Before I became a paperboy, the older paperboys let me know the funnest part about the job was "crewing". I'm not sure, but "crewing" might have stood for "reCRUITing" or "sending the CREW out". It was one night a week when paperboys were sent out to go door-to-door to try and sign new subscriptions for the paper. When I finally got a paper route, I was so happy to be able to eligible for this sacred rite.
Crewing night was very formulaic. Typically it began like this: all the neighborhood paperboys met at my house to get picked up my our route manager. During the years when Matt, our disproportionately huge-butted manager, oversaw us, we would hear the sounds of Heavy D's "Now That We Found Love" echoing off the nearby assisted living apartments, announcing Matt's arrival. Matt would show up in his car, named "The Bomb". Only two doors and zero seat-belts were functional.
We were driven to The Hour's building on Main Avenue, and entering there, I have to admit, was pretty cool. Huge printing presses flanked our left as we walked into the large newsroom floor. I remember recognizing the name of the sports editor's cubicle. To twelve year-olds from Norwalk, The Hour might as well have been The New York Times. The very first time we walked in, my neighbor and fellow paperboy exclaimed "this is where the magic happens" , like it was Willy Wonka's factory. On the walk up to the cafeteria meeting room through the newsroom, I would hypnotically stare at Matt's pendulating rear. Seriously, it must have been caused by localized Gigantism.
All the other paperboys going crewing around the city that night were sent upstairs to the cafeteria. What met us there was from our perspective a pizza party. From Hour employees' perspective, they needed to make sure we had the sales pitch down pat. We were each called up to rehearse with an Hour staffer. Of course, when you're twelve, more important than getting the sales pitch right would be to play it cool in front of our friends, and give a goofy speech. The adults did not take kindly to that and I was dressed down every other week. Matt would sit in the corner munching pizza. One time I through a cup of soda at a paperboy who said I liked a girl I didn't. Always, on the way out of the building we'd pass the supply closet and steal bags of rubberbands. We didn't need them, it was just because we could. If that sounds wrong, at least know that Karma eventually got back to me - the piles of rubberbands in my bedroom were later used as a litterbox my kitten, Cinnamon.
We were driven to The Hour's building on Main Avenue, and entering there, I have to admit, was pretty cool. Huge printing presses flanked our left as we walked into the large newsroom floor. I remember recognizing the name of the sports editor's cubicle. To twelve year-olds from Norwalk, The Hour might as well have been The New York Times. The very first time we walked in, my neighbor and fellow paperboy exclaimed "this is where the magic happens" , like it was Willy Wonka's factory. On the walk up to the cafeteria meeting room through the newsroom, I would hypnotically stare at Matt's pendulating rear. Seriously, it must have been caused by localized Gigantism.
All the other paperboys going crewing around the city that night were sent upstairs to the cafeteria. What met us there was from our perspective a pizza party. From Hour employees' perspective, they needed to make sure we had the sales pitch down pat. We were each called up to rehearse with an Hour staffer. Of course, when you're twelve, more important than getting the sales pitch right would be to play it cool in front of our friends, and give a goofy speech. The adults did not take kindly to that and I was dressed down every other week. Matt would sit in the corner munching pizza. One time I through a cup of soda at a paperboy who said I liked a girl I didn't. Always, on the way out of the building we'd pass the supply closet and steal bags of rubberbands. We didn't need them, it was just because we could. If that sounds wrong, at least know that Karma eventually got back to me - the piles of rubberbands in my bedroom were later used as a litterbox my kitten, Cinnamon.
We usually had some time before our manager met us in the parking lot to drive us out (probably finishing up that pizza), and we always made a stop at the convenience store across the parking lot. My neighbor walking in joke-yelling "yo, I want some condoms!" I bought video game magazines that promised all the Mortal Kombat II moves (and so spent money which made me want to spend more money). It soon got time to go, and best to go out with a bang. That particular store had a walled-off section referred to as "The Corner", and was stocked floor-to-ceiling with adult magazines. There was a notice reading that no one under 18 was allowed in "The Corner". When you put a sign like that up, you're guaranteed twelve year olds are going to be running in there. The store owner would chase us out and we'd run over to meet Matt at The Bomb.
