In 1966, my father buys an Arnold bread route in Astoria. Technically, he is self-employed—he owns the truck and the territory, and he buys the bread from Arnold then resells it to the stores—which means he gets no benefits and has to maintain the truck himself.
The truck doesn’t fit in the garage, so he parks it in the driveway, which turns out to be against Lynbrook Village regulations. One of the neighbors complains (anonymously), and he has to expand the garage roof, which means he can’t afford to replace the broken heater in the truck.
My father goes to an Arnold sales meeting in Connecticut, featuring celebrity spokeswoman Gloria Okon, a local “weather girl.” 
Mr. Arnold himself rouses the drivers, having them grasp hands and hold them aloft. My father is sheepish as he tells me this, but I can see that he enjoys being part of something bigger than his own territory. He tosses aside his signed glossy photograph from Gloria but leaves it on the kitchen counter, shrugging whenever anyone points it out.
While I’m home from college for Christmas, he asks me to help out on the route for a few of the peak pre-holiday runs. My father rarely asks for help with anything. The romance of starting the day at 4 a.m. in a cold truck appeals to my folk music sensibility. On our way to pick up the bread at the warehouse, I sing to myself, I’ve been doing some hard traveling / I thought you know’d.
As we’re about to enter the warehouse, my father offers me a stocking cap.
“I’m fine,” I say. “One of the advantages of long hair, keeps me warm.”
My father stops, hat in hand.
“Are you ashamed of me?” I ask.
“No, it’s not me, it’s Joe, he runs the place and he’s what you call one of those right wingers. Just do me a favor.”
“But you own the route—what do you care what Joe thinks?”
“Yes, but the faster your truck is loaded, the sooner you get on your route, so you have to stay on Joe’s good side.”
The last time my father gave me a stocking cap was when I was eight with a ringworm infection and he had to shave my head. I owe him one. I take the hat. He brushes his hand against my shoulder.
Joe reminds me of the manager in the movie version of Damn Yankees. He is crusty but friendly, and he seems to give my father a little extra attention because I’m there. But I resent that he intimidates my father into making me cover up who I am.
I keep the hat on throughout the route, unloading boxes for each store and following my father’s instructions as we stuff the shelves. All the managers want fresh bread as early as possible, and my father—like Joe—controls time. So I am surprised that the managers don’t fawn over him the way he does with Joe. In fact they are outright rude, calling him Arnold (“Hey, Arnold, you’re late. Wonder was here an hour ago!”) and taking their sweet time signing the receipt.
My father explains it has to do with the amount and the location of shelf space, also the manager’s willingness to accept promotional displays (often with Gloria Okon’s smiling face). “You can’t sell bread that you can’t stock, and some shoppers aren’t going to bend down for the bread on the bottom shelf.”
My father brings a bottle of whiskey to the managers of the biggest stores as a Christmas offering, receiving nothing in return.
Throughout the day, my father proudly introduces me as his “son from college,” and I get increasingly good at shelving the various Arnold products. Between stops, we warm our hands on take-out coffee cups as the sun slowly heats the front seat.
Back home at 2 p.m., we break down the empty bread boxes and stack them in the truck, to be returned to Joe on the next shift.
from the archive; first posted January 8, 2015
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Author: The Best American Poetry
