Ten Popsicles

February made me shiver,

With every paper I'd deliver...

- Don Maclean - American Pie

Snow fell in fat lazy flakes. By the time I reached the corner drug store, it looked as if a giant fan was tossing around all the snow in the world.

My small city of Welland, Ontario sometimes got caught in the same winter weather as Buffalo, New York, where Lake Erie snowstorms brutalized it . Weather stations called it ‘lake effect.’ It was my first winter delivering papers, and December up until now had been cold and rainy. On the sidewalk in front of Vasko's Drugs, my bundle of 80 papers lay on its side nearly covered by a small snowdrift. The cold wind had seeped into my thin gloves, stiffening my fingers so much I could hardly open the door of the store. Gratefully inside, I took off my gloves, stamped snow from my boots, and shook snow from my delivery bag.

Although every light was on, the store was deserted. I stood in front of the door watching a slow parade of vehicles cautiously plow past. A big blue car stopped beside the curb. Larry Fortin, a boy from my school and a year or two older, jumped out and picked up his bundle of papers. His dad twisted in his seat and reached back to open the back door allowing Larry to toss in the bundle. In a moment, they were gone, merging into the traffic flow, melting into the white blur.

I silently cursed myself for forgetting where I had put my scarf a few days before. I stared out at my bundle, willing it to vanish, not wanting to step outside, hoping for a miracle.

My deep concentration had attracted a hostile presence.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

The voice behind startled me. Mr. Vasko stood with his arms folded, wearing a white lab coat.

"Uh, just warming up," I said, avoiding his pitiless gaze.

He didn't like kids in his store absorbing all the heat.

"You've made a mess on the floor," he said, pointing to the puddle of melted snow around my feet. He stepped past me and opened the door; my cue to leave.

The wind felt like stepping into the meat locker at Dominion Store with the fans running full blast. I dragged my bundle around the corner out of the wind to snip the baling wire with my pliers. In the fading winter light, I slid the papers into my bag and set off on my trek with the wind howling past my ears.

I trudged a block and a half through almost knee-deep snow, already having grave doubts about the immediate future. The heavy bag, slung over my shoulder, dragged against the snow, tripping me up several times. I cursed aloud, wishing I had brought my sled. Streetlights flickered on to transform the streets into cones of light, like particle beams from a spaceship in a horrible science fiction movie. Vehicle headlights blurred in the distance as they moved like UFOs sneaking around.

Compounding my hardship was collection day. I prayed everyone would have the exact change; my fingers would never make it if they didn’t.

By the time I reached the Zaharachuk's, my first house on Harriet Street, my fingers had curled into my palms and a great chill grasped my skinny body. I struggled up the three steps onto the Zaharachuk's front porch and stomped snow from my boots.

"Collect!" I called, rapping on the door with my palm. I pulled off my glove and swept snow from the back of my neck.

Mr. Zaharachuk answered, opening the door a crack as if expecting some terrible creature. He winced as a frigid gust curled into his face, making him squint. "You are collect for money? Today?" he asked in his accented English.

"It's Friday," I replied. “I always collect on Friday.” I had to collect on Friday. On Saturday, few people were home, and collection money was due on Monday by six.

"Well, come, to warm up," he said and held the door open.

I dropped the bag on the porch and stepped into a cozy warm hallway.

"Is bad day for polar bears, huh? " he said with a chuckle and disappeared around a corner.

I took advantage of the situation, unbuttoning my coat, letting the waves of heat wash over me. I didn’t know the family well, but Ellen Zaharachuk went to my school.

Mr. Z returned, holding out a fiver. "You no have help today?"

Helper? I never had a helper. I shook my head and fumbled in my pocket for change.

"Keep, you deserve it today."

His wife appeared around the corner. "Good God, child, you must be froze!" She stepped to the window and parted the drapes for a look outside.

Her daughter, Ellen, peered down the hallway.

Mr. Z said, "If you smart, you forget collecting--get done, get home."

I nodded and buttoned up while Mrs. Z told me not to hesitate to come back if I got too cold.

In my brief time in the house, the blizzard had worsened. Or was it my imagination? Gusts of snow whipped around, throwing up drifts higher and higher across sidewalks and driveways.

Dragging my heavy bag was like pulling a load of bricks with an anchor. It plowed into drifts and pushed snow into my boots. Tree boughs bent under the weight of wet snow. I reached the end of the first and I swore I'd freeze to death. How long could I last before I stumbled for the last time/ my strength finally giving out, buried under a massive drift until spring?

I followed Mr. Z’s advice and didn't collect unless I got cold. I was certain if I took off my gloves my fingers would shatter and fall to the ground like icicles.

