~ Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Gloom of Night ~

~ Neither Snow, Nor Rain, Nor Gloom of Night ~

Mail. This is where it all happens. The Post Office. Citizens are already bustling in and out of the front doors. My pickup is in the shop and I’m running late this cloudy May morning, so my wife is dropping me off at work. We head around to a massive warehouse entirely lined with loading docks. Here in the back lot are two long rows of 50 blue and white Postal Trucks. Uniformly opposite each other and angled away, all looking exactly the same. The scene reminds me of the stripes on a Zebra. The Post Office, like nature, in its most harmonious and ordered state.

I am a United States Postal Service Rural Delivery Officer. That’s right, I’m a Mailman. Not the guy walking through yards in a uniform. That is a City Carrier. We don’t walk our routes, we drive. Us Rurals also get to wear whatever we want, within reason. Today I am wearing my carnivore T-shirt. It reads: A Steak A Day Keeps The Doctor Away. I don’t eat carbohydrates anymore.

After kissing my beautiful wife goodbye, I head to my first order of business every morning. Check down the truck. Start it up, check the lights, tires, wipers, mirrors, horn. Check for damage, does it need gas. The USPS is big on rules and procedures. Most people like things simple. The USPS is the opposite. They like things complicated. The more complicated the better. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. All said, it’s a great job and with a fleet of about 250,000 vehicles, I see that you need to keep things tight. But add on Union rules, leave procedures, day-to-day paperwork, time keeping, payroll, each action we take for Uncle Sam right down to which edge of a magazine should point up. Come on, every little thing doesn’t have to be a grind, does it?

So my vehicle # 2204965 checks out. LLV we call it. Long Life Vehicle. A maintenance guy once told me that my LLV is a 1985 model and the speedometer had probably turned over 4 or 5 times. That’s 40 years old and over 400,000 miles. They are definitely durable little guys. Noisy, bumpy, leaky and no AC. But there is no denying that they are tough. “See you in about 4 hours Little Girl.” I pat the fender and go inside.

Generally speaking we all have the same task. Separate, case and pull down the mail, sort the packages and spurs (small parcels that will fit in a mail box) and put them in order, then load everything in the truck for delivery. Sounds pretty standard but everybody develops their own routine based on their individual personalities. It’s hard to believe but sorting, casing and delivery procedures are as different as fingerprints. Take Mr. Cambridge for example. Slow moving and slow talking. He takes up way too much space, building a miniature city of packages around his casing station while leisurely telling mundane tales to anyone who will listen. Ramos. Crazy fast, also popular, fun, and quick to hit on the ladies in spite of a wife and three kids. First one out, first one back. Then there’s Liz. “Good Morning Liz.”

“What’s good about it?” Nuff said about her.

Randy. Consistently lazy, always running late. His routine has no routine. Vanessa. Gorgeous and funny, with a constant barrage of guys wanting to be helpful. Ahh, Vanessa. She does God’s work. And the Supervisor from Hell. Olga. Russian accented ex-prison guard. We just avoid her for the most part.

At the morning stand up, as we call it, I hear whispering chit chat while Olga rumbles the usual speech. Follow the rules, be safe, but today a special emphasis on dogs. Don’t approach em, don’t pet em, and for God’s sake, don’t feed em. Yeah, right. That reminds me, I need to fill my doggie cookie bag.

It’s almost noon, My LLV is loaded and ready. Definitely looks like bad weather, I’ll put on my rain coat and head out.

**********

Mr. Randall on North Chase Street sees me from his porch and hurries to his mail box to wait for my loop back around. Up one side and back down the other side. That’s what we do. He offers me a water bottle, cold from his fridge. I accept appreciatively even though I have a playmate full in back. Have not seen him since early September last year. He and his wife go to Florida for the winter and come back to Virginia in May for the summer. Every year like clockwork.

“Welcome Home Mr. Randall, has it been 9 months already?”

“Hi Jim. Time flies don’t it. And look at you. You’ve lost a lot of weight. You’re all skinny and fit looking. You start working out or something?”

“No sir. My wife and I went Carnivore last November. I only eat meat, eggs and seafood now. I haven’t had a carb in 6 months. I get to eat cheese omelettes, steaks and bacon every day. My wife and I have both lost over 60 pounds. I weigh the same now as I did back when I wrestled in college. My wife has completely reversed her Diabetes. My fatty liver is gone and we are both off of our blood pressure meds. I haven’t felt this good since my thirties.”

“Well it’s working for you.” He grabs his pot belly and shakes it. “I may check out this carnivore.”

“Go on You Tube and google Dr. Berry. It’s good to see you.”

“Just wanted you to know we’re back.”

