My twelve year old body shivers against the winter wind. I ache from carrying the paperboy bag on my shoulders. The weight of the papers makes my bicycle feel unsteady, like the seat will break or the tires will pop. It's hard to get any momentum against the unrelenting wind. I should have worn gloves.
I'm the only living thing outdoors. How could it be dark at this time? A warm glow from a subscriber's living room window is offset by his cold scowl. His paper is late.
I take extra time to show him how much I care about his paper. Then a wind gust catches a Kmart ad and sends it to a wet gutter. I chase after it with fifty pounds on my shoulders testing my balance and spinal strength. The shoe souls feel mushy from the extra weight.
I bend down to get the ad from the gutter and wind takes advantage by throwing me to my knees. I catch myself with my left hand, but the ice-cold gravel draws blood. The paperboy bag breaks open and more papers take flight.
When against me, the wind blows in only one direction; against paper, it blows in seven. While it has me distracted, the wind throws some coarse dirt into my wet eyes.
By the time I'm composed, the subscriber on the warm side of the window is colder than ever. Now his paper is late and wet.
Who shops at Kmart anyway?
With more force than necessary, I cram his paper into the box, bending its hinges. I include the Kmart ad, colored with my blood as a bonus.
I mount my bicycle and press into the wind. I curse it audibly. The wind is criminally annoying. Every day it blows against me.