Sixty papers to go.

Today I would die. The bitter wind was a remorseless fist squeezing every degree of heat from me. No one could see me in the white gale. No one cared. Thick fat snowflakes muffled noise from passing cars. Slogging through the growing drifts became an ordeal for my exhausted legs. Any moment, my limbs would seize. My mind began to float as if in a dream or a nightmare, trying to move through white molasses. The storm would engulf everything and everybody. People in faraway countries would read about this in their timely delivered papers and shake their heads in their warm homes.

A car horn honked, startling me as it pulled into a driveway. I staggered across the street thinking about the Zaharachuk's warm, comfortable house. Their coats and hats were neatly hung on pegs in the hallway, boots lined up on the floor below. If I went back there, Ellen would likely tell everyone at school that I couldn't hack it; that I was a dumb little kid trying to be somebody much bigger. She was usually surrounded by a gaggle of friends, who whispered and giggled at whoever passed.

I had to get the route finished or I'd be fired. A long list of hopefuls waited for a route; older, bigger, stronger boys who could get through this mess in a flash—boys like Larry. I was already late. At this speed, I would finish at midnight--or tomorrow.

No, at this speed, I would die.

Turning back up the block became a killer, head-on into the wind. I pulled my toque halfway down my eyes. My forehead hurt in a cold, numbing ache that threatened to flash-freeze my brain. I had to get out of the wind. The skin on my face felt like a brittle plastic mask that looked on an inhospitable world.

I don't remember how I got there, but I collapsed in a heap on the drift covering Zaharachuk's walk in front of their porch. I only wanted to rest for a bit before going to their door. But Mr. Z saw me and helped me inside, saying he and his wife had been keeping an eye on me through the windows.

Life-saving warmth washed over me, melting my face in a flare of heat as if I had stuck my head in a toaster, watering my eyes.

Mrs. Z looked at me as if I had walked away from a bloody car crash. "Good lord! Take off coat and boots. I have cocoa."

"Can't you get anyone to help?" asked Mr. Z, fidgeting with his glasses.

"No. I gotta get the papers done."

Mr. Z guided me into the big warm kitchen while Mrs. Z placed a hot steaming mug of thick, bubbly cocoa before me at the table. I grasped the mug with both hands and felt its immediate heat.

"You to call your father," she said, setting a black telephone in front of me.

I hesitated and looked at the clock. Dad had just come home from work and would be in a snarly mood as he tended to be after work. I was desperate. I feared going outside again so I called home.

My mom answered. "Where are you?"

"On Harriet Street. I need a ride to deliver. The snow's too deep, Mom," I pleaded. "I can't finish."

At her end, the phone banged against our little end table as she talked to someone.

Dad picked up the phone. "Where are you?" he asked, gruffly.

I explained my predicament. He responded with a grunt. He'd lived in Welland all his life and had plenty of baggage from the past that manifested itself into labelling and categorizing everyone into narrow slots--each one offensive. As soon as the name Zaharachuk passed my lips he flipped.

"What the hell are you doing there! Get the damn papers done!" His loud voice roared through the telephone line. "I said you were too young for that job!"

I didn't know why I had made him so mad. Mr. and Mrs. Zaharachuk leaned against the counter, hanging on my every word.

"I just need a ride, Dad—please," I said, lowering my voice to a whisper, embarrassed by my need and by my father’s attitude. "It's a blizzard. I'm real cold, Dad. Freezing."

I must have said the wrong thing because I got an earful: responsibility, commitment, on and on. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. As he ranted, I felt myself sinking in quicksand with no rope in sight. He made me feel like a no-good bum asking for a handout. I knew he wouldn't come, no matter how much I pleaded and begged. It was useless trying. He was like that, never helping anyone.

Larry was older than me yet his dad helped him deliver. They'd be finished by now. I shrank in the wooden kitchen chair under the gaze of the Zaharachuk’s.

"I'm not driving in this storm! The roads are too bad!"

After a long silence, Mom picked up the phone. "You know I can’t drive. I’m busy cooking supper already.” I heard her shout out to my older sister.

"Forget it!" Her words came loud and clear from somewhere in the house. "I only have my learner's license; I’m not driving in a blizzard."

"Bye," I said, faintly, in a mild, unbelieving shock.

Cooking supper for him.

Him not wanting to sit in his warm car.

Him not caring at all.

I hated him.

