Penny Wise & Pizza Foolish (10) – John was trying to pull a fast one on me. 

At least, that’s what I thought when he asked me to start helping him out with his paper route. Why would I want to help him with this grueling task? He was the one who volunteered for hard labor, not me. But then he told me that in return for my efforts, he’d buy me pizza every Friday night. Now I was interested.

John delivered The Record six days a week since the newspaper didn’t print on Saturdays. Monday through Friday, he’d unfailingly walk almost a mile to the Donnellys’ house. In their garage, there were stacks and stacks of ink-stained papers with one pile labeled “Brizek.” He’d scoop them up and put them into a carrier bag, which held 35 of that day’s edition. He delivered them every day after school and had to be finished before his customers got home from work.

Sunday, however, was a whole different story. First of all, he had to get up when it was still dark out. This was a penalty worse than death. Getting out of bed extra early was bad enough, but then having to work? Ugh… The reason behind this atrocity was that all Sunday newspapers had to be delivered by 7:00 AM. Why anyone would want to get up to read anything at seven in the morning was beyond me.

The second part of this Sunday debacle was that the newspaper was THREE times the size of the weekday paper! There were special sections for News, Sports, and something called Arts & Leisure. They’d also cram slick color pages in, including a magazine and tons of advertisements. I thought most of it was a plain waste of time, and it just created more suffering for the paper boys. 

On Sundays, a mere weekday carrier bag wasn’t going to cut it. Thankfully, John was resourceful and managed to obtain a supermarket shopping cart that could hold all the newspapers at once. I didn’t know where he got the shopping cart from, and I didn’t ask. I was just happy we had one. 

The only good part of the work week was Friday evening. Because that meant collecting, which meant money, which led to pizza. After delivering the last of Friday’s papers, we’d reverse the route. Going house to house, collecting what each customer owed for that week, and sometimes the week before. This is what made it all worthwhile. Well, maybe not all worthwhile, but at least tolerable. 

The Sunday paper cost twenty-five cents, and each weekday paper ten. That was a cool seventy-five cents, which sometimes turned into a dollar if the dad was home when we rang the doorbell. I don’t know if he wanted to look like a big spender or if he just couldn’t be bothered looking for loose change. Whatever the reason, the men usually just gave us a dollar and told us to keep the change. This was a windfall! 

The moms, however, were much more tight-fisted with their money and rarely gave tips. We were lucky to get an extra nickel out of them. Maybe it was because the moms were the ones who paid the bills in the household, but my heart sank whenever one of them opened the door.

After collecting from the last house on the route, we finally got the payoff. Pizza! John left most of the money at home but peeled off just enough for a visit to Napoli Pizza. This was the best pizza place in Fair Lawn, and probably the best in the world. During the summer, they’d leave their door propped open. As we got close, I could smell the heavenly aroma of tomato sauce, melted cheese, and baked dough. 

It wasn’t a big place, holding just six small tables. Once we walked in, I saved a couple of seats while John went to the counter. He placed our usual order of two sodas and four slices. My mouth watered just thinking of that first bite. Then, I noticed something wasn’t right. 

John began arguing with Mr. Napoli. I couldn’t tell exactly what was going on, but I could sense my pizza payoff might be in jeopardy. Did they run out of dough? Could there be a sauce shortage? John turned away from the counter empty-handed. He approached the table and grumbled, 

“Let’s go. We’re leaving.”

WHAT?!?!

All I could think was that my hard work had been wasted. John stormed out of the pizza place as my despair grew. Finally, I dared to confront my enraged older brother.

“What happened?” I asked hungrily.

“They raised the prices!” he seethed.

“They raised the price from 28 to 32 cents a slice, and I am not gonna pay 32 cents for a slice of pizza. You know, that’s like a 10% increase! It’s outrageous!”.

With John being a math whiz, I was in no position to argue with his calculations. Then, he sounded the pizza death knell.

“I told him his prices were outrageous, and we were never coming back.”

Thankfully, his declaration didn’t stand the test of time. 

But for a few very long and hungry weeks, I suffered in silence.