I Remember Geneva: February 2010

He Was Nick Sometimes

One of my less frequent school buddies was Stevie, a slightly built, blonde haired boy who lived a few blocks away on North Fifth Street. A “less frequent” pal was the one you might befriend at school, a birthday party or some other type of adult mandated get-together where both of you needed the mutual accompaniment of another person to allow for the quicker passage of the obligatory time period.
Yes, you were friends but not always the kind who would see you on weekends or after school on a regular basis. Over the years, some friends swam in and out of the little friendship pond like so many fish around a baited hook.
Stevie was one of them.
Being much closer to Fourth Street School, his house was a natural stopping off point at the end of the school day. His mom was nice to his friends, sometimes serving a snack along with a glass of milk. Those of us who stopped by and were not fans of milk, quickly learned how to request a short glass with various excuses: “No thanks, I’m pretty full from drinking water,” or “just a little, my mom doesn’t want me to ruin my appetite,” we might say.
“Ruin your appetite” was another one of those adult phrases that we all knew as kids to be just an excuse. It made them feel better that they were doing it for our own good.
But it really meant, “no, because you’re a little pig”.
The “ruined appetite” excuse always meant less cookies or one of the other various treats someone had made or could be given. That excuse was used when we couldn’t think of anything better.
Stevie’s dad seemed to be older than our dads.
(I remember thinking how astonished I must have appeared from the odd look Stevie gave me when he told me his dad was born in 1913 – a clear seven years earlier than my own dad).
“Wow! Your dad is really really old!” I informed him after doing the mental arithmetic.
But his mom was much younger, Stevie informed me. “Like at least twenty years younger!”
We looked at her in awe when she came out on their front porch to ask us if we wanted any milk with the cookies we were eating.
“Sure, I mean yes, please,” I said, my manners suddenly descending on me like a curtain upon a stage.
Apparently, I was calculating that by being courteous and accepting milk, there might be more treats in store for me.
Yes, I was a little pig!
“Do ya think she knows how old your dad is?” I whispered to Stevie.
“I don’t think so,” said Stevie. “Cause my dad winked when he told me, like it was a secret or something. I bet my sisters don’t even know.”
With a family of two, older red-haired sisters and a younger brother, Stevie was very adept at knowing how to maintain civility when dealing with girls and siblings.
Secrets, such as what Stevie described were difficult to keep, especially when one had older sisters.
I knew that; sometimes, it seemed I had half a dozen or more older sisters.
But a dad that told his son secrets? This was profound news to me!
Heck, my dad only told me stuff like tuck in your shirt or wipe your nose. Nothing that could be considered inside knowledge.
“Have ya told your mom?” I asked.
Stevie shook his head and held his finger to his lips, “Shh, my mom might hear us and maybe get mad”
Stevie and his family lived on North Fifth Street in what was termed a Dutch Colonial. It was a lengthy, ramshackle home with an enclosed front porch and a yard surrounded by a white picket fence.
It was interesting inside, very different than my old house on Sixth Street. In the rear of the house, past their dining room was a study, or den with bookcases that held various books and natural history publications.
His parents had inherited the house from Stevie’s Grandpa, who was apparently an outdoorsman type of fellow.
On some of the walls were various examples of Muskies, Northern Pike and other stuffed game fish of the North Woods. They were fish his Grandpa had caught on one of his many fishing expeditions, Stevie told me. I was dutifully impressed.
Their kitchen was an old-fashioned room with an ancient curtained sink that his little brother Chuckie sometimes hid beneath, behind the drapery enclosed lower portion.
Stevie had lived there long enough to be able to tell me how the big house on Fourth and Hamilton was moved to the vacant lot down the street to the corner of Fifth and Ford. I listened with rapt attention.
How come I wasn’t around to see that? I wondered.
Sitting in their enclosed porch even in the early November afternoon, it was still warm enough to be dressed without an overcoat. His mom had furnished it like it was another inside room of their house.
The piece of furniture we were sitting on was what his family called a davenport. I thought it was a couch – a lot I knew about home furnishings. I had never heard of a davenport.
Earlier in the day, while we were at school, Stevie had approached me and asked if I wanted to take over his paper route. He invited me over to his house after school to tell me more about the business of newspaper delivery.
“What do you havta do?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s easy, they (the News Depot) deliver the newspapers to your house every day after school. When you come home, you just roll them up like this”;
Stevie took a paper from the bundle and demonstrated the art of folding a newspaper for delivery.
