—This letter appeared in the “Where Are They Now” section of the Post on June 1, 1971
I was once a Saturday Evening Post boy. I sold the magazines at the Hollis Railroad Station in Hollis, New York. Unfortunately there was a kid named Maury who also used to sell The Saturday Evening Post there. He was a head taller than me and weighed 50 pounds more. He didn’t like my selling the Post on “his turf,” so he used to burn my arm with cigarettes.
I moved across the street from the station, but Maury didn’t even like this. He used to yell, “You dirty blank blank. I’ll kill you if you sell a magazine.” But the people used to like me and many of them walked right past Maury and bought the Post from me. After everyone left the station I ran like a gazelle, my Saturday Evening Post bag waving in the air.
I think during one of these dashes I decided that when I grew up I’d get out of sales and on the editorial side of the magazine.
This article is featured in the July/August 2021 issue of The Saturday Evening Post. Subscribe to the magazine for more art, inspiring stories, fiction, humor, and features from our archives.
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