The Waco Paper Police

A boyhood adventure in Waco, Texas.

The Waco Paper Police

By FlatDaddy

I’m not sure of the year, but I still lived on North 11^th Street in Waco, and I must have been in about second grade, ‘cause we were all together then, my two older brothers, my mom and my father, so I was either seven or eight years old, and it was around 1955. I guess Waco, or our part of it, must have been pretty safe then, ‘cause like my brothers, I was always running around the neighborhood without a worry on my mind, even when it was dark outside or real early morning.

On this particular early summer morning, I had spent the night with my friend who lived on the corner, Ronald Rosser, and mom had said it was okay because Ronald’s dad was a policeman with a gun and a badge and a blue uniform, so mom thought I would be okay. Well, I’m grown now, so I guess I was alright, but it was a pretty scary start to a beautiful summer.

Ronald had a paper route, just a small one that was for a few blocks in all directions from his house and he had asked me if I wanted to go with him that morning; we could cover the whole thing on our bikes in about an hour, even going slow. For those of you who don’t know what a paper route is �" or was, I should say, since I don’t think they exist any more �" but in those days, way before there was such a thing as the Internet or even TV which hadn’t been around for very long, there were newspapers. In the very early morning, big trucks with open beds would pick up massive loads of newspapers tied with thick string, stack them in small piles in the backs of their trucks and ride through the city on the same routes each day. Guys in the backs would toss out a stack or two on designated corners where the local paperboy would pick them up and take them home; there, they would roll each newspaper in a long tight roll, secure each with a rubber band, and pile them into big bags they would drape over the front handlebars of their bicycles, then tear off through their assigned routes, slinging papers onto the doorsteps of their customers. At the end of each month, the paperboy would make a slow, door to door visit of his customers to collect the monthly money they were owed. The larger the route, the more money there was to be made; but it was not very profitable �" except for kids. In big cities, a guy could sell papers just standing on a downtown city corner and yellin,’ “Get yer morning paper here!” �" but not in small towns like Waco. Here, paperboys were damned important.

On this particular morning, around 6 am. Ronald and I were just a few blocks into his route, taking it slow because it was summer and things moved pretty slowly in Waco then, even for paperboys, so we were slow walking our bikes down some dark street with just corner streetlights here and there, when Ronald reached out his free arm and stopped me just when I was at full volume, explaining the perils of Flash Gordon in yet another episode of the goldenhaired spaceman’s incredulous adventures throughout the galaxy.

“Shhh! Quiet!” Ronald hissed through clenched teeth. He steered me behind some bushes and pointed toward a house on the other side of Trice avenue, only a half dozen blocks from his house, around 15^th street. “See that guy coming outa that house over there?” Ronald whispered. I followed his arm and saw a tall, slender man in a long sleeved white shirt and dark slacks, hauling a big suitcase out of the side door of a small green painted house set back from the curb. It must have been heavy, ‘cause he struggled with it down the driveway to a small white garage with the doors closed.

“Yeah, I see him.”

“Not so loud!” whispered Ronald, his voice rising in fear. “He’ll hear us!”

“So what?” I whispered back. “What’s he gonna do, shoot us?” I smirked.

“He might,” Ronald whispered. I started to snigger, but Ronald grabbed my arm so tightly I knew he wasn’t kidding. Ronald wasn’t the brightest bulb in the refrigerator, so I quickly took him at his word. There wasn’t much light other than two streetlights that were set at almost equal distances from us, but I could see his eyes were twice their usual size and his bottom lip was quivering like he was yanking it up and down with a string. I scrunched a little lower and laid my bike down on the grass behind some bushes. Ronald watched me for a moment, then the light came on and he hurried to stash his own bike next to an old pickup parked close to us, then he crawled over to me on his belly like we were in an old war movie. “I heard my dad talking about him to my mom.” Ronald whispered, his voice cracking. “The cops are looking for him for something. What’s he doing now?”

“I can’t quite …” then the headlights flashed on from his car, dead in front of us in the driveway, and I grabbed Ronald by his curly brown hair and yanked him so far into the grass he could hear worms having sex under the soft bermuda grass we were sprawled in. “Don’t move!” I whispered, my mouth close to his ear. “Don’t you dare move!” We heard the car roll slowly down the driveway toward us, the engine purring loudly.

“He’s gonna run us over!” Ronald screamed. He tried to get up but I already had my left hand twisted in his hair, and I pulled him back down.

“He’s just coming out to the street!” I said shakily. “He’ll turn in a moment! Lay still!” I heard the engine rev suddenly, the lights glared much too brightly, and the car squealed out of the driveway then settled into an easy rumble up Trice. I shook gravel out of my hair. Ronald sat in the grass rubbing his head where I had nearly yanked out a plug of his hair. “I wonder where he’s going so early in the morning.” I mused.

“Prob’ly to his office,” Ronald mumbled. Hey, you like to ‘uv snatched me bald headed!” he complained. We both laughed at that. We had each heard our mothers use that threat to each of us from time to time.