“Lay it flat on the table, fold it once and then roll it up tightly. Then put it between your legs, hold it there and put a doubled up rubber band around it. You put them into this bag (a bright blue canvas bag that said Chicago Daily News on it – cool!), ride your bike and just deliver them to the houses on the route. I have a list of the addresses of the homes and the paper they get. They pay you at the end of the month.”
This was way too easy, I thought.
Stevie took me on a tour of his route, delivering newspapers to his various customers.
Starting at State Street, we rode up and down Richards Street and then the side streets, Union, Center, Eklund and the others, delivering papers, taking turns with the bag slung over our shoulders.
It seemed a bit heavy, I thought. But as we delivered the papers, trading carrying the sack, talking and yelling (at other kids we knew), the time went rapidly and the big bag became much lighter.
Heck, this is easy; I get to ride my bike, see other kids and then get paid?
We rode all the way to the St Charles border.
Wow! I had never ridden my bike this far, I thought.
And then, back down Anderson Boulevard, where we stopped at the old Geneva Piano Factory building that had a lower level Laundromat.
We knew better than to stop at the Little Store as we called it.
Even though it was a half block up the street on the corner of Anderson and Stevens, and sold candy and other goodies, we knew better.
The proprietors seemed crabby and short with kids our age.
The Laundromat, on the other hand was a busy place, with moms folding their newly washed and dried clothes while minding their preschool children who played and ran about.
Amid the din of machines and kids, the manager patiently chose to ignore a couple of boys stopping by.
Stevie bought me a hot chocolate and a candy bar straight out of the vending machines.
This was great!
“I’ll take your route,” I quickly informed Stevie, glancing around nervously. I was worried that some other boy might notice me learning the route and somehow be given this moneymaking opportunity.
When I informed my mom, she said, “Are you sure? It’s hard work, you know, especially in the winter.”
“Well duh, mom, I know that,” I said with obvious dollar signs flickering in my eyes.
Ah, but woe is to the boy who does not take all things into consideration and is ill prepared.
On my first day, my pal Scotty asked me, “Hey John, you wanna play Army?”
Geez. No, I couldn’t, I thought, it was my first day of doing the paper route.
I puffed out my chest, “I can’t, I have my paper route to do,” I informed him with the air of a braggart.
Scotty seemed envious, I told myself.
For the next two weeks, I dutifully came home and rolled up the Chicago American, Chicago Daily News, Elgin Courier and the Aurora Beacon News, stuffing them all into the now confounded newspaperboy’s canvas delivery bag.
Was it heavy? Oh surely you should know. On some days, Wednesdays, in particular, the papers were thinner than a Superman comic book; but on other days like Thursdays or Saturdays, they were as thick as a Chicago phone book.
The Chicago Daily News was especially thick on Saturdays with full-page funnies and advertisements.
There was no Sunday paper; it was their weekend edition. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to deliver the Sunday edition of the other papers; there were other paperboys who took on that sorry job.
In short, the bag weighed a million pounds it seemed.
I struggled to maintain balance as I rode my bike with the cursed thing upon my shoulder.
It reminded me of the story of Sinbad and The Old Man of the Sea from the 1001 Arabian Nights book I had checked out of the Geneva Public Library (and had never returned – I subsequently had to scrape up enough money to pay the cost of the book).
Out of kindness, Sinbad had given the Old Man a ride on his shoulders across a river only to find himself enslaved to the Old Man, destined to carry him forever.
I was like Sinbad, cursed with this huge, heavy canvas sack full of newspapers destined to carry it forever (or for at least an hour or so).
For weeks, I struggled with the thing; as it cut into my shoulder blades.
I cursed the thing under my breath as I delivered the newspapers,
“Jesus Christ, sonofabitch,” I grumbled.
I repeated all the swear words that I learned from my dad and Earl and DJ’s old man, while keeping a sharp eye for any grownups or a sibling waiting to tattle.
But then, late in the month, I received a notice that one of the newspapers, the Aurora Beacon News, was having a paperboy’s party at their office on State Street, three stores down from the BF Goodrich Tire and Auto Shop. The party would be the Monday evening before Thanksgiving.
Well, this was much better, I thought. A party for just the paperboys and it says prizes would be awarded?
Wow! So being a paperboy was becoming worthwhile!
