Delivering the Diario was a pretty cool job; I was outdoors, the hours were good and best of all I didn't have to worry about any bosses looking over my shoulder. Unlike my best friend Frank, who delivered the Miami News, I didn't have to get up at 5:30 in the morning, rain or shine, to fold newspapers, stuff them in plastic bags, load up my bike and pedal around my neighborhood while the sun was coming up. No. That was not for me. I landed a job in the upper echelon of newspaper delivery, I dispensed bundles to stores, by car.

That was the only problem. I had to drive from store to store but I didn't have a license, not even a restricted one. How that little bit of information got past the guy that hired me was beyond me. I was just happy that I had my first minimum wage employment. Plus, they paid for gas. As far as the car was concerned, I had the 'Blue Ghost', a 1970 Blue Chevy Malibu that my dad had gotten as payment for a job.

My father had told me the Blue Ghost was mine, "You can use it to go to school." I thanked him but neglected to tell him that I would not be caught dead in that car. Not that it wasn't fast, with the 8 cylinder 305 it peeled out for half a block every time I floored it from stop. But apart from the fact that it was old and the paint was chalking, thus the term 'Ghost', it was a four-door. Now, being scrawny, acne-ridden and driving a four door in high school was almost the equivalent of wearing plaid highwaters, a white perma-press, short-sleeved shirt buttoned to the top complete with pocket protector, assortment of pens and slide rule, plus Coke-bottle-bottom glasses taped in the middle. I was nerdy enough without the old jalopy. I even had a contingency plan worked out to park three blocks away if I got to high school and hadn't been able to buy that '73 VW convertible I wanted. But to deliver newspapers, especially in the neighborhood that I had to deliver them, the Blue Ghost was perfect.

My delivery area was Overtown and Liberty City. They were not the best of neighborhoods. The guy whose route I inherited was a toothpick-chewing, stained t-shirt wearing porcine mammal named Carlos. The hair from his armpits was long and stuck to the fat bulging out from where he'd cut the sleeves off his shirt. I rode with him in his rusting, litter and stale french-fry laden Pacer my first two weeks on the job. On my first day, I don't know what worried me more, the fact that I was going into Overtown, or the fact that I actually had to sit in his car. But if you dismissed the fact that Carlos was a rotund, wheezing chain smoker with the IQ of lint, he was an OK guy. Those first two weeks I felt pretty safe in those neighborhoods because nobody in their right mind would get anywhere near this guy, unless it was a life or death situation and even then it was something to think about.

The job consisted of lining up at the newspaper's printing and distribution warehouse, waiting for the stacks to come out, then loading up and embarking on another wondrous and sometimes perilous journey in the world of newspaper delivery. My route was sinuous and took me through areas that I had never been exposed to except on TV shows like Starsky and Hutch or Hill Street Blues. There were tenements, abandoned buildings, vacant lots with stripped down cars, places that were often scary and sometimes sad. I got dirty looks or was looked upon with a kind of bewilderment because here was this skinny white boy, driving around in a beat-up car by himself in predominantly black neighborhoods. I wondered if some of the stores I delivered to actually sold any of my newspapers.

Some streets were lined with failed, boarded-up businesses, their signs fading or covered with graffiti. And everyday I drove past the shell of the tire store that had been set ablaze during a riot, scorched block walls was all that remained. It still smelled of burnt rubber. At the end of this one street cutting through project housing there was always a group of four or five young black guys, hanging out, drinking beer and selling nickel bags. One time one of those guys came up to me and asked me how much I wanted. I told him I didn't want anything, "I'm just delivering newspapers."

"Well, gimme your money!" he pulled out a knife. Trembling, and whiter than ever before I showed him my empty wallet. I was afraid to even look at his face.

"Aww, man...Then gimme that Snickers bar," he pointed to a Snickers bar on my dashboard that Carmen from the previous store had given me. I gave it to him. From then on I gave him my Snickers bar everyday. After a while he told me his name was Clisby Darby, and he became like my guardian, always told everyone to leave me alone, to let me go about my business. Every once in a while I bought him some Wise Barbecue chips, the ones he liked, for when he got the munchies.

Clisby Darby unknowingly taught me to take people for how they treat you. To not worry about the color of their skin or the neighborhood they live in or the amount of money they have. And even though he might have been selling drugs or mugging people, the fact that Clisby watched out for me and became a kind of friend showed me that there is some good in all people, even the ones you don't expect it from. Those were things I'd never thought about before. Most of the people I met while delivering the Diario were much nicer than I'd imagined.

At my second to last stop, the Liberty Point supermarket, there was always an old black man sitting by the front door on one of those late sixties era dining room table chairs with a starburst pattern. The chair, like the old man was worn and rickety from the years. He had one gold tooth and no others. He never told me his name but he was always smiling, showing off probably what he considered his only valuable possession.

"What newspaper is that?" he asked one day.

"Diario las Americas," I said, "yesterday's news in tomorrow's newspaper."

"Spanish, huh?"

I nodded.

"How you say what you just say in Spanish?"

"El periodico de mañana con las noticias de ayer." He tried to repeat it and I laughed, told him that he needed to work on his Spanish.

Every day after that when he saw me coming he tried to say it as he held the door open for me and my bundles. Some days he did better than others. When he finally got it right, "El pearyodeco de mañana con la noeteeceeaz day ayair," I shook his hand, congratulated him and bought him a Shlitz Malt Liquor Bull. Sat next to him for a while drinking my Coke. He had a pretty hard life he told me, "..but you ain't never see me frownin'." He said frowning and complaining never did anyone any good. He was a nice man, called me Dario Boy. I'd say "Deeario" and he'd say "That's what I said, Dario."

I was also able to see my grandparents everyday. I had rearranged my route so the last stop was a pharmacy five minutes from their apartment. I always sneaked a paper from one of the bundles for them. My grandfather loved the Diario, even though it was yesterday's news and he'd probably been watching all the latest news on TV. Still, he boasted to his friends or the check-out girls he always flirted with or anyone else that would listen that he would get his Diario delivered personally, hot off the presses, by his grandson.

Before I got to their apartment, I removed the Society section for my grandmother. She didn't like to wait for grandfather to finish and was always unhappy with the condition he left the paper in. If I had time, I'd peruse the crossword and fill in one or two answers incorrectly to rattle my grandfather, it was his favorite feature. I hid his Sports section in my back pocket a couple of times, but he caught on and kissed me hello then peeked at my pocket with his trademark smirk.

Best of all, when I arrived at their apartment, no matter how my day had been, whether I'd gotten a flat or been chased by dogs or mugged at knife point, I knew that here was a constant in my life. That my grandfather would always have on his Guayabera, smelling of English Leather and that my grandmother would be sitting in her rocker fiddling with a paper towel or a napkin in her fingers listening to her soap operas on the radio. Their smiles were always welcoming. Here I would always have a home.

And when I knocked on their door everyday, whether it was two o'clock or five, I was sure to hear my grandfather's muffled voice saying "Who is it? You or your brother?"

I always laughingly said "My brother."

He always let me in with a proud grin and a nod. And to this day I don't know how they did it, but my café con leche was always ready for me, fresh and hot.