by Ron Hess
“I’m not sure what I’m doing here, Jeanette. The village is so peaceful and quiet. I need a place that doesn’t add to my soul’s baggage,” I said.
I could almost see her nodding.
“Oh, yes, you are. You remember what Father Markoff said, don’t you? How this is to be a test, to check on how you’re doing as a human. You were getting lazy here. Maybe God wants you to grow and . . . ” She paused here, as if afraid to go on.
I jumped into her thoughts.
“You mean, to cure myself?”
Her answer came; so quiet I could barely hear her.
“Yes.”
“Then, I probably have a ways to go,” I said, wanting a little pity.
“Um . . . perhaps. But whether you go sideways or up, you will grow, Leo Bronski.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I loved her for her faith in me. My heart swelled.
“You know what, babe? Right now I’d love to get you on your naked tummy and rub baby oil all over your back.”
There was a moment’s pause. “Oh, Leo . . . ” Another pause and a deep breath. “You are a rascal, but I love you. You remember that. Please be careful. Watch out for . . . for human nature.”
She didn’t have to say anything more. I knew what she was talking about. And that was parties, booze, and women. Married man or not, I was prone to look at the opposite sex in ways I should not. Out in the small Western Alaskan town of Howes Bluff, I had gotten away from all that, substituting instead the village, church, and family activities. Now, I was away from the encircling love and tradition. And so, with heartfelt emotion, I said, “I will, Jeanette, I will.”
After a few more endearments, we hung up leaving me thinking about the reality of life and how we have to cope with it, no matter what our personal afflictions might be. Here I was on the far side of fifty and I still had to fight my personal wars. Wars that I didn’t need. Wars that should have been solved a long time ago. But maybe that showed how gullible and naive I really was.
After dinner in the motel restaurant, I went to bed maybe a little proud of myself for staying away from a pre-dinner drink. My gut told me I was crowing a little too soon. Then the dreams came of Vietnam and what I did and didn’t do over there. Why couldn’t they go away and leave me in peace? “Jeanette,” I whispered to the dark, pretending she was there, “I need you here.”
Chapter 5
Another restless night. I glanced at the bedside clock. Crap! 5:00 a.m. Did I get up or force myself to stay in bed until at least 5:30? Knowing I wouldn’t get back to sleep, I decided to get up and face the day. It didn’t help, of course, when I noticed in the mirror more gray hairs in my brown thatch, which had to be persuaded to stay in place every day. After only one cut incurred while shaving, I dressed, noted with some pleasure my size 34 waist, put on my wire rims, and called myself ready. But 5:30 a.m. was too early for any restaurant to be open. Well, then, to work. Maybe I could microwave an old cup of coffee and requisition a candy bar from the candy machine at work.
I got into the Jeep and took a deep smell of new car. I loved that smell. The sound of leather crinkling. I had a hunch that was why people preferred leather. Maybe it was primeval, I didn’t know, but it gave one a feeling of smug satisfaction.
I arrived at the station, still in the dark of night. There were no other cars in the parking lot. Naturally there wouldn’t be; no one was scheduled to be there until 6:30 a.m. and no one in their right mind shows up early at that time of the day. Nobody but a cranky O.I.C. Was I cranky? Nah . . .
I keyed in the proper code on the control box and entered the station. I was right proud of myself for taking only one day to learn it. There were keys in my pocket, but they were there only in case I forgot the code, and forgetting the code was like a kid stepping on a crack in the sidewalk. Break your Mama’s back, indeed!
One more thing to do after I was in the place, and that was to key in another code at yet another box so some operator zillions of miles away in the lower forty-eight would know I was legit. It was in the process of doing that very thing that I thought I heard a rustle, but after turning the lights on, I decided it must have been a rodent. Voles are everywhere, even in Alaska. If I happened to think of it later, I would ask the custodians to be on the lookout for a furry something or other.
Now that I was in the place, I headed toward the rec room. Praise be! My prayers were answered! There were at least two cups left in the pot from the day before. My day was gonna be a success.
It was while I was standing there, whistling a silent tune while I waited on the microwave, that I heard another rustle. Yep, I was definitely going to talk to the guys about rodents. But when I heard retreating footsteps and the slam of a door, the hackles rose on my neck. At first, I thought it was somebody showing up for work, even if it was early, but my loudest hello couldn’t stir a soul. Hmm . . . something strange going on? Crap! I looked at my watch: 6:10 a.m. and still no cars in the parking lot that I could see from the back window. Well, hell, I needed that cup of coffee. That and a candy bar would have to do.
As I sat in my office munching on the candy bar, I started thinking perverse thoughts, like what time did the Boss get to the office? What the hell. I decided to give the old boy a call. The phone rang just once.
“Yeah, Bronski?” the Boss said in a quiet voice.
“Uh, Boss?”
“Yeah. Whaddaya want?”
“How did you know it was me?” Then it hit me. “Oh, I see, you have one of those boxes that tells who’s calling.”
