going home, again

I should have told someone

     I miss those carefree, teen and preteen years, where I had no responsibilities or cares.
     Well, I did have responsibilities.  I had a paper route.  It was a darn good route, inside a factory on Irving Park.  I sold the Chicago Daily News and the Chicago American.
      I learned some business tricks while I had the route.  I always said thank you.  I always was helpful and polite.  I always passed out Christmas cards.
      The papers then were 7 cents.  I paid 5 cents, so I made 2 cents on every paper.  I sold about 60 to 70 papers a day.  My biggest profit was tips.  A lot of people would just give me a dime and tell me to keep the change.  So I effectively was making 5 cents a paper.
      At some point, the two papers hiked their prices to 10 cents.  It cost me a fortune because there were no more tips.  I still made 2 cents on a sale, but my bottom line hurt.
      I would wander through the building, dropping off papers at desks.  I also had stacks of papers at the two main entrances, with cigar boxes for money.  Everyone was honest.  I don't think I could do that today.
      I knew almost everybody who worked in the place.  Ann, Aunt Betty, (really, she was my aunt), Adelle, and a bunch of other people who were really nice to me. One guy worked on the loading dock.  I don't remember his name.  I do remember he was tall, heavyset, greased back hair, and always nice to me.
       Until one day.
       Corvairs had just come out and he bought a convertible.  He knew I liked cars, 'cause I was a 13 year old boy.  What 13 year old boy doesn't like cars?
       He asked me if I wanted to take a ride in his car.
       I said yes, because I had known him, and trusted him, for a couple of years.
       The car was baby blue.  We had the top down and cruised the Outer Drive, wind blowing through our hair.
        He pulled into the recreational parking area near Irving Park and pulled into a space.  We talked about the car for a few minutes, then he asked me the question I will always remember.
        "Are you circumcised?"  he asked me.
        I had no idea what he was talking about.  So I said, "I don't know."
        He then told me he would be happy to check, all I had to do was unzip my pants.
        I realized then what part of the body circumcised had to deal with.  I suddenly became a little wary.  I told him no.  I also told him to take me back to the factory.
        Now common sense would have said, "Get the hell out of the car and run."
        But he was a nice guy.  When he made no attempt to start the car, I  told him he had until the count of three or I would get out and start screaming.
        He started the car, took me back to the factory, and let me out.
       I never told anyone about the incident.  No one.  I still delivered a paper to the guy, but we never talked.
      It's funny, in a way.  When ever I go to a car show and see a Corvair, I wonder about the guy.  And I hope his next victim, if there was one, spoke up.