If there's one thing that I've learned for certain in the last six years, it's that you never know what's waiting for you in apartment 37.

I've had this paper route since I was twelve. Now I'm eighteen and a senior in high school. I've got the delivery of this route down to a science and the collection of customer payments into a rhythm. The bulk of my route is in three apartment buildings. I live in the burbs, so the apartments are only two stories tall, separated inside by a main lobby and a set of stairs to the upper level, with long hallways stretching out to the right and to the left.

All I have to do is zip inside, go left, plop the papers down on the doormats, go right, do the same, dash upstairs, same deal over, and then out the back and on to the next apartment building. Boom, boom, boom, and I've delivered half my route in just a couple of minutes.

Collecting is almost as easy. Lots of retirees in the apartments, who actually look forward to seeing me just to have someone to talk to, so they're always right there each week or at the beginning of the month with their money and their punch card. One customer, in the first building, apartment 4, always leaves a little envelope with the weekly fee and the punch card on a small table by the door. There's always a card and a tip at Christmas, sometimes a piece of candy at Halloween. In six years, I've never seen his (her? their?) face. Unlike Mrs. Kowalski in number 29, who I can never pull away from as she regales me with the latest misadventures of her five cats.

But none of that applies to the ever-mysterious apartment 37. It's the one apartment with a revolving door. During my tenure on this route there've been like a dozen different people renting this apartment. There's been a newlywed couple who always hollered "Just a minute!" from inside and usually ended up sliding the money under the door or slipping it out to me by opening the door a crack. I could tell which room their voices were coming from--all the apartments are laid out the same--and no one goes shirtless in February. Once it was a nice retired guy, a widower who smelled like seasoned pipe tobacco, but he died like four months after subscribing. There was this one guy who was Spanish or Mexican or something and we could never understand a word we were saying to each other. We developed a system where I'd just hold up the paper bag and wave the card punch. He'd smile, hold up a finger as if to say "hang on a sec" and then get the money. He was pretty okay. There was the third shift guy who liked that I got the weekend papers there by 5:30 in the morning and tipped accordingly, the one cranky lady who never kept a regular schedule and refused to answer the door under any circumstances, and a few others I didn't know 'cause they didn't get the paper.

Now I had a new #37. I'd been delivering to him for a month, and it seemed like he was always home. He usually played loud music, and though his taste in tunes rocked, I wondered what the hell he did for a living that allowed him to be home all the time. I rang his bell, hoping he had the cash to pay his bill, so I could pay mine.

I stood there for a while, rocking back and forth on my heels. More music, more movement inside, no answer. I rang again, to similar results. God, I hope he's not like the cranky lady. I elected to knock, and this time the music was lowered slightly, enough so that I could make out his muffled voice as he spoke to someone else. But I only heard his voice. I guessed he was on the phone.

I raised my hand to knock again when the door opened quickly. I started a bit, first because I was about to rap on the guy's nose, and second when I got a good look at him.

He was gorgeous. I've done my best not to notice good-looking guys for a while now--almost as long as I've had the route--but it gets harder the older I get. And this guy was worth noticing. Dark eyes, thick hair, smooth, smooth skin (in high school that can be a rarity in itself), and though he wasn't that much taller than me, he stood tall. He definitely worked out. He held the door open with one hand, had his phone in the other, held to his ear. There was a legal pad tucked under one arm. I had obviously caught him in the middle of something, and even though he seemed to be a bit harried, he still exuded confidence. He looked like the kind of man I wanted to be.

"Hang on a minute", he said into the phone, then held the received against his chest to muffle the sound. He looked at me expectantly. I stared back. "Well?"

I blinked a couple times and snapped out of my reverie. I held up my punch. "Collecting for the Chronicle."

He looked at me, at the punch, with some puzzlement for a split-second, then said, "Right. Right, right, yeah. C'mon in." Into the phone, he said, "Can you hang on? I gotta pay the paper boy. No, won't be a second, chill a bit." He tossed the phone onto the counter and began rifling through various papers, post-its, and various messages pinned to a corkboard by his phone. He waved me inside. "C'mon. c'mon."