Truthfully, the funnest part of crewing was now over. We were usually dropped off at some apartment complex and then our manager took off. We weren't even given a list of current subscribers. If there was a playground in the complex we goofed around a bit, talked about "The Corner". One time my brother and our neighbor snuck a dead bird into another paperboy's rolled up sample newspapers, and the bird fell out while he was speaking to a potential subscriber. We did also ring a lot of doorbells trying to sell The Hour, usually out of boredom, and also because there were about $10 kickbacks for each new subscription we secured. The sales speech we were instructed to give usually morphed into an unenthusiastic "Do you get The Hour? {No}Do you want The Hour? {No}" The people we pitched to living in those apartments seemed unaccustomed to interacting with kids. I remember most often being met by grimy men in t-shirts, seeming-single, probably in the middle of cooking dinner. They always looked like the strangers in those school videos warning us not to take candy from strangers. I also remember a lot of smelly apartments: stale food, pee. One time a dog ripped through a screen door to bark at me...when the owner showed up, I didn't really have anything to do except try to sell him a subscription (he said no). One time we were dropped off in a complex a little on the ghetto side, were people peaking out out through chain-locked doors, sometimes with beads (at that time, a gang symbol - we all play-scared ourselves to thinking we were going to getting shot - and I never found out in that neighborhood which gang blue beads represented ).
It was rare to sign a subscription - maybe I got one every other crewing night. One huge night I got two or three. We were almost exclusively paperboys, but the one papergirl that came with us consistently got more subscriptions that the rest of us combined. Total sexism - there's something that makes it easier to say "no" to doofy middle schools boys than a sweet little girl.
I can't recall why, but I have an association between crewing and The Simpsons, so crewing must have taken place on a Thursday night. I think the goal was to get back in time to catch the episode (after pizza was over, the only other thing to look forward to). So away we went, approaching the old ladies' home in The Bomb, blasting "Now That We Found Love". I don't think The Hour employs paperboys anymore, so there must not be any more crewing. I don't think "The Corner" is there anymore, and The Simpsons isn't on Thursday nights now. Heavy D died two years ago - The Bomb probably died twenty years ago. With the collapse of local newspapers, I wonder how long The Hour will still be around. It's become a lost era, but a weekly highlight of my otherwise crummy middle school years. I glad I got to be part of the crew.
Truthfully, the funnest part of crewing was now over. We were usually dropped off at some apartment complex and then our manager took off. We weren't even given a list of current subscribers. If there was a playground in the complex we goofed around a bit, talked about "The Corner". One time my brother and our neighbor snuck a dead bird into another paperboy's rolled up sample newspapers, and the bird fell out while he was speaking to a potential subscriber. We did also ring a lot of doorbells trying to sell The Hour, usually out of boredom, and also because there were about $10 kickbacks for each new subscription we secured. The sales speech we were instructed to give usually morphed into an unenthusiastic "Do you get The Hour? {No}
It was rare to sign a subscription - maybe I got one every other crewing night. One huge night I got two or three. We were almost exclusively paperboys, but the one papergirl that came with us consistently got more subscriptions that the rest of us combined. Total sexism - there's something that makes it easier to say "no" to doofy middle schools boys than a sweet little girl.
I can't recall why, but I have an association between crewing and The Simpsons, so crewing must have taken place on a Thursday night. I think the goal was to get back in time to catch the episode (after pizza was over, the only other thing to look forward to). So away we went, approaching the old ladies' home in The Bomb, blasting "Now That We Found Love". I don't think The Hour employs paperboys anymore, so there must not be any more crewing. I don't think "The Corner" is there anymore, and The Simpsons isn't on Thursday nights now. Heavy D died two years ago - The Bomb probably died twenty years ago. With the collapse of local newspapers, I wonder how long The Hour will still be around. It's become a lost era, but a weekly highlight of my otherwise crummy middle school years. I glad I got to be part of the crew.
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