I imagined being called up to the stage and being awarded some wonderful prize for the best delivery in Geneva; a new bike, maybe a hundred bucks!
Afterall, I was on time and even made sure the papers were delivered with waxed paper when it rained, most of the time, anyway.
Besides, after the first two weeks, they had quit sticking the pink complaint and tan missed paper tickets in my daily bundle of papers they delivered.
I was delivering the papers to the right customers – most of the time.
The day came. I rode my bike to the office.
“No riding on the sidewalk, kid!” shouted a red nosed man.
I had almost run over him as he was leaving the Blue Room Tavern.
The Blue Room Tavern was a local watering hole that my dad did not frequent.
His place was The Derby, further up the street, next to the State Bank. Lucky for me!
“Sorry mister!”
He was right; riding on sidewalks in downtown Geneva was prohibited. But gee, couldn’t he see I was on my way to pick up the award for best paperboy, for cripe’s sake?
Parking my bike in front of the office, I went in.
Wow! The commotion! The place was full of boys my age and older.
“Who are you?” asked a tall thin man.
“John Nielsen, Route 2B,” I informed him.
“Okay, you’re one of the Geneva paperboys? Or are you from St Charles?”
“Uh, Geneva”
“Well, you’re late by almost an hour.”
Huh? An hour? How’d that happen?
It was because I had watched a Three Stooges episode before doing my route.
Curley was a wrestler who couldn’t be beat whenever he heard the song, Three Blind Mice on the violin played by Larry.
Meanwhile, Moe was his trainer. It was a great stooges episode that couldn’t be missed. I was still whistling the tune.
“We’ve already had refreshments; but you might see if there’s anything left on the table.”
He pointed to a fold up table that was in the corner of the room. There were a lot of the boys clustered around it.
I elbowed my way to the table only to see a few sweet rolls with what looked like peaches or apricots in their center.
One of the boys said there had been cupcakes earlier, but were quickly eaten by the ravenous crowd. The sweet rolls were from the morning; the ones that no one wanted.
Near them were some half filled paper cups into which someone had poured Coca Cola.
I picked up a sweet roll and a cup.
Yuck! The coke was warm and flat; the roll was dry.
Oh well, at least I didn’t miss the prize awards.
Gazing around the room, I noticed Paul talking to Kevin. They were two paperboys I had run into off and on while delivering my papers.
Paul delivered papers on South First Street while Kevin had a route on South Third to Seventh Street. They went to the Catholic school and were well acquainted with Earl and DJ.
“Hi John,” said Kevin. He was short with red hair and freckles.
I had been by his house on the corner of South Fourth Street once in the summer when Scotty and I were exploring the old creek that ran behind the homes on South Street. Much like Earl and DJ, his house was full of kids - twelve Kevin told me – all red-haired ones who seemed to be hanging out from every window from the first floor to the third floor.
But they were different than Earl and DJ’s family, somehow.
His mom was a short blonde haired, frail looking woman who seemed to have the patience and temperament perfectly suited for such a large family. She seemed to take in stride the broken gallon jug of milk that Kevin’s sister Mary Margaret dropped and spilled when attempting to pour a glass of milk.
Just a sigh and then: “Mary Margaret, get the mop and bucket and clean up the milk. We won’t have cereal tomorrow.”
That was all! No swearing or accusations of idiocy. How different than Earl and DJ’s family.
Paul, on the other hand lived with his sister and mom in an apartment above the Geneva Republican printing press on North First Street.
It was next to the Open Pantry and I had run into Paul several times when stopping there for candy or other treats. Apparently, his parents were divorced – something that was not really talked about in those days.
He often talked, wistfully of his dad, saying how him and his dad would go down to the Fox River to fish – someday.
“Attention! Attention, we are now going to present prizes. Everyone please be seated,” announced the tall thin man.
Some of us stood while others sat in the little folding chairs.
Clearly, there weren’t enough chairs for everyone. It didn’t matter to me. I was certain to get some type of award I just knew it.
Accompanied by a short blonde woman, the tall thin man stood at the front of the room and announced, “We have put all of the names of the paperboys present into this fish bowl. Miss Pierce will draw a name and we’ll present a prize to that boy. As I watched each succeeding paperboy get called and receive a small package, I became more apprehensive.
What about me? Was I left out? Everyone seemed to be getting something, even Kevin and Paul!

“John Nielsen, Route 2B,” called out the tall thin man.