I walked in and looked around as unobtrusively as possible. At least it didn't have the stink of fish that Mrs. Kowalski's place had. I began to peer around the corner into the living room.

"What's it look like?"

"Huh?", I whirled around fast, feeling like I'd been caught at something.

"There's a punch card or slip or something, right? What's it look like? It's always some hideous color, I know, like lime green or neon pink--"

"Orange", I said. "Shaped like a big claim ticket. Hole on the end."

"Aha. Got it!" He produced the card from a spot behind the corkboard and extended it to me between two fingers. "How much do I owe you for?"

"The whole month."

He opened a drawer at the end of the counter, pulled out a zippered bank pouch, and tossed it over to me. I caught it, and saw it was labeled "Petty Cash". He said, "Take what you need", and grabbed up his phone again. "Hal? Yeah, give me those specs again. No, for both pages. Hold on, lemme get a pencil."

I walked into the living room as the guy busied himself in the kitchenette with his phone call. He had done very little decorating in the month he'd been there, but he didn't need to. The place was cluttered enough to serve as a kind of interior design all its own despite the bare walls. In the corner was a drafting desk overflowing with papers, sketches & drawings, various art supplies and hastily-scribbled notes fastened here and there with paper clips and cellophane tape. Not far from the desk was a computer console with a screen up on what seemed to be a Photoshop program, with scanned images and files opened on its desktop. The center of the room was dominated by a photographer's setup. There was a freestanding, pull-up background screen that looked to have multiple scenes in it, reflector umbrellas, lights, and a white floorboard or tile set on the carpet in front of the screen.

Not far from the photo setup was an end table with an open photo portfolio on it, the kind with plastic flip pages for 8x10 prints. The pages showed various young male models in all manner of costumes or half-costumes. They posed as sports players, football and baseball mostly, firemen, cowboys, space heroes like in a '50s sci-fi movie, and so on. Some looked like finished photographs ready for framing, others looked absurd, like the small wad of the raven-haired kid wearing chest-high fishing waders, a winter down vest, and holding a kid's squirt gun. What the hell was that all about?

As I began to turn around to slip back into the other room, I saw an open steamer trunk on the floor. It was open, and filled with costumes of all sorts and fun stage props. Whatever this guy did for a living, it must be fun. I reached down and picked up a plastic ray gun. It was silver, with a barrel at least a foot long, and moons and stars decorating the handle. A tug on the trigger caused a small pinwheel inside to spin around with a "Ffvwwhheeeee!" and spit tiny sparks.

"It's fun, isn't it?"

I whirled around, feeling terrible for snooping, worse for being caught at it. "Oh! I'm sorry, it's just, I saw--"

The guy waved his hand. "Don't worry about it. That stuff is there to be played with, though some of my models get tired of it fast." For the first time, I noticed what he was wearing. It was a royal blue T-shirt with a bold white star over the chest and vertical red-and-white stripes going up and down the abdomen. Damn, it was a Captain America shirt. I'd always wanted one of those.

"So", I said, deciding to take the plunge, "what do you do, anyway?"

"I, young sir, am a graphic designer for magazines, trades, and other such things."

"So what does that mean, exactly? Do you draw, then?"

"Oh, yeah. Sometimes I'm asked to draw. Sometimes to take photos, sometimes I take photos and then use them as reference to draw from. Some of the most fun is taking photos and then altering them in Photoshop."

I pointed to the strange picture of the boy in the fishing gear and winter coat. "Is that what this one's for?"

He stepped forward to see what I was referring to. "Ah. The kid's got a good eye. C'mere." He waved me over to his computer. I was giddy to follow, as artwork of any kind always got me hyper. I've taken all the art classes my high school offers, a vocational commercial art course at the high school downtown, and even an independent study. I was hungry to learn whatever I could.

