by Kirk Watson
John’s face lit up. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Finn! You’ll see!”
“Just don’t go and get yourself killed out there, okay? I’d never be able to face your father. Now, I need you to try and deliver as many of these papers as you can, but if it gets too dangerous, you turn around and come back immediately. You hear me?”
“Yes, sir! You can count on me.”
“Well, come on, then. Let’s get you stocked up.”
Mr. Finn took John inside and hung half a dozen satchels around his neck, stuffing each with as many papers as the little squirrel could carry. John buttoned his oversized coat around the papers to keep them dry, afterwards looking like a stuffed cabbage.
Mr. Finn handed him a stack of subscriber cards. “Do you know all these addresses, John?”
“Yes, sir,” John said. “I know Langley like the back of my paw. I’ve lived here my entire life.”
“Your entire life, huh?” Mr. Finn asked dubiously, saying a silent prayer. “Well, you better hurry, John. Off you go.”
John turned and walked out the back door. Mr. Finn watched as the young squirrel waddled into the dark, struggling as the driving rain threatened to topple him over.
“Good luck, son!” Mr. Finn called after him.
Lightning flashed, and for a brief moment Mr. Finn saw John wave a paw in the distance. Then the sky went black. Mr. Finn stared into the dark, but when the lightning next flashed, John was gone.
Mr. Finn went back inside, sat at his desk, and pulled a flask from the drawer. “Heaven help us,” he said, taking a pull.
Three hours passed, then four, five, and six. Mr. Finn paced through the printing press, checking his pocket watch every few minutes. He looked through the window and saw the rain had begun to let up.
“Where is that squirrel?” he asked out loud, drumming his fingers against the glass. “He’s been gone too long.”
He snapped his watch shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. Grabbing his coat, he headed for the back door, but before he could reach it, the door swung open. There stood John, thoroughly soaked and covered in mud. He took two steps inside the pressroom and collapsed to the floor.
Mr. Finn grabbed a blanket and ran to him. “John! Are you okay?”
John rolled over, shivering, and blinked up at the fox. “Yes, sir,” he said in a weak voice. “We did it. We delivered the paper.”
“Every last one?” Mr. Finn asked, wrapping the blanket around John.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, holding out his paw. “Here.”
Mr. Finn looked down at the four copper coins in John’s outstretched paw. “What is this?”
“I collected Mrs. Schilling’s balance.” John closed his eyes and laid his head back on the floor.
Mr. Finn stared down at the squirrel incredulously. “John, how in blazes did you—”
But John wasn’t moving.
A tremor of fear ran through Mr. Finn. “John?”
John lay still on the floor.
Mr. Finn scooped him up in his arms and shook him gently, but John’s eyes remained closed. “No, no, no! Don’t you do this to me, John!” Desperate, he pulled out his flask and dribbled a few drops into John’s open mouth. For a moment, the little squirrel’s whiskers quivered, then his eyes burst open.
“Whoo!” John exclaimed, coughing at the burning liquid.
Mr. Finn sighed in relief, patting him on the back. “Easy, son. Just breathe. That’s better. It’s smooth, no?”
“What was that?” John asked, his mouth puckering.
Mr. Finn chuckled, taking a sip from the flask. “Trust me, you’ll like it when you’re older—but let’s keep this between the two of us. No need to tell your father, okay? You gave me quite a scare, John. For a moment there, I thought I’d lost you.”
John blinked in confusion. “Lost me? Don’t worry, Mr. Finn; I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Mr. Finn chuckled again. “Of course you will. And I’ll have a job waiting for you. You really saved my tail today, you know? If there’s ever anything you need, you just ask me.”
John smacked his lips at the liquor’s foul aftertaste. “Do you have any cocoa?”
Whirr-hiss-bump-whirr-hiss-bump.