What was I going to do? if I couldn’t deliver, I was sure to lose my job. I’d be laughed at for not being able to handle a simple job by the people who sat in their warm homes with no idea what I was up against. That’s what everyone would think. They wouldn’t remember this day; the wind chill, the amount of snow. It would quickly pass from their memories; the storm becoming a mere snowfall.

"What?" asked Mrs. Z, waking me from my sorry thoughts. "He comes?"

I shook my head. Warm tears dripped down my red cheeks. Mrs. Z took the receiver from my limp hand and chastised my father. I’d never heard adults speak bad about each other before.

"What kind of a father...." Mr. Z said and folded his arms, his brow tightly knitted.

I sure hoped my dad was still on the phone.

Mr. Z frowned at her and cocked his head, signalling her into the living room. They talked in a hushed manner, no doubt slotting my dad into a category all his own. My dad would flip having a woman scold him—especially a Hungarian woman to boot.

I twisted in my chair, turning my back to them--and cried.

Why couldn't he come? Was I really too young for this?

I'd handled it so far. I knew my father had had a tough life raising his younger siblings after his parent’s abandoned them, but did I have to pay some sort of hardship dues, too?

I realized what the expression, ‘bitten off more than I could chew’ meant.

Sobs began to snuff me up. For sure, angry customers were calling my house, and arguing with my father on the phone, demanding a paper. Was that why he was so mad at me?

Ellen wandered into the kitchen for a moment, stealing a look at me, seeing my tears, acting like a baby. I didn't even bother looking away. Let her tell everyone; let them go out in that Arctic wasteland.

"Look, son," Mr. Z said, returning with his wife to the kitchen. "We feel bad for you and think you should go home, deliver them later or tomorrow."

I wiped my tears away and drew in a breath. Trying not to blubber too much, I explained how my world would end if I didn't finish the route today: my circulation manager would question my resolve, customers would complain, and my angry father would crucify me for all of it. I could picture the grimace on his face.

Unable to alter my sense of duty, Mr. Zaharachuk went outside and brought a sled around to the porch. He lifted my heavy bag and came inside.

Mrs. Z provided me with a heavy scarf. "Promise you to come back if you get cold?" she demanded.

I nodded. She attempted to smile.

Mr. Z gave me more advice on keeping warm and dragging the sled. "Fingers cold you lick...like those..."

"Popsicles," added Mrs. Z, as she helped me put my gloves back on. “You be okay for while. I pray for you, too.”

Thoroughly warmed up after downing two mugs of cocoa, I buttoned up and stepped out onto the wind-swept porch.

Mr. Z held the door. "You can do it."

Following his advice, I left the sled with the papers at the curb while I crisscrossed over to each house, keeping my back to the wind.

Maybe a car would smash the sled, and the driver, feeling bad, would be obligated to take me around till I finished. Having the sled gave me a tremendous boost going over drifts and conserved my strength. I had to take off my gloves now and then and stuff my fingers in my mouth until they warmed, licking them like Popsicles. My toes were getting very cold but I wasn’t about to remove my boots and suck them. When my face froze, I followed Mr. Z's advice and stepped inside to make a collection.

The places I did stop at to collect tipped well, almost like Christmas. My cold fingers fumbled around to make change, wearing on their patience. They would sigh and tell me to keep the change.

Somehow, I found the strength to jam the last paper number in Mr. Sylvester's mailbox. I never did return to the Zaharachuk's that night. The far end of my route brought me near my friend Tony’s house, where I stopped in, frostbitten and dog-tired. Tony and I watched TV while his big Polish-speaking dad filled a cup of hot, strong, forbidden coffee for me. I’d completely forgotten the time, grateful to be inside.

I trudged through the winter darkness on the road following furrows made by vehicles. At my house, I saw tire tracks on the driveway.

Mom was in a panic. Dad wasn't home. She’d cajoled him into taking the car out--but only after many customers had called complaining. I didn't know how long he'd been searching but for sure he'd be in a super foul mood when he returned. Not to mention me being at "that Hunky’s" and getting yelled at by "that just-a-come Mr.s Z" wouldn't sit too well with him, either.

Mom warmed up a plate of ham and potatoes from the supper I’d missed. I devoured it like a starved wolf. When the car rumbled up the driveway, I dashed to my basement bedroom and shut off the light. I crashed onto my bed without bothering to change and suddenly realized how exhausted I was. The blankets and pillows greeted me like a soft warm billowy cloud. A heat vent above my bed washed over me like a tropical breeze.

At the edge of my consciousness, voices murmured from upstairs; indistinct tones that rose and fell. I didn't care what he said; what he did.

I pulled through without him, but with the Zaharachuks.

I finished the route.

I showed him.

I licked ten popsicles and survived.