Finally!

I stepped up to the front, Miss Pierce handed me a small box. As I walked back, I looked at the lettering on the box.
Portable Transistor Radio.
Wow! I got a transistor radio! I could listen to it while I rode my bike or in bed. No more tube radio for me!
There really wasn’t anything wrong with tube radios. They were just big and clunky. My dad had even shown me how to repair the old radios that used tubes.
“Every tube in it has a place and a function in the radio,” he said. “If the tube doesn’t light up, you can take it out and test it at Wayne’s.”
Wayne’s was the drugstore on State Street. They had a soda fountain in front and a tube -testing machine near the back of the store.
Sometimes, when we had enough money we would stop in and buy a cherry phosphate or their specialty, the Lime Rickey.
On weekends, the tube testing machine would be used by dads or kids like me, to test the suspect tubes in the their old radios or televisions.
When it was turned on, the warm smell of burnt wires and hot Bakelite would waft out of its cabinet.
Some of the sockets were sticky, someone had spilled a fountain drink at another time.
Probably the pigs, Earl or DJ spilled a Lime Rickey on it, I thought to myself, sniffing the air for the scent of pork rinds and dirty underwear.
Because of the spilled drink, the tube-testing machine was only partially useful and undoubtedly causing something to short.
The last time I had taken a tube out of it, I had received an electric shock, even though I had pulled out the cord from the wall socket.
No more trips to Wayne’s now, I thought. Though, I would still stop by for a Lime Rickey.
I walked over to Paul and Kevin. “What’d you guys get?” I asked.
They held up their prizes.
Huh? Portable Transistor Radio?
I looked around the room. All the boys had the same thing: Portable Transistor Radios!
It was just a big giveaway. No one got any special prize for best paperboy!
Oh well, I thought philosophically, at least I won’t be getting a shock from this radio.
We walked outside to our bikes.
I noticed a shiny new oversized basket mounted on the front of Paul’s bike. “Hey, what’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a newspaperboy’s delivery basket,” answered Paul. “My mom bought it for me for my birthday. I don’t use that stupid old bag now. I just stuff the papers into the basket.”
Kevin and I jealously marveled at the basket.
Anything to be rid of the confounded newspaperboy’s delivery bag!
“How much was it? Where’d she get it?” I peppered Paul with questions.
Paul hunched his shoulders. “I don’t know. She came home with it one night and my sister and I put it on my bike.”
“Well, I guess I would get one, but I’m gonna let my brother Sean take over my route,” said Kevin.
Poor Sean, I thought, he was even smaller than Kevin.
“You think maybe she got it over at Nick’s?” I asked.
Nick’s was a popular hangout for boys our age.
It was a bike shop in one of the old decrepit buildings that sat on the State Street hill between First Street and River Lane.
Owned and operated by Nick, a perpetually squinting, short old man, the outside of the shop was generally cluttered with the bikes of his young patrons..
“It probably was Nick’s,” agreed Paul. “His place is right around the corner from my house.”
“Maybe I could stop in there after my route,” I suggested.
“I don’t know, he’s an old crab and those guys that work for him are mean,’ said Kevin.
Kevin was right.
When we visited Nick’s, we never bought anything, just looked. It was hard to tell if he was angry or crazy when he spoke to us in his hurried, fractured English style.
He reminded me of one of those leprechaun characters from a Looney Tunes cartoon that starred Porky Pig.
He even looked like one with his white, wild bushy hair and eyebrows.
The few employees that worked for him were teenagers, only a bit older than any of us.
But they did hold sway over us, making sure we knew that they were the older guys. Apparently, Nick paid them cash for helping him assemble the newly arrived Schwinn bicycles. We only knew that because we would often see those same boys at the Open Pantry on First Street buying various candies and pop.
Even though he sometimes used a few curse words and seemed to be a grouchy character, hollering at his young workers, we still frequented the shop; he had some of the latest Schwinn bikes and bicycle accessories being sold.
Maybe he had those baskets, I thought.
Although I had been there plenty of times lusting on the new bikes, I might have been too blind to notice any of the other bicycle-related items that might be offered.
I stopped by the very next day, after school; but first, hurriedly doing my route.
Walking into the shop, one of Nick’s teen workers spotted me.
“What’d ya want kid?’ he asked.
“Uh, uh, do you guys sell bike baskets?” I stammered.