“Office?” I said. “Where’s he work?” I watched as the guy’s small blue ‘55 Chevy turned left a couple of blocks ahead.

“Oh, he’s a dentist,” Ronald said, still absently rubbing his head. “He’s got an office just up on 18^th Street.”

“That’s up a ways and to the left, isn’t it?” I pointed in that general direction.

“Huh?” Ronald asked me, then he looked at my hand and said, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, that’s about right! I bet he’s going there! Come on!” He leaped for his bike and I pulled mine up from the grass. Together, we pedaled furiously up Trice, much braver now that the danger was moving quickly away from us.

“So why are the cops looking for him? A dentist can’t be too bad, can he? He give somebody cavities?” I chuckled.

Ronald turned to look at me, then stomped his brakes, sliding a little on the morning dew that slicked the asphalt. I had moved ahead of him, so I slowed and stopped and looked back at him, my raised eyebrows implying a question.

“Maybe we should just call my dad,” said Ronald quietly.

“What?!” I cried. “We can’t just let him get …” but Ronald cut me off.

“Keith.” he said quietly. “He’s got a gun.”

I paused at that. Okay, I was out of my element now. This was beyond my 7 or 8 year old brain now. Flash Gordon with a death ray was one thing. I could duke it out with him all day long. A dentist with a gun, in Waco, mere blocks from me, was different. I looked at Ronald for a beat or two. My tiny thrill-starved brain wanted desperately to go catch up to the bad guy and beat him to a pulp until the cops pulled me, snarling, off his bloodied unconscious body. My not so stupid brain shook its head slowly. “Maybe we should go to the 7-11 and call your dad. He’s still at work, isn’t he?”

“Yeah! That’s a great idea!” grinned Ronald. “Come on!”

The tiny convenience store was just a short block away. We were so excited when we got there, the store guy let Ronald use the store phone for free. Soon, Ronald had his dad on the phone and quickly told him about our “little adventure.” We were told that in no certain terms were we to move one foot outside the store until he arrived. It didn’t take long. By then, we were so excited we were actually vibrating.

Shortly, Ronald’s dad’s patrol car pulled up with Mr. Rosser �" or rather, Officer Rosser and his partner inside. My friend’s burly father piled out of the car just as it stopped and grabbed his son by the shoulders. “Are you okay?” he said roughly, concerned.

“Sure, dad, we’re okay. “We didn’t do anything. We didn’t follow him or anything, but I’m pretty sure he was going to his office. We saw his car turn off that way.”

“Okay,” said Officer Rosser. “Y’all know the address?” We shook our heads. Come on, then, you can ride in the back seat.” He opened the back door.

“Sure, Dad!” Ronald grinned. He scrambled inside. His father looked back at me and paused.

“Well?” he said brusquely, “You coming? You boys need to show us where it is.”

My grin surely must have touched both of my ears. “Oh, hell, yes!” I said, although in those days, a youngster never said “hell” to an adult, and of course, not to a policeman, but it never crossed my mind and certainly didn’t faze Officer Rosser. I assume he had heard even stronger language from his passengers.

Nowadays, of course, Ronald and I would never have been allowed to ride with police on their way to find a bad guy, but times were very different then, so Ronald and I happily rode the several blocks to the bad guy dentist’s office (sorry, I never asked his name, or at least I don’t recall hearing it). Shortly after we pulled up, Officer Pritcher (Ronald’s dad’s partner) called their office and requested another vehicle. I heard him say “kids,” so I guess he wanted some more protection there, just in case. Then just as Officer Rosser opened his door, the office door opened and the poor, terrible criminal dentist hurried through the opening, a briefcase in one hand and a bulky metal case under his other arm. His keys were in his teeth. Turning from the door that slammed shut behind him, he spotted one police officer as he exited his car, gun drawn, and another one walking toward him with his weapon pointed at the startled physician.

“What’s up, doc?” Officer Rosser said. Ronald and I burst out laughing. The dentist started and dropped his metal box; dozens of small medicine bottles spilled onto the sidewalk along with a couple of stacks of banded green bills that certainly were money, and his keys fell from his gaping mouth.

I never learned what the poor dentist had done to bring suspicion upon himself or what his crimes had been, but it didn’t matter. I’m pretty sure that Ronald and I had made up so many fantastic versions of the guy’s terrible crimes, and all the ingenious ways that we had caught him, told in so many ridiculous ways, the kids started calling us the Waco Paper Police, but who cares? It’s been so long ago now, I’m not sure if I believe it myself. But I'm pretty sure it happened, all right -- exactly the way I told it. Maybe.

END

  

Author's Note

It really IS a true story, folks. It is also possible I tweaked it a little, too, here and there.

The picture, top left corner (click it for a larger view) is part clip art and part my face, as I have done on other pages. It's a bit of fun and helps to pass the time.