© Copyright 1999 James David Pearce
37
WEEKS
Between 1937 and 1942, while personal bankruptcy and the ravages of time were cutting down on the number of operating automobiles, the New Deal and the WPA were building and improving streets and highways in Hertford County.
In 1942, the War Production Board ordered a complete halt to Detroit's production of civilian cars, and all the gasoline and tires were requisitioned for the war effort.
The dwindling number of cars and the increasing acreage of pavement, coupled with the flat terrain of the county, prompted a comeback of an earlier mode of transportation – the bicycle.
Except for a few ravines that fed rain runoff to the creeks and rivers, there was no slope in the county that could be dignified with the designation "hill." This made pedaling the "wheels," as older folks called them, relatively easy.
Just about everybody had a bicycle, except Boweaver, and he wanted one in the worst way. In a town full of paved streets that required at least 30 minutes to cross by shanks' mare, a boy on a bike easily could do the route in five.
Also, schoolwork, newspaper work and various other errands were a constant reminder to Boweaver of what he was needing and lacking.
The Ahoskie Department Store, owned by the Lipsitz brothers, was the newspaper's biggest advertiser, and one of Boweaver's jobs at the printing office was to assemble the Lipsitz' advertising and take "proofs" to the store to discuss accuracy and possible improvement. For duties such as that, a bicycle would be a big help.
The outing to talk advertising with the Lipsitzes also took Boweaver close to Eddie Harrell's Western Auto Associate Store.
In the window of this store, there constantly gleamed a bright red Western Flyer, made of solid steel and standing on two and three-quarter-inch balloon tires. Every time he neared the store, Boweaver was forced to stand and gaze while his heart ached.
One day Eddie, standing just outside the front door, spoke to Boweaver.
"Like that bike, huh?"
"Oh, man," said Boweaver, "that is a real beauty."
"Thirty-seven dollars," said Eddie. "You don't find many bargains like that."
Boweaver groaned. For him, thirty-seven dollars might as well have been thirty-seven million. For several months he had been trying to save some money, and had opened an account at the Bank of Ahoskie for that purpose. He got the balance up to about $7.50, but at that point it seemed to have hit its economic ceiling.
"Can't afford it," said Boweaver.
"What's that you got there?" asked Eddie, noting the folder in Boweaver's hand.
"Oh, department store ads," answered Boweaver.
"Well, hey, you're the boy that works at the newspaper, right?"
"Yeah. I work afternoons and weekends during school and all the time on holidays and in the summer. I make eight-fifty a week."
The store owner looked closer at the boy. "Eight-fifty a week, huh? And you really like that bicycle, don't you?"
"Man, you just don't know," sighed Boweaver.
"Well, look, maybe we should talk business," said Eddie. "Eight-fifty a week ain't bad, and I know you sure could use a bicycle. How much do you think you could spare out of that eight-fifty a week?"
"You mean like a debt – time payments?" asked Boweaver.
"Well, something like that, Boweaver. We won't be too strict on the payments. If you think you could pay me a dollar a week, I don't see why I couldn't sell you a bicycle."
"A dollar a week? For 37 weeks?" Boweaver pondered the implications.
"Well, there ought to be a little something extra like interest for the credit, but, Boweaver, I don't see why I'd even have to do that. I'd sure like to see you have that bicycle, and, yeah, we could do it for a dollar a week for 37 weeks."
Boweaver stood as tall as he could manage. "That sounds good to me."
And he pedaled away on his new wheels.
The bike turned out to be about the most useful material thing Boweaver had ever called his own. He used it for school, work, errands, Sunday runs to the river, and just cruising the paved, empty roads of the countryside.
As the weeks passed, he faithfully made the payments and took the best care of his prize. In his off-hours, he cleaned and polished it and fretted over his tire-check gauge at the service station, lowering and raising the pressure in the big balloon tires with every change in the weather.
Late one Friday afternoon, just before a Sunday when he was planning a ride to the river, Boweaver grabbed his bike and with ad proofs folded in the handlebar basket, he headed uptown to talk advertising with the Lipsitz brothers.
At the store, he dropped his bike at the curb on the quiet street and went in. He didn't stay long. The Lipsitzes liked the ad, and Boweaver was in a hurry to get back to the print shop and clean up for home.
But when he reached the street, he came up short. There was no bike at the curb.
Out of a corner of his eye, an object on the sidewalk at the store window stopped him cold. It was his battered and crumpled bike.
He walked slowly to the curb and sat down, and looked up and down the street.
There were only a couple of parked cars in sight, about a half-block away.
Not a single vehicle moved on the street.
But Boweaver, broken-hearted, knew one had.
~~~~~~~~~
click here to go to the next chapter
click here to go to the Book Titles