Storytime: True story from the archives of inanity: I began my career as a paperboy at age 11. My older brother was a front (in Wisconsin you had to be 12 to draw a wage) and quite the 12 yr. old capitalist. He did 1/4 of the work and skimmed 2/3 the profit. As soon as I was 12 he ordered me to "pay the bill" which meant a Fri. night bus ride to the Kenosha News offices to spill oodles of small change in front of the awesome teens who actually got paid to drive vehicles and drop off bundles of the daily drivel then drive those trucks to the next drop spot. After the money counting I'd stop off at The Dutch Maid for an ice cream and a good drooling which was delivered as a godsend from the largess of the waitress who never fully buttoned her uniform top. In sub zero weather I would stand outside reconnoitering which were her tables that particular night. Sometimes it took 15 freezing damn minutes to determine, then occupy one of her tables! When she delivered the ice cream she would casually and enticingly lean far over the table revealing just the right amount of cleavage so she could hear a 12 year old stifled gasp. This older woman, nearly 17 as a good guess, left my impressionable mind so boggled that for years I had crushes on girls at least 1 year my senior. That fetish still has a grip on me 5 decades later. I sometimes lie awake at night imagining I could pull her address up on a Google search so I could send her a bottle of fine wine as a thank you for all she has done for me. But I digress. And I can't blame my digressions on ample bosoms. This tale of preteen lust does have a car connection. I hope I haven't bored you getting to it. From the ice cream and dream emporium there was only a lonely trip home. It was a 3 block walk to the bus stop in front of S.S. Kresge's Five and Dime (later to evolve in a series of steps into Jupiter and finally into K Mart) and a wait for either the Red Line or Blue Line electric trolley car ride home. A miracle happened one cold March Friday night. A gleaming red '57 Chevrolet Bel Air containing a rolled and pleated Naugahyde interior and powered by the almost mythical Chevy V8 topped with 3 Holley 2 barrel carbs pulled up to he curb and I heard those cherished two words every paperboy on the corner only dreams about, "Hop in." My 18 yr. old cousin Wayne was at the wheel with 3 of his old and new neighborhood (emphasis on HOOD, a term more of respect than dread) cronies inside. I of course got the "gork'' seat between the back two bruisers who I didn't know at all. That was a blessing because riding shotgun in the front next to Wayne was the scourge of the neighborhood, a bullying "Older Brother" named Dean Olmstead. I held back my objections when the biggest jerk on the south side, Dean, suggested Wayne take me right home in case they found a couple of babes who wanted to "Scoop the Loop" in a slick new Chevy. I guess the disappointment of not being almost seen on repeated trips around the downtown Friday night scene was overshadowed by the pride with which I stepped into every boy's Dream Machine in front of 5 or 6 of my fellow peasant paperboys. Wayne did allow me the thrill of one awesome circumlocution before heading homeward on the less traveled 7th avenue route. That turned out to be a wise choice when only 6 blocks into the trek Wayne leaned far to his right and let loose with a nostril hair curling silent but oh so deadly humdinger of a fart to write home about. As the realization of what had just transpired wafted around the the front seat and made it's way to the back seat pandemonium broke out. Dean was punching Wayne in the upper arm. One of my back seatmates began howling a mournful objection While the guy on my right commenced to howl with uncontrollable laughter. Dean now decided to attempt to vent his theatrical rage on "laughing hyena guy" when I could no longer hold my breath and joined in giggling like a ticklish toddler. Dean then tried to grab my hat and also got a handful of hair, a trick he was known and despised for by every youngster on the block and none more than me. I'd seen him carry his kid brother, my best friend Jamie, 10 feet by only his hair. My new protector to the right nearly broke dean's arm and he let go before I had a chance feel any serious pain. At this point Cousin Wayne wisely pulled over to the curb, possibly to prevent the premature venting of all his particles of hard work from escaping out of the simultaneously opening 3 windows. He sat quietly face forward while the other buddy's objections died down. I was still gasping with laughter as Wayne slowly swiveled to face the 4 of us, waited for his moment and uttered the words that almost put me in the Saint Catherine's Hospital emergency ward with a case of split side due to terminal gasping for more air to laugh with. He calmly and confidently said, "I thought that was rather refreshing."

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