John steered his bicycle across the meadow towards the wealthiest neighborhood of his paper route. The stately trees were visible from miles away: oaks, elms, and sycamores, their roots as old as the families that lived within. John often wondered what treasures lay inside the splendid homes, but he had to content himself with the occasional glimpse as the dignified residents left him standing in the doorway. Sometimes in the foyers there would be grand clocks with windows that exposed the mechanical gears turning inside; John was amazed at the grandeur of the devices, though he wondered how the occupants could sleep through the chimes that rang out every quarter hour. Other times, the door would be answered by a servant in fine livery. At first, John mistook these well-dressed greeters for the homeowners—how else could they afford such elegant clothes?
“You have a beautiful home,” John had said to one butler, a ferret dressed in a black coat and tie.
“Thank you, sir,” the butler had replied, dropping a few coins from his white-gloved paw into John’s own. Despite the butler’s rigid manner, John thought he caught the hint of a smile on his face as he closed the door. Not long after, John had realized his mistake and became acutely aware of Langley’s different economic statuses. Doctors, lawyers, and politicians lived in these homes—the ‘haves,’ as his father described them, and John was definitely of the ‘have-nots.’
But John did not let this bother him. He aimed his bicycle at the familiar bump along the path and pedaled faster, hitting the ridge with great speed and jumping over the stream. He veered left to take a shortcut through Old Farmer McIntosh’s carrot patch. The old rabbit came running out from his burrow, shaking his hoe and cursing at John, as he did most every day, though the curses seemed particularly colorful this morning. John grinned as he pedaled away, patting the crooked handlebars of his trusty bicycle.
It had taken him quite some time to save up for the bicycle. After Mr. Finn had given him a job (making him the Post’s youngest paperboy), John began storing his meager earnings in a coffee can he kept hidden under his bed. Three months later, his father had discovered the quickly growing collection of coins. William was impressed at his son’s discipline, noting most other boys his age would have wasted the money on frivolities. But he need not have worried; even at a young age, John was remarkably frugal, refusing to spend a single cent if he could avoid it.
Nevertheless, William insisted John put half the money away for college, a suggestion John had readily agreed to. John thought of all the beautiful homes along his paper route and all the wealthy people that lived inside those beautiful homes, and he was determined to become one of them some day. His father impressed on him that he could do it, but only if he received an education first.
“Don’t be like me,” William had told his young son, “working yourself to the bone and not having two acorns to show for it. You go to school and make something of yourself. I know you can do it, John. Thankfully, you got your smarts from your mother, God rest her soul.”
So, John diligently saved the money Mr. Finn paid him every other Friday, ritualistically dropping the coins into the coffee can with a satisfying clink. But as much as he dreamed of going to college, there was another dream that obsessed him even more: a bicycle.
John was the only paperboy at the Langley Post without a bicycle, and since he had to walk his route, it took him twice as long as the other paperboys to finish his deliveries. As a result, Mr. Finn only assigned him the neighborhoods closest to the printing press. John knew these weren’t the most affluent neighborhoods, and the middle-class subscribers that lived there often struggled to pay their bills. He listened with envy as the other paperboys boasted about the fat tips they received from their wealthy clients.
He knew the only way he could service these rich
customers was if he had a bicycle, but bicycles were quite expensive in those days. His father listened sympathetically, wishing he could afford to give his son the money, but William didn’t have any to spare. He encouraged John to save what he could, promising he would keep an eye out for a used one.
Months passed. Then one day, while eating dinner, William uttered the words John had waited so long to hear: “John, I may have found you a bicycle.”
John was so excited he nearly leapt out of his chair, but his father insisted he finish his dinner before he would take him to see it. John shoveled the acorn mash into his cheeks until they puffed out, then ran to his bedroom to retrieve his coffee can full of coins. William chuckled as he put on his coat, then walked his son to the edge of the business district.
There in the pawnshop window leaned a dilapidated old bicycle. Its chain drooped and its seat cover was torn. Its bald tires could best be described as roundish, and its color rusty-brown. It was a tired, sad bicycle. John loved it immediately.
