It’s tough to realize that today marks the last Thursday publication of the Las Vegas (Daily) Optic.

The announcement that the (Daily) Optic is to become a tri-weekly the first week in March has generated more attention than the Optic’s decision, when Landmark became the parent company, to publish every weekday, even on holidays.

Remember, the penta-weekly Optic for years observed Thanksgiving and Christmas, New Year’s Day and other national holidays, with the result that on certain weeks we had only four issues.

I’m not sure people ever got used to having a Christmas issue, for example, when that holiday fell on a weekday. And possibly on rare occasions, Optic carriers merely bundled the holiday issue along with the regular copy.

It’s the end of an era, involving rearrangement of Optic features and work schedules. Area subscribers will now be getting their Optic in the mail every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and that day’s edition will also be at single-sales locations around town in the morning. So you can enjoy the newspaper with your morning Ovaltine.

As the chronologically oldest employee, and almost the longest continuously-serving member of the Optic, I obviously have memories.

My connection with the paper began when I was quite young, around the time the Great Coronado built his bridge. My stint as a street seller evolved into a bona fide newspaper route, and then, before I was out of high school, I worked as a writer and photographer.

There was a gap of almost 40 years when I set out to try journalism in the Chicago area and even owned a weekly newspaper for a couple of years. Teaching school was just a detour, as I always knew I’d be back with the press. After I retired, Jesse Gallegos, then the editor, invited me to type classifieds during the tenure of publisher Delia Beck, and when Sharon Vander Meer became general manager, I poofread and began Work of Art.

This is installment 319 of Work of Art, and if we really want to get specific, there’ve been 291,750 words printed, some of them different. I’ve never missed a column, and during the first year wrote up to eight columns a month.

Although I like to tackle education, behavior, our childhood and national events, my passion remains language. And it’s flattering to hear people say that in most columns there’s a mini-language lesson to be learned.

My first Optic job was the toughest. I wonder now why some 30 boys, most older than I, would wait hours and fight for position to buy three-cent copies, and in turn sell them for a nickel. The competition was rough, with some of the older sellers claiming, for example, that “The manager of the restaurant told me I’m the only one who can sell papers there.”

And some were less subtle, threatening a beating if we entered their turf.

All this for two pennies of profit per paper. My folks generally applauded my foray into the business world. I was excited, having earned 25 cents the first day. I sold 11 copies and must have gotten a three-cent tip.

But my new riches fell a bit short of enabling me to become a world traveler, a connoisseur of fine foods or a member of the jet set. No, Mom soon announced, “Now that you’re doing so well, you can start buying your own clothes.” Well, that stung a bit. In the first place, “buying” was hardly an issue, unless what I usually wore had been bought for someone else, years earlier. Can you spell “hand- me-downs”?

The first week of selling papers was particularly perilous. In addition to being roughed up for turf-invading, I found it easy to succumb to the comfort of one of several pool halls and taverns that dotted Douglas, Sixth, Grand and (especially) Lincoln. Like a waif in “The Jungle,” by Upton Sinclair, I’d enter bars and pool halls just to keep warm, and if a pinball machine was in sight, I’d enjoy watching others testing their talents. And we needed to buy something if we wanted to stay.

We were welcome in bars only if we were buying — a coke or potato chips or peanuts — not if we were selling. So often, we’d whiz through the side door of the old Casino, on Railroad and Lincoln, and make a sale or two before the bartender noticed us.

A tavern on Douglas, run by a man I remember only as Mr. Augerot, didn’t welcome us Optic sellers. Once, my older brother Severino played a trick on me. He hid his stash of newspapers behind him and as he exited the Manhattan Tavern, he told me the manager was looking for a seller so he could “buy a bunch of Optics.” Naturally, I hurried in. The owner hollered to some customers, “Didn’t I promise to bounce out the next paper boy who came in here?” He came toward me but I didn’t stick around to watch him fulfill his promise.

Every jukebox in town played only three tunes: “The Third Man Theme,” “Harbor Lights” and “Good Night, Irene.” The smell of smoke mixed with booze always made me wonder what, if anything, was enjoyable about downing seven beers and smoking a pack of Chesterfields.

In just a few years, I “graduated” to having my own route, which I handled by bicycle. So instead of fierce older Optic sellers, I dodged dogs and devoted all of Saturday morning trying to collect the 30 cents per week from recalcitrant subscribers.

Several justified their failure to pay as no big deal, as if the newspaper was absorbing the loss. No, emphatically, they stole from us, the kids who’d bought the papers for resale. The stories — excuses — people used to avoid paying for the paper could fill an entire column, and they will. Soon.

In unfolding this woeful tale of a struggling paperboy to my grandson and namesake, I discovered how different his take is on earning money. Arthur asked, “Why would you spend four hours to earn 25 cents?” Does he realize how much a quarter bought in those days?

It was worth it. A number of us opened bank accounts, paid for shoes and clothes, bicycles, even tuition, with the dollar we might clear in a week.

Yesterday, as I fished out two dollars just for a fountain drink at a fast-food place, I remembered having seen two men hauling off possibly the last nickel pop machine in town, from Werley Auto on Grand, in about 1950.

Well, inflation changes things. So does an economy that went south.

Writing Work of Art has been a moving experience.

Yes, it’s moving to Wednesday mornings.

See you in six days.

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