“Bronski . . . ” he croaked, whereupon a coughing jag commenced. When finished with what was certain to kill him someday, he continued. “Bronski, how you got to where you got amazes me. What can I do for you?”
I had meant this call to be one of those cheerful “don’t you ever sleep?” kind of calls, but I could see he was in no mood for that. So I stammered around and eventually I got across the notion that because I couldn’t sleep I got to the office early, and that instead of hearing rodents, I heard a human skittering out the back door. There was a moment’s silence, and then, “Just what I needed to hear, Bronski. Listen, you’ll have to handle everything pretty much on your own down there. Keep me abreast, but I have my own problems. Two O.I.C.’s need emergency leave, and there has been a fight out on the main floor at the airport office between a manager and a worker. Between you and me, the manager had it coming, but of course I’ll end up backing him, no matter how I feel. I have a meeting with the Union rep at 8:00 a.m. to see if I can smooth some feathers. With the manager involved, it ain’t gonna be easy.”
There was a pause as if he had more tales of woe, but was wondering whether it was worth relaying them to some out-of-town guy. Humbled, I muttered something about life getting better.
“Yeah, sure, Bronski.” He hung up.
I sat back in my chair and had a few unsettling thoughts about my ability to handle this job. I began to realize how soft I’d had it the past year out West with a new bride. I actually felt a little sorry for the Boss. I wondered why he didn’t retire. He certainly had enough years to his credit. But to what? His wife had died of cancer some years earlier. He had no real hobbies. About the only thing he had was the Postal Service. It was the one constant in his life, this marriage. A marriage in which he didn’t have to worry about his partner dying first.
I got up and wandered out onto the main floor. Where would a person hide for the night? Was there a nook or cranny that few people would think to check before they left? The thought occurred to me it might not be an outsider, but a Postal Service employee. That would make it much easier for stealing, if that’s what the mystery person’s game was.
I gave a cheerful “good morning,” to the early morning person that handled the must-get-done mail before the early morning flight and introduced myself. She seemed rather surprised, but in a pleasant way. We talked briefly about postal matters before I wandered off to give the place a good looking over. It didn’t take
me long to see there were all kinds of places a person could bed down for the night. There was the machine room upstairs, the motor pool with its eight or so assorted vehicles, not to mention the other offices in the place. If there had been thievery going on, maybe my coming in early might put a stop to it. Well, I’d find out, but for now I’d take myself back to the office and start on my beloved paperwork.
It was budget time, and even though the previous O.I.C. was supposed to have drafted one, he had gone amok. The rumor floating around said the reason he had was simply so he wouldn’t have to do the budget. It would be interesting to see if he recovered in the next month or two and came back to the job happy as a clam. If it worked for him, then I might try the same trick myself. The rule of thumb is that you take the previous year’s budget and then metaphorically throw a dart at a set of figures, taking the next year’s figures one notch higher than where the dart landed. Then you submit the budget to the Boss, whereupon he sends a message back saying, “My God, Bronski, that’s higher than the biggest Anchorage post office budget. Pare it down!”
So you pare it down, say . . . five percent, and resubmit. He takes it down another five percent and tells you to live with it. And so you pray there’s not too much sickness, and not too much overtime, and that the equipment works. If everything goes well, you’re a hero, but if not, you’re a bum. Every manager knows this; every manager sleeps with it.
I looked up at the clock on the wall. My-oh-my, two hours had vanished without a phone call or an interruption. I stood up and stretched. Well, hell, might as well see what’s going on, I thought, and went onto the main floor. Aside from a quiet murmur of voices, things seemed to be fine. I walked up and down, exchanging greetings and making small talk with the troops. Soon I would have to call for a stand-up meeting to pass on a few words of wisdom. I smiled at this. Some of the people here probably had more time with the Postal Service than I did. Still, it was expected. It was a time the troops could ask questions and, hopefully, I would know the answers.
I stopped by the case where Martha was sorting mail.
“Hi, Martha.”
She looked up, a letter in mid-air. “Hello, Mr. Bronski.”
I gave her a big smile. “Martha, even the union steward gets to call me Leo.”
The letter flew to its slot, as if guided by some aerodynamic effect.
“The other guy said using first names was too informal.”
I just nodded. No need to go to digging into personalities, especially on the main floor.
“I haven’t had breakfast. I was wondering if we might go to a restaurant for an hour?”
“Sure, you’re the boss.”
“I’ve found it’s easier to talk away from this hallowed place.”
She smiled at that, and something told me I had won some more points.
* * *
We drove off in my Jeep with Martha making appropriate noises about whether I liked my new car, etc. I decided to keep this little get-together as professional as possible. I had no desire to have the townspeople wondering about the new postmaster squiring women about the town.
“Martha, where’s a nice quiet place that has good food?”
She put her finger alongside her nose, lost in thought.
“I think the Early Riser’s Café ought to do. It’s out toward the dock.”