I drive off and wave out of my open door. Yes, we are allowed to drive with the door locked open as long as you’re wearing the seat belt. I consider it a perk. Especially when it gets hot and our only version of AC is a little fan attached to the dash board. Just between us, I haven’t worn my seat belt in a couple years. Just gotten lax I guess. Though it’s technically against the rules to drive without it, I don’t feel it’s really necessary for a driver with my experience and it’s so much more convenient.

**********

Maple Grove is done, my first neighborhood down. This whole area is called First Colony and it is a sweet route. No apartments with cluster boxes, no business’, no schools. Just quiet, shady residential. And full of critters. All day I get to see deer, squirrels, rabbits, turtles and even the occasional opossum or snake.

Hasn’t rained yet but it still feels like it’s coming. As I turn onto Cherwell Court I say out loud, “Can Bailey come out and play?” And there she is waiting for me, tail wagging and holding her stuffed monkey. She’s a striking Golden Retriever, sweet and playful. I get out of the truck and she drops Monkey at my feet in exchange for her cookie. I Rub her head and shake her a little. What the Hell. I give her another cookie. I get back in the truck. “Bye Bailey. Bye Sweety,” I say and she backs up 3 steps, then sits. When I come back down the other side, she’s still there. Watches me pass and then moseys back up to her porch. "See you manana Bailey."

I’m heading around the cul-de-sac on West Circle and there is that big, brown, UPS truck blocking another of my mailboxes. Third time today. There are a lot of us out here every day working the neighborhoods. Fed Ex, Garbage trucks, Amazon, City workers, and of course UPS. For the most part we try to work together or at least stay out of each other’s way. Not this guy and on this stop I have a spur to deliver. I can’t skip it like I could if it were just mail. It’s an unwritten law. Don’t ever bring back undelivered, unscanned parcels. I park behind him and walk to the box. I don’t see anyone so I bang on the side of the truck and it echoes like a kettle drum. Side door opens hard and this young, soft looking kid jumps out.

“What the hell are you doing?” He demands, heavy on the attitude.

“Do you have to block my box at every single stop?”

“Hey. Do what we do. Walk,” And he fake laughs.

“Doesn’t work like that, so cut it out.” It’s true. The GPS tracks every move we make and we may have to account for unauthorized dismounts. I’m getting angry.

“Your acting like a pussy.”

I come back, “No. You’re the pussy.”

“No your…” I step on his words. “No you are. And you’re also a dick, so go fuck yourself.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.”

“Hey, listen up Soy Boy. Next time you block me, I’m reporting your truck to The Postal Inspectors. It’s a Federal offense to block a mail box. Then I’m informing all of my residents that the UPS is keeping them from getting their mail. And then I’m calling your boss at the Headquarters in Newport News and filing a grievance against you.” It was all a bluff. It is a federal crime to mess with a mail box but not to park in front of it. I would never involve my residents in something like this, they probably couldn’t care less anyway. And filing a grievance is pure smoke. I have no affiliation with his company or his union. But apparently he didn’t know any of that.

Concern crosses his face and he pulls out his phone the way kids do. Like they are drawing a pistol in the Old West. “I’m taking your picture.”

“Well, get my good side because I am about one inch from choking your sorry ass out.” I could do it too. I wrestled for 7 years in H.S. and college.

That did it. Must have scared him a little. He backed off. “Sorry. I’ll watch out for the mail boxes.”

“That’s all I ask.” Life went on.

I stop to fill four identical boxes side by side for residences on a private road that sit on the James River. Never go down there unless one of them has a parcel for the porch. That’s when I notice her. A little Boston Terrier. She looks lost and her gray muzzle reveals her advancing age. Never seen her before, maybe she slipped by a fence and got out. As I move on, she follows the truck. I speed up a little, don’t want her wandering too far from home but she keeps coming. It’s very odd so I stop and take a cookie offering, to check her out. She gobbles the treat, snorts and licks me. Lovey Dovey and affectionate. But her eyes look funny. Oh My God. I think she is blind.

I pick her up and she nestles into my shoulder like she is saved. I have to help her. She doesn’t need the trauma of Animal Control taking her to the pound, and waiting for them to arrive could take an hour or more. I drive on to the next address. 140 Falling Creek. Mrs. Finn. I know her somewhat. She’s a nice lady. She answers her door bell a little surprised to see me holding a Boston that’s licking my face. She steps out on the porch, leaving her own Beagle inside watching and whining through the storm door. “I thought I would have to sign for a package, Mr. Jim. Why are you holding a little dog giving you kisses?”

“Mrs. Finn. She’s been following me down the road and I’m worried about her. I’m sure she’s lost and I think she may be blind.”

