front of my Dad, “interviewed me” to make me take the whole process serious. He offered me 10 cents and hour and, truth be told, I would have done it for free. The responsibility amped this 6 year old up. And I soon found out that I was on stage behind the counter. The crowd would include someone invariably who knew who I was and would call me out. I felt very important as the ladies who sold the goods would call out “half” or “dozen” and bang, I’d have to bag them lightning fast. I would bag them ahead of time on big days like Sundays in Lent and the big holidays. Bagging rolls brought me into the family business well enough but I wasn’t to spend too much time there until after college when I had a delivery route.

Our Bakery Store was mobbed after 9 AM MASS — Our bakery store was always mobbed after 9 AM MASS

The big first job for me and many other enterprising kids was “Paperboy.” Again, the job had a lot of responsibility and I took it very seriously. You had tio be twelve and apply for “working papers,” a technicality to protect us against child slavery. It was a real coming of age moment to get your working papers. My Mom was with me throughout the procedure which included an interview with the head of delivery at the Port Chester Daily Item, downtown in the town square.

This included my Mom putting up a bond for me so they were never on the hook for me running off with their money. Once I passed the interview, I was handed my “book” with a page for each customer (maybe I had 50 customers) and my paper bag. This was a canvas sack that would hold all my papers. They dropped the papers off in front of my house in a wired bundle and I filled up my sack and off I went. The director took me around the first day and showed me the ropes. Everyone seemed to get a paper in those days. Besides citizens, the bak, the local bar, a couple of hair salons, even the firehouse.

Then on Thursdays we’d collect for the week before. If I remember correctly, a weeks papers cost 75 cents which left a perfect 25 cents for a tip if they gave me dollar. I would knock and yell out, “Collect!” and they would search for the money and pay me off. I loved it and soon became a coin collector with all the change flowing through my hands. There are several stories that have stayed with me all my life that must be told.

One summer, August 7, 1962 to be exact, I stopped in to drop off the paper to the bar, Manley’s on Irving Avenue. Manleys would figure into this young drinker when I was 18. But the bartender would offer this 12 year old a soda once in a while and this Tuesday was particularly hot and they had the Yankee game on. I remember it like it was yesterday because Tony Kubek was back from military service and at his first at bat, he hits a home run. Like I said, I’ll never forget it.

But there is one more episode that is indelible in my memory, and certainly not so joyous. Prospect Street was a block away from my home and I had just a few more deliveries to make. It was that same sluggish and hot summer where everything moved in slow motion and the only thing you could hear were the cicadas in the air, buzzing and rattling out of their shells. So up Prospect Street, past the Elks’ big house on the corner was a rooming house where I had several accounts. As I walked up the hill to the house, a large Victorian with a broad stairway, I detected a fight or something similar coming from inside and upstairs. The front door was wide open and normal for a Saturday. The punching and falling and smacking around got louder. It sounded like someone was getting beaten up. And soon I found out I wasn’t far off because eventually the fight made it to the front door and it wasn’t a fight, not a fair one for sure. It was a young, tough guy newlywed beating up his young blond bride who just sobbed and screeched for help. No one helped. I saw heads peak out around their window shades but no one intervened. I stood there frozen as the tough guy looked at me and screamed, “What are you going to do about it?” Well, I certainly didn’t even have a response much less a reaction to help. He was muscle-bound and a man. I was a twelve-year old kid with a bag of papers over my shoulder.

Once he realized he was still the tough guy, he hauled off and kicked her down the front stairs until she rolled onto the gravel driveway. I saw blood. I wanted to help. Really I did but I never saw such evil right in front of my eyes before. He dragged her into the front seat of the car and after another slap across the face, he drove off. My shaking didn’t stop as I delivered the last of my papers. Luckily I didn’t have to collect because I surely did not want to come eye to eye to the cowards who lived there. When I got home I told my parents of the incident and my Mom called the police. Turns out they knew all about him and were waiting for the right time to arrest him. My dad said that wouldn’t change things. He would probably beat her harder when he got out.

As I said, it’s like it was yesterday and if only I could walk up to that piece of garbage now. I still feel guilty that I had nothing to offer her when her eyes locked into mine searching for help. Remember, I was twelve and I had the freedom to walk in a twelve block radius around town, cross streets, walk into buildings, sometimes even into people’s apartments waiting to get paid. It was a job I was proud to have and love to talk about but one where I learned that life wasn’t pretty. That young blushing brides could get the stuffing beat out of them by their own husbands and most of the neighborhood looked the other way. Whew.

A 12-Year-Old’s First Job - and First View of Evil