“Sure we do, what’ya think we sell, Lime Rickeys, ya dope?
They’re over there,” he pointed with a quick jerk of his head to a corner of the store.
Geez, teenagers were such jerks, I thought.
And, there they were, all sizes of baskets. Even one the size of Paul’s was there!
Newspaper Delivery Basket, said the tag, twelve-fifty.
Twelve dollars and fifty cents! It might as well have been a million bucks. I don’t have twelve-fifty, I haven’t even got paid for doing the route yet.
I thought back to the different times when I had traded in pop bottle deposits at Western Liquors and then spent the money on candy or pop at the Open Pantry or at Nelson’s.
I was crestfallen, my shoulders drooped, how could I ever come up with twelve-fifty?
I began the long mopey walk out of Nick’s.
“Hey, what’d ya want?” said a loud voice in a short, clipped tone.
I turned around, it was Nick, he spoke quickly, at the same time, mis-pronouncing and jumbling the words together.
“Oh, I came in to look at the bike baskets,” I moped.
“The one I want is too much though.”
“Which one is that?” asked Nick.
“Oh, wait a minute, are you a paperboy?” he asked.
The newspaper delivery bag was still slung over my shoulder.
“Yes sir,” my manners suddenly appearing again. How does that happen? I thought to myself. They come without even thinking. Huh!
“What’s yer route number, what’s yer name? What papers are ya delivering?” he asked in rapid fire.
“Uh, John Nielsen, Route 2B.
I deliver the Chicago Daily News, the Aurora Beacon News, the Chicago American and the Elgin Courier,” I recited.
It was as if being questioned by Mr. Bye, the Fourth Street School principal.
I was getting a little bit scared. I never had really talked to any adult outside of teachers or moms and dads.
I straightened up and stood at attention like the soldiers in Combat, the television show, my Dad watched.
“How old are ya?”
“Uh ten, sir”.
“When will ya be eleven?”
This was becoming an inquisition, I thought.
“January.”
“January what,’ he demanded.
“January eighth, sir.”
Nick was assaulting me with questions!
”What school do ya go to?
What grade are ya in?”
“Fourth Street School, I’m in the fifth grade,” I breathed out the answers quickly.
“What’s yer boss’ name, John?”
“Um, Mr. Little,” I felt like I was gasping for air.
“No it’s not, its Litow, L I T O W,” corrected Nick, spelling out the name.
“Their place is on South Third Street, the News Depot, right?”
Apparently, Nick was aware of the other businesses in town.
“I think so Mister Nick. They deliver the papers to my house. I never really talked to anyone there yet.”
“My name is Nick, not Mister Nick. What’re ya, a smarty pants?” barked Nick.
“Oh, no, no sir, Mister, I mean Nick,” I corrected myself.
“How long ya had the route?
Where do ya deliver?”
Nick’s questions felt like the nipping bites my dog Sam would inflict upon me when we played.
“I got it at the beginning of the month. I deliver to houses on Richards Street and Anderson Boulevard.”
Oops! I forgot about the other streets!
“And then Union and Center, “ I added, forgetting the names of the other streets.
“So yous’re delivering them papers in the sack, are ya’s?
And youse want ta put a basket on yer bike?
Where’s yer bike?” he enquired quickly.
“Out front,” I replied. “I parked it on the sidewalk.”
“Bring it in,” he ordered.
My bike was an old Schwinn one speed with balloon tires and scratched rusted fenders.
The chain was greased as evidenced by my dirty lower right trouser leg and even the wheel hubs were well oiled. My Dad had insisted on me learning how to do some of the bicycle maintenance.
“Hmm,” said Nick, rubbing his chin.
“Yer bike looks sturdy enough and ya have the right kind of tires for the weight.“
Rubbing the chain between his dirty fingers, he asked, “Who greased the chain, yer dad?”
“Uh no, I did that,” I replied. “My dad showed me how though,” I added.
"Good job," Nick nodded approvingly.
“Well, the basket will fit yer bike. But ya need a new front tire. See here?”
Nick pointed to a crack in the front tire.
“There ain’t no way thet yer tire is gonna last much longer. And,” he continued, “with a big basket like thet on the front, the weight of the newspapers ya put in it is gonna make thet tire wear out faster. You’ve been lucky ridin’ around with thet bag slung overs yer shoulders. The weight is more evenly distributed.”
Nick sounds like a scientist! I thought. Wow!
