Friday, October 07, 2005
Not My Fault
Parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive. I say supposed to be because some of the things mine did were suspect. Take, for example, what became known in my family as "the paper route incident."
I grew up in a lower middle class family. Hence, we had very little extra money. This means that an allowance was not a part of my childhood. When I was 13, I brought up the subject. That was the only time I brought it up. My mom began "ranting" about how she and my step dad "allowed" me to eat, "allowed" me to have clothes to wear, and "allowed" me to have a place to sleep. I knew then that there was no reasoning with her when she was on one of her tangents and that if I wanted any spending money I'd have to earn it myself.
Besides mowing lawns, a paper route was the only job available for boys my age. I spoke with my folks about it. They said they thought it was a good idea. A paper route would teach me responsibility. Leave it to parents to take the fun out of everything. Before they let me get the route, however, I would have to agree to several things: I had to keep my grades up, to handle the money I collected responsibly (yes, the news paper actually allowed 13 year olds to collect money from customers. Of course, the news paper also expected their paper carriers to pay for the papers they delivered), to maintain my own bike, and to wake up all by myself for my morning route. They claim that I agreed to the stipulations, but I really don't remember. At the time, visions of dollar bills danced in my head, so I can't be sure exactly what the terms were or what I agreed to. But I got my route.
Needless to say (why do people say that when they're just going to go ahead and say it any way?) I fell short in all the areas, especially collections. You see, growing up poor and suddenly having money is a hard thing to deal with. Money has a way of burning holes your pockets if you're not used to having it. Fortunately I had good friends to help combat this.
After my first month on my route, I set out to collect what my customers owed me. I employed a method that made sense to me. I was a thinker of sorts and figured that it wouldn't be smart to carry large amounts of money around for long periods of time. My solution involved collecting from a house or two and then pedaling to the nearest video game arcade to make a deposit. My friends were always glad to see me. They would gather around me offer to challenge me to a game (so I would get better, of course).
My plan was working fine until the newspaper company called my parents and asked when I was going to pay on my account. I made up a lame excuse about not being able to catch people at home. My mom offered to come with me and help me collect, but I quickly reminded her that she had said that I was responsible for collecting and headed back out to collect. After catching a few more customers at home, I would meet up with my friends at the arcade and buy another round of sodas, candy, and games.
I followed this routine for about a week without incident, except being asked occasionally by my folks about how the collections were going. However, one day, upon exiting the arcade, I discovered that my bike was missing. I walked about a mile and a half home, rehearsing my explanation (lie) about what happened. When I got home, I told them, in great detail and with much emotion, how a couple of thugs had forced me to hand over my bike and (since I had blown a sizeable portion of my collections at the arcade) how they took my money too. I gave the performance of my lifetime.
Unfortunately, they knew I was lying. How? Did I let something slip? Did my story sound implausible? Nope. They knew because they had followed me to the arcade. They had taken my bike. Needless to say (here I go again), I was very disappointed in my parents for forcing me to lie like that. As I said, parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive.
I grew up in a lower middle class family. Hence, we had very little extra money. This means that an allowance was not a part of my childhood. When I was 13, I brought up the subject. That was the only time I brought it up. My mom began "ranting" about how she and my step dad "allowed" me to eat, "allowed" me to have clothes to wear, and "allowed" me to have a place to sleep. I knew then that there was no reasoning with her when she was on one of her tangents and that if I wanted any spending money I'd have to earn it myself.
Besides mowing lawns, a paper route was the only job available for boys my age. I spoke with my folks about it. They said they thought it was a good idea. A paper route would teach me responsibility. Leave it to parents to take the fun out of everything. Before they let me get the route, however, I would have to agree to several things: I had to keep my grades up, to handle the money I collected responsibly (yes, the news paper actually allowed 13 year olds to collect money from customers. Of course, the news paper also expected their paper carriers to pay for the papers they delivered), to maintain my own bike, and to wake up all by myself for my morning route. They claim that I agreed to the stipulations, but I really don't remember. At the time, visions of dollar bills danced in my head, so I can't be sure exactly what the terms were or what I agreed to. But I got my route.
Needless to say (why do people say that when they're just going to go ahead and say it any way?) I fell short in all the areas, especially collections. You see, growing up poor and suddenly having money is a hard thing to deal with. Money has a way of burning holes your pockets if you're not used to having it. Fortunately I had good friends to help combat this.
After my first month on my route, I set out to collect what my customers owed me. I employed a method that made sense to me. I was a thinker of sorts and figured that it wouldn't be smart to carry large amounts of money around for long periods of time. My solution involved collecting from a house or two and then pedaling to the nearest video game arcade to make a deposit. My friends were always glad to see me. They would gather around me offer to challenge me to a game (so I would get better, of course).
My plan was working fine until the newspaper company called my parents and asked when I was going to pay on my account. I made up a lame excuse about not being able to catch people at home. My mom offered to come with me and help me collect, but I quickly reminded her that she had said that I was responsible for collecting and headed back out to collect. After catching a few more customers at home, I would meet up with my friends at the arcade and buy another round of sodas, candy, and games.
I followed this routine for about a week without incident, except being asked occasionally by my folks about how the collections were going. However, one day, upon exiting the arcade, I discovered that my bike was missing. I walked about a mile and a half home, rehearsing my explanation (lie) about what happened. When I got home, I told them, in great detail and with much emotion, how a couple of thugs had forced me to hand over my bike and (since I had blown a sizeable portion of my collections at the arcade) how they took my money too. I gave the performance of my lifetime.
Unfortunately, they knew I was lying. How? Did I let something slip? Did my story sound implausible? Nope. They knew because they had followed me to the arcade. They had taken my bike. Needless to say (here I go again), I was very disappointed in my parents for forcing me to lie like that. As I said, parents are supposed to be nurturing and supportive.
Labels: lie, newspaper route, not my fault, parenting
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