As an adolescent boy growing up in Campbell, on the west side of San Jose, life was lived on bicycles. First, basic Sears one-speeds, which were just fine for paper routes and tooling around in say, a three-mile radius around home. By the time one reached high school, we all graduated to 10-speeds—Schwinns and Peugeots for those who could afford such fine machines. Along with our one-speeds, out went our paper routes. Nobody (except me my freshman year; I had little concept of cool) kept their paper routes in high school.

Nobody except Larry Norman.

Larry lived on DeTracey, two blocks from me on Monica Lane. Most of Campbell was white, but Larry was white white. He would have given chalk a good name. Back then his nearly white hair was in a crewcut. Crewcuts had been out for at least five years, maybe 10. Then he rode a one-speed to Campbell High. Then, then, he had a paper route. He delivered the San Francisco Chronicle. I worked for the competition, the San Jose Mercury. My route covered Larry’s home.

I had my route in sixth grade. I had just turned 11. I had about 50 customers. I would clear $30 in a good month. Not only did we deliver the paper by 6 a.m. seven mornings a week, we also had to collect from customers. If a customer wouldn’t pay, it would come out of my pocket, not the Mercury’s.

One month, Larry’s parents subscribed to the Mercury. They joined mid- month. I had a formula for figuring out partial payments. My formula was designed to benefit me, not the customer. When I went to collect, Larry answered the door. As he studied my bill, he determined I was cheating his mother. “That’s not how we calculate part-months at the Chronicle!” “Well, this is not the Chronicle!” “You’re cheating my family!” “Am not!” A heated argument between the Chronicle’s high school sophomore paper carrier and the Merc’s Hamilton Elementary’s sixth grader ensued.

Larry’s Mom came to the door to intervene. After hearing me out, she disagreed with me but decided to pay the bill I calculated. It couldn’t have been more than a dollar’s difference. As I walked away, I had to have the last word . Not knowing how else to meaningfully express myself, I cursed Larry’s Mom. Larry took out after me. I hopped my bike, waved a certain finger at Larry and took off into the night.

Later, I heard about Larry being constantly taunted by the jocks. Once he was beaten up. He never fought back because he was a pacifist. I wondered what he would have done if he had caught up to me on my bike.

By the time I reached high school, Larry had become semi-famous. He sang in a folk group called The Back Country Seven. His sister, Nancy, and high school pal, Gene Mason, were in the group. (Larry’s sister, Kristy, was in my grade from elementary school through high school but she was so quiet I can’t recall one conversation with her.) I heard The Back Country Seven at hootenannies held at Campbell High and thought they were fairly groovy. I was at their last concert.