The guy pulled up a wheeled office chair and gestured for me to sit down. With a deft hand, he manipulated his mouse, calling up different menus and quickly selecting files. In seconds, the image of the wader kid was up on the screen. "Okay. So we take Jason here in his uncomfortable getup", he said. "and we follow the main shape his wardrobe takes." Another two clicks, and Jason was in a silhouette of sorts, with only various bits of detail left showing from his waders and coat. "Then we give it all a uniform color, add our own details, select a light source that matches his face--and voila!"

I inhaled slowly. "Coool." In a thrice, Jason was attired in an old-fashion storybook spacesuit, with bulky boots and gloves, and all those wacky padded rings around his knees, elbows, and shoulders. He no longer looked like an idiot. He looked like his name should be Jason Starstorm or something like that. But it was clear how the mismatched costume had been used as a template to create the classic space cadet image.

"Now we can put him on a strange alien planet", he said, clicking again, and zip! Jason was standing on a crater-laden world with bizarre star systems and colorful moons in the background. "Or inside a space cruiser." Click-click. "Or face-to-face with an alien monster that could make Sigourney Weaver wet her pants." Clickety-click.

"That is so awesome! What was this for?"

"You ever see that show Amazing Stories?"

"Yeah, I love that show!"

"Well, it was based on some old pulp magazines. Astonishing Tales, Thrilling Wonder Stories, Fantastic Adventures. It was for a retrospective of those old mags. It was a fun piece."

"I wish I had time to sit here and look at all this stuff!", I gushed.

"Sorry for both of us. I'm on deadline now, but some other time, stop in, I'll give you the tour." The phone rang. "And there you go, I'm summoned back to work. Did you grab your money?" I shook my head and took out of his bank bag what he owed for the month. As he picked up the ringing phone, he added, "And snag yourself an extra couple bucks. I used to deliver papers as a kid. You live for decent tips." I thanked him graciously, punched his card and stared a bit more at the goodies he had strewn about. He took his call, seeming not to care that I lingered. "Yeah. No, he's not here yet, and he's like a half hour late already. No, if I knew where he was I'd call him."

I moved to slip out, setting his punch card and petty cash bag on the counter as I headed toward the door. He kept talking as if he'd forgotten I was there. "Well, he'd better GET here if he knows what's good for hi--we have a deadline here! Those photos need to go out tomorrow, and I've already assured Hal they'll be on his desk." I didn't want to sit and squirm while the guy had a business argument on the phone, so I tiptoed out the door.

"No, you are not gonna call Butterfield and tell him to take over! You can just--hold on a second."

My progress was stopped by the raised voice and snapping fingers of the new guy in #37. "Hey, kid! Yeah, you with the paper bag! You wanna make eighty bucks?"

I turned around. I shrugged. "Um, I guess so."

"You're what, 5'8", 5'9"?"

"5'10", I said, standing up to my full height.

"Shoe size?"

"Eleven."

"You're hired." Then into the phone, he said, "Hal will have his photos. My model just walked in the door." And he hung up. Looking at me, he asked, "How fast can you finish the rest of your route?"

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in front of the camera. My clothes and empty paper bag were tossed into a chair in the corner. I stood before a painted backdrop showing an open barn door looking out upon beautiful countryside with a small swimming hole and lush greenery. I was wearing no shirt, a pair of slightly oversized bib overalls, a big straw hat with frayed edges, and was barefoot. I felt ridiculous. I felt like an idiot. I felt wonderful, important. I felt, for some unfathomable reason, like I was having an adventure.

The guy hauled over a hay bail and set it down beside me. "Sit on that." I sat on it, and was surprised to find it firm like a wooden box. It wasn't real hay, merely a prop. He sprinkled bits of straw and sawdust around my feet, atop the plastic planks that looked like wooden floorboards.

He jumped behind the camera and checked a few things, angled a light, went back, made an adjustment. "Okay", he said with authority. "This is for some Modern Farming dealie or Country Gentleman or something like that. We're going for Rockwellian imagery here. Can you look innocent?"