The bell on the pawnshop door rang as the two squirrels entered. Behind a glass counter filled with pocket watches sat a chubby weasel chomping on a cigar. The weasel looked up from his racing forms and regarded the two customers, but soon decided they weren’t wealthy enough to bother. He returned his attention to his forms, studying the records of the rabbits who would be racing on Saturday.
Unperturbed, John walked up to the counter, his head barely peeking over its top. “Excuse me, I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window.”
The weasel set down his racing forms and looked down at the young squirrel. “You would, would you?”
“Yes, how much is it?”
“Well, that’s one fine piece of machinery,” the weasel said, rubbing his chin. “I was thinking of keeping it for myself. But I like your face, kid. Tell you what—you can have it for ten silver.”
“Ten silver!” John exclaimed. “That’s outrageous!”
The weasel took the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at him. “That bicycle cost twenty silver brand new.”
“But it’s all rusty, and the wheels look like they’re about to fall off.”
“And that’s why it’s only ten silver.”
John thought hard for a moment. “I can’t afford ten. I’ll give you five.”
“Five! Ho-ho! We’ve got a joker here.” The weasel chomped down on his cigar. “It cost me more than five just to buy it. No way I can take five; I have a business to run.”
“I’ll give you five,” John repeated.
“Look, kid, the bicycle costs ten. Take it or leave it.”
John looked to his father, who just shrugged.
“All right, mister,” John said to the weasel, “I’ll leave it—for now. But I’ll be back tomorrow.” He and his father turned to leave the pawnshop.
“Oh no!” the weasel replied, holding his paws to his face in mock fear. “The little squirrel’s coming back! Har! Well, you know where to find me. But if you do come back, you better bring ten silver with you!”
John cast a stern look back at the weasel, who just smiled and crossed his arms. John narrowed his eyes and slowly backed out the door, the bell ringing as he pulled it shut behind him.
The weasel picked up his racing forms and chuckled. “Damn squirrels…”
The next day, after finishing his paper route, John returned to the pawnshop. The weasel watched bemusedly from behind his racing forms as the squirrel approached the counter.
“I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window,” John said.
“So, the little squirrel has come to his senses,” the weasel said, setting his forms down. “I knew you’d be back. Did you bring the ten silver?”
“I’ll give you five.”
The weasel stared down at him. “Listen, kid, I don’t know what your problem is. Maybe you don’t hear so well; maybe you’re a little slow. Like I told you before, the price is ten silver. Ten.” He traced the number in the air with a finger. “That’s a one followed by a zero.”
“I’ll give you five,” John said, tracing a five in the air.
The weasel picked up his racing forms. “Get out of my store; you’re wasting my time.”
“All right, mister,” John said, “but I’ll be back tomorrow.” He turned to leave.
“Don’t you bother coming back unless it’s with ten silver!” the weasel called after him.
The next day, John returned to the pawnshop. The weasel watched him warily over his racing forms, chomping on his cigar as he approached the counter.
“You again?” the weasel said. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window,” John replied.
“Yes, I know you would like to buy the bicycle in the window. You told me yesterday, and the day before. And like I told you then, the price is still ten silver.”
“I’ll give you five.”
The weasel set down his cigar and stood. He stared down at John with a menacing look, but John held his ground, staring back with what he hoped was an equally menacing look. After a few minutes, the weasel cracked.
“Get out!” he shouted, pointing at the door. “Get out of my store! You’re wasting my time. And don’t you come back, you damn squirrel!”
“All right, mister,” John said, “but I’ll be back tomorrow.”
The weasel sat back down on his stool and chomped angrily on his cigar, watching with narrowed eyes as John left the pawnshop.
The next day, John returned to the pawnshop, but this time the weasel was waiting for him at the front door. He cracked the door open, but didn’t let John pass through.
“What are you doing here, little squirrel?” the weasel asked. “I told you not to come back.”