“Okay,” said Nick. “Do ya aims to be keepin’ this route fer some time? Over the winter, ‘till school is out?”
“Well yezsir” What’s he gettin’ at? I thought, beginning to mis-pronounce words like Nick, both out loud and in my head.
“Well, John, for paperboys, I can offer a loan. You can come in here on the first Saturday after ya’ve been paid for yer route. Mr. Litow pays his boys on the first of every month, right?” he asked.
“I think so, sir,” Still not quite understanding what he was talking about.
“Okay then. Youse’r gonna need a new tire for yer front wheel plus the basket. I ain’t gonna just sell ya’s the basket widdout ya puttin’ on the new tire, cuz, ya still need the tire to be safe,” he explained.
“First, I’m gonna talk to Mr. Litow about yer route. Youse tell yer mom and pop. If they think it’s okay, then youse bring in yer bike this next Saturday, afta Thanksgivin. You kin put the new tire on the wheel and then put the basket on at the same time. Have ya ever done thet?”
I shook my head no.
“Thet’s what I thought. So, I’m gonna have Charlie here show ya how to do it. Charlie,” he barked at the teen-age boy helper.
“This is John. He’s a new customer. A payin customer. He’s a buyin a new tire and the big basket. He’s gonna bring his bike in on Saturday to have them put on. I want youse to show him how and help him put them on. No complainin either. Yer getting paid ta do what ah says.”
“Okay, Nick, “ said Charlie.
“But sir, I don’t got any money,” geez there’s the bad language again, I thought as I replied.
“I know, I know,” assured Nick. Here’s what we’s gonna do. How much are you getting paid every month?” he asked.
“ I think seven dollars is my pay,”
“Okay, then you come in every month on the Saturday morning after youse been paid and repay me three-fifty. That leaves ya half of yer route money ta put in the bank. That’s what yer gonna do with it, right?”
Nick looked at me with his squinty little eyes. They twinkled a bit and there was a grin on his face.
“Well, yes. But I might want to buy something once in awhile.” I envisioned days at the Open pantry, drinking pop and eating Kit Kats and Hershey chocolate bars.
“You make sure youse save some of thet money!” Nick ordered. “Some day youse gonna be glad ya did!”
Here’s what we’s gonna do. The basket is twelve-fifty and the tire is another dollar. Thet comes to thirteen-fifty you will owe me,” Nick scribbled furiously on a long yellow lined notepad.
“Les see, thirteen fifty divided by three-fifty gives us.”
Nick stopped suddenly.
“Come in every Saturday after getting paid for the next four months. Youse pay me three-fifty for the next three months. On the fourth month, youse gonna pay me two dollars. Yer loan will be paid in full. Okay?”
“Uh okay,” I nodded wide-eyed.
What is happening, I thought?
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Nick. “Christmas is next month. Youse gonna be buyin presents fer yer mom and pop?”
Huh? I hadn’t even thought that far ahead.
“Oh, yessir, I am”.
“Okay then, youse start payin’ me in January, after Christmas is over. So you come in here on the Saturday after you get paid and pay me the three-fifty. Then you come in here in February, March and then April. Then yer loan will be paid. Okay?” Nick held out his hand to shake. “Youse come in this Saturday. Youse and Charlie will put the new tire and basket on yer bike. Okay?”
“Okay Nick,” I replied and shook his hand.
Nicked winked, “Youse be back here Saturday! And youse make sure it’s okay wid yer mom and pop,” he ordered.
Dazedly, I walked out the door with my bike. Geez! I called him Nick! I thought. He never even yelled at me!
Dutifully, I came back to Nick’s that Saturday for the tire and basket installation.
Charlie, the teen aged boy was sitting at his little bench, working on assembling a new bicycle.
Nick, meantime was talking to an adult customer.
He looked over when I walked in.
“Hiya Johnnie,” said Nick, winking his eye.
“Just take yer bike back to Charlie. He’s bin waitin’ for ya.”
Nick turned back to his customer, “Johnnie’s a new customer of mine. Comin’ in for a new basket and a tire. We got a bizness arrangement” He told the adult.
The man looked over and smiled at me.
Nick went back to explaining the virtues of a new Schwinn bike.
I went over to Charlie.
He grinned. “Okay, kid, let’s figure out what size tire you need. We’ll get that put on and then stick on that big basket.”
After all, I was a paying customer!

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