I wrinkled my brow. "How do you look innocent?"

He smacked his lips. "Kid, what does the number 69 mean to you?"

I raised my eyebrows, bit my lower lip. "Uhh...23 times 3?"

"That!", he pointed at me. "Look like that." And there was a click, a flash, and we were off and running.

"So when do you have to be home?"

I was seated at the base of a faux haystack, or a section of one anyway, and spoke around the long piece of grass I held between my teeth. "Why?"

"Because it's already going on 6 o'clock. You've been here since quarter to four."

"Is it really?", I asked, looking to my watch, finding only bare arm.

He smiled. "Country boys don't wear watches. They can just tell what time it is by the position of the sun."

I started to get up, brushing the bits of straw and dust off the seat of my pants. "I guess I should be getting home."

"Well, let me get a couple more with a shirt and farm boots on you and then we'll say your pay has been well earned." I nodded, happy to stay and play dress up and take part in the creation of art. He tossed me a red checkered shirt, which I began to put on. "Under the bibs", he said.

"Oh, right." I undid the bib straps and buttoned up the shirt, rebuckled myself.

He went into the next room, his bedroom near as I could tell, and came back a few seconds later with a beautiful pair of tall rubber knee boots. They were a deep blue, almost black, with thick white trim around the soles. He set them down in front of me. "Here, slip those on--" He paused. "I can't just keep calling you 'kid'. What's your name, farmboy?"

I smiled as I pulled on the boots. "Dickie. And I've heard all the remarks, thanks." The cool, smooth rubber brushed against my bare feet and legs. It felt wonderful.

He tapped me on the chest as I stood up again. "Hey. Just like the overalls." I looked down and saw he'd been tapping the label stitched to the bib. Dickies. Okay, so I hadn't heard that one. He held out his hand. I took it. "Well, Dickie, I'm Rick. I'm pleased to meet you and thrilled to have you save my hide for this assignment." We shook hands, his was strong and warm.

"Um, I tucked the pant legs into the boots. I wasn't sure if that was how you wanted them, or--"

"Don't change a thing. You look perfect."

I put one foot up on the mock hay bail, my thumbs hooked in my pockets. Rick took maybe half a dozen more photos of me in the boots and shirt. I kept suggesting more poses, which he seemed to enjoy and before long he'd shot half a roll. It was great, and wearing those big rubber boots felt fantastic. I departed with four twenty dollar bills in my wallet and riding a high that practically floated me home. That night I dreamt I was a happy-go-lucky farmboy romping through the country with his big brother Rick.

Rick paced slowly around his apartment. Not number 37. His other apartment. Rick had a second apartment, though it might more accurately be called his first apartment as he'd had it for years before moving in to the building where Dickie delivered papers.

Getting things set up with the landlord had been far easier than he'd anticipated, though he'd had to suffer through an interminable month of establishing his calls from clients. Still in all, it was more than worth it when this day arrived and he finally got to lay eyes on his paper boy. Talk about worth the wait.

Dickie was everything he'd hoped he would be. Not too tall for his age, not too short, but something in the way he carried himself, the spring in his step, prohibited describing him as "average". His eyes shone and he smiled easily. He was no teen idol, but his face was fresh and charming. Rick knew that Dickie did not think of himself as attractive, but he also knew that given another ten or fifteen years, that same paper boy's jaw would drop while looking at his high school memory book in disbelief at how fabulous he looked.

Emotionally, Rick felt no different, save for some carryover from the initial rush of seeing the long-awaited paper boy. It was all Rick could do not to drop the phone and hug the wide-eyed little twink when he saw him. But there'd be plenty of time for hugs later.

Rick gathered up his pajamas, toothbrush, and shaving kit. He still felt more comfortable sleeping here in the second apartment, but he knew he had to get more and more used to doing the majority of his living in number 37 if he wanted his exhaustive plans to work. As unlikely as it was, he didn't want to arouse suspicion in his young new model.