“Hold on a minute.” She retrieves her cell phone and takes our picture. “We have a neighborhood website for all of First Colony. I’ll put this picture up and I bet someone will claim her in no time. Here. Let me have her.” She took the panting Boston gently and said, “Thank you so much. It so sweet that you took time to help her.”

“Had to. I love me some animals.”

As I go back to the truck, she calls after me, “Mr. Jim. How do you know my name.”

“I see it every day on your mail.”

“Of course. How silly of me.” She goes back in her house.

These people have no idea how much I know about them. Not just names but where they bank, their Vets, Doctors, Dentists, Birthdays, what time they get home from work, political affiliations and whose suing them. But like Seinfeld said, that stays in the vault. Coming back down the other side about 20 minutes later, Mrs. Finn is by the curb waving me down. Must have news about the Boston. I pull into her driveway. “I already found them. Or they found me.” She is so excited. “I put that picture online and the parents called me right away. They have been looking for her everywhere. Her name is SweetPea and yes she is mostly blind. They asked me to get your phone number so they can contact you. They want to pay you.”

“Naw. It’s okay. I’m just glad I could help.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes Ma’am.” I back out, wave and drive on, feeling quite pleased with myself.

The rain has started. Steady but light enough to keep the door open. Glad I wore the rain coat.

**********

I’m getting near the end of the route. The rain let up and the sun is threatening to shine. I’m coming back down my last cul-de-sac and I spot the lady at 305 Bent Street. She likes to come out and ask me questions. Often times silly or pointless questions. Sometimes I wonder if she is hitting on me. I put the mail in her box and close the lid. She's standing there asking me something about a missing water bill. “I’ll check at the office, Mrs. Nichols.” I say, just wanting to escape.

“Call me Retha, Jim.”

That’s when it happened. Maybe Hegel the Philosopher was right. Higher purpose is achieved from unintended outcomes. Maybe it was just Murphy’s Law. Or maybe sometimes…shit just happens. As I drove away, the little hook on the box lid caught my gathered raincoat sleeve and bam! Jerks me right out of my seat. I land on the grass on the back of my head, roll through it and come up. Old wrestling muscle memory I guess. I watch in slow motion, stunned as the truck slowly ambles across the road, up and over the curb, across the yard and straight towards a house. I run it down and jump in hitting the brake about a foot from plowing into the red brick. I back it across the street where the lady stands flabbergasted.

“That was unbelievable! Jim are you alright?”

She is holding my glasses that I lost during the fall. “Are my glasses broken?”

She hands them to me. “No. They seem okay.”

“Then I’m fine.” I take them and look around. Mercifully, it appears that no one else saw it happen. “I hope this stays between us Miss Retha. I have to go. Bye.”

As I drive off, I watch her wave slowly, dazed. Thank god for Carnivore. A year ago that fall would have put me the hospital. Then it comes down hard. If I was wearing the seat belt, that couldn’t have happened. I decided to ignore their silly safety rules and it almost cost me my license, my job, my pension! I pull the strap across my lap and sigh with relief at the stark sound of the buckle locking me in. Grandaddy always said that a hard head makes a soft ass. Well my ass is feeling as light as a feather right about now.

A short time later I arrived back at the warehouse still reeling from, and worried about my close call. Walking past Mike at the time clock prompts our usual exchange. “One more down, Jim.”

“Another one in the bag, Mike.”

There was buzz around the supervisors desk. A tall man I don’t know personally but recognize as the MPOO (Manager of Post Office Operations) of our District, is there. Olga yells, “Jim Archer. Here. Now.”

I walk over trying to hide my inner turmoil. They knew. They had to know. What else could it be. Maybe Retha squealed. Hell, it might have been recorded and already on You Tube. I am furiously coming up with excuses in my head. This is bad. I am so screwed. The MPOO holds out his hand. “Hello Mr. Archer. We have not met. I am Ray Fortune, your MPOO.”

We shake and I hear my voice saying, “Nice to meet you Sir.”

“I just wanted to come by and give you my personal regards for your actions today.”

I think, “What the Hell?”

“Of course technically, we are not supposed to have any contact with animals on our routes. But in this case, seems you did the right thing. That pet you saved today belonged to a City Councilman. He and many citizens have bombarded our office with gratitude for you helping that dog. It’s all over the internet. I wanted to personally congratulate you and let you know how much we appreciate the good will your actions have generated.” Then he leans over and says low, “I love dogs too, but let’s not make a habit of this kind of thing.”

I walk back to my casing station more than relieved. I feel different…changed. I don’t know. I finish up and walk out to my waiting wife standing by her SUV. She runs to me and throws her arms around me like she hasn’t seen me in months. “How was your day, Baby?”

I reply, “Oh. You Know. Same Ole, same Ole. It’s just the mail.”