“I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window,” John said.
“Everyday it’s the same thing with you. ‘I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window, I’d like to buy the bicycle in the window.’ What part of ‘ten silver’ don’t you understand?”
“I’ll give you five.”
The weasel slammed the door so hard that the bell almost fell off.
“All right, mister,” John called through the door, “but I’ll be back tomorrow!”
A shudder ran down the weasel’s spine, for he knew the squirrel would be back.
Every day for two weeks, John returned to the pawnshop, and every day the weasel shooed him away, sometimes brandishing a broom and chasing him out. But before leaving, John always declared, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
On the third week, the weasel was nearing a breakdown. Sitting behind the counter, he looked at his watch:
5:28 pm.
He glanced up at the pawnshop door, then back at his watch.
5:29 pm.
He watched nervously as the second hand made another sweep across the dial.
5:30 pm.
Right on time, the bell rang as the pawnshop door swung open. For a long moment, John just stood there in the doorway, his little frame backlit by the setting sun.
The weasel shielded his eyes with a paw. “Is that you again, you damn squirrel? Go on, get out of here!”
But John did not leave. The weasel pursed his lips as John slowly crossed the pawnshop floor, his coffee can jingling with each step.
Ching, ching, ching, ching.
John stopped in front of the counter and peered over its edge. The weasel stood, placed his cigar in the ashtray, and looked down at him. For several moments, the two stared at each other, neither speaking. A trickle of sweat appeared on the weasel’s brow. He took a deep breath. “Okay, kid, how about we make it seven?”
“I’ll give you five,” John replied.
The weasel slumped back down on his stool, defeated. “Fine, kid. Make it five. It’ll be worth it just to be rid of you. But promise me you’ll never come back to my store!”
“Deal!”
“Very well, now hand it over,” the weasel said, holding out his paw. “That’s five silver.”
Jo
hn brought up his coffee can and set it on the counter with a loud jingle. Standing on his tiptoes, he reached in to pull the coins out one-by-one. The weasel groaned when he saw the coins were not silver.
“One… two… three…” John counted, sliding each copper coin slowly across the glass counter top. The weasel gritted his teeth and tapped his fingers impatiently, but John ignored him, eventually assembling ten neat rows of ten copper coins. “There, that’s one hundred copper, or five silver.”
“So it is,” the weasel said, “so it is.”
He stood to sneak a glance into John’s coffee can and almost bit his cigar in two—the can was still nearly full. The weasel clinched his fists, looking as if his eyes might pop. He blinked at John speechlessly, but John just smiled back at him.
After a long moment, the weasel sat back down and sighed. He began to chuckle. “Say, kid, you ever thought about a job in the pawn industry?”
“Sorry, mister,” John replied, “I’m a newspaperman.”
Whirr-hiss-bump-whirr-hiss-bump.
And so John came to own his beloved bicycle. The other paperboys sneered at the rusty contraption, but John didn’t let it bother him. Now that he no longer had to walk his paper route, he quickly doubled his deliveries. Mr. Finn was so impressed that he assigned John the wealthiest neighborhoods, much to the other paperboys’ chagrin.
It was to one of these wealthy neighborhoods that John was headed on this fine morning. He veered his bicycle off the dirt path and onto the cobblestone street leading into the staid orchard. Blowing by the guard station, he tipped his cap to the old fox residing within.
“Slow down, you rapscallion!” the guard called after him, shaking his fist.
John grinned, ignoring both the guard and the creaks from his trusty bicycle as it shook over the cobblestones. He turned onto Orchard Lane. The homes lining the street were impressive, to be sure, but John felt they were rather sterile. They each had large yards surrounded by hedges that acted as privacy fences, isolating each home from its neighbors. John had asked his father why rich people would want to live so close together, yet never see one another. William had pondered the question for a moment before answering, “I guess rich people like to show off their things to one another, but they don’t particularly care to share them.”