“Good,” I said, “that’s where we’re going. How do you get there from here?”
She gave me the directions and it took all of five minutes to get there. That’s one reason I liked living in small towns. My personal time was too valuable to be wasted traveling point to point. I actually pitied the poor devils that lived in big cities—and sincerely hoped they all stayed there.
We pulled up in front of a small wooden building and went inside. Martha immediately made for a table.
“I bet you’ve been here before,” I said, trying to crack a small joke.
She smiled her acknowledgement. “Oh, yes, many times. The food is good and the owners are friendly.”
I nodded and sat down. One of the women owners came over and cracked a joke with Martha about bringing in all these good-looking guys.
After we ordered our breakfast, I began the small talk. “So tell me about yourself, Martha. Are you married? Kids?”
She sighed and I wondered if I had already gotten too personal.
“I was married a few years ago, but it didn’t work out. We were certainly old enough—in our thirties. Maybe we were too old, I don’t know, too set in our ways. I wanted children and I thought he did, but as time went on, I realized he didn’t.”
I, too, sighed. “Sorry if I got too personal, but I’ve found in the past it’s good to know something about your employees.”
There was a moment’s silence as we got used to each other.
“And you, Leo?”
“Huh? Oh, I’m married to a wonderful woman out West at Howes Bluff. My second try, but I think this one will work, despite the fact she’s native and I’m white.”
“And your first marriage?” she asked.
There it was. I had to answer, but I decided to give only a little information. I’m sure I frowned when I said, “My first wife and daughter died in a car accident.”
No need to tell her I had run into a bridge abutment while drunk. She didn’t need to know about all my baggage.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
I gave her a small smile. “It was a long time ago, but yeah, it still hurts.”
Our food came, thank goodness. We’d had enough personal talk. I began laying out in my mind how I was going to ask her about the death of the supervisor. I decided to be direct. This woman was nobody’s fool.
“One of the reasons I asked you out for a late breakfast, Martha, was to find out about the previous supervisor.”
Her fork, with its dripping egg yolk, paused in mid-air. She stared at me a second with narrowed eyes; then the fork continued on its way. She chewed and swallowed, still staring at me. Just when I thought I had lost all my points with her, she spoke.
“Why do you want to know?” The icicles in her voice could not have been frozen harder. I tried to sound indifferent. “Oh, just curious about the recent death of a Postal Service employee and about all those grievances that were filed against her. I guess I’m trying to get a handle on morale and what undercurrents there might be. Maybe I don’t want any filed against me. Bad for my resume.”
I hoped that last remark about my resume would lighten the situation, but it didn’t. The look I got from her went from friend to foe.
She was now the union steward, watchful, and using only well chosen words. “The grievances were legit.”
“I don’t doubt it. But sometimes they can cover up even worse problems.”
Her eyes moved back and forth over my face. “Are you a postal inspector or are you working for them?” she asked.
“Neither. I am what I seem. A temporary O.I.C. flown in from Howes Bluff way out in Western Alaska. You call there and talk to the temporary O.I.C. if you don’t believe me. She is my wife. Better yet, call the commercial store, I know the manager by first name. On the other hand, I would like to know if I’m walking into a buzz saw. That’s why I’m talking with the union steward. Have I . . . Martha? Walked into a buzz saw?”
She looked away at this last question and bit into a piece of toast. After chewing a few seconds, she cleared her throat. “I don’t think so, as long as you play by the rules in the contract.”
I smiled. “I darn near have the contract memorized.”
“Oh, really? What’s section C cover?”
I told her, and her fork fell to her plate right into the middle of the remaining over- easy egg yolk.
“Ha! A manager that actually knows the contract.”
“Don’t they all?” I asked.
It was her turn to smile. “Yeah, sure they do. You’re the first one who could tell me anything. Most managers just pass grievances along to somebody else.”
“Martha, one thing I have learned the hard way, and that’s to be as direct and truthful as I can when dealing with Postal Service matters. Especially with my stewards.” I took a deep breath. “What can you tell me about the previous supervisor?”
“Her name was Gloria Plinski.”
“Polish?” I asked.
She shook her head. “That was her married name. She kept it after her divorce. The husband remarried. She chose to remain single.”
“Meaning she could have remarried?”
“Oh, yes. She was nice looking. She simply never quite trusted men after her divorce.”
I nodded. It was an old story.
“Why all the grievances?” I prodded.
Martha drew a deep breath. I’m sure she was wondering where my questioning was headed.
“Gloria was your above-average postal employee. When the supervisor before her quit, the O.I.C. made her the temporary supervisor. That’s when she began to change. I’m sure you’ve seen how power can do that.”
I nodded.
She went on. “She began hounding everybody. She trailed me around sometimes two hours at a time. If a person made a misstep, they would get a letter of reprimand, instead of a talking-to. So of course I became involved in negotiations, which soaked up a lot of time. Sometimes she’d pull in a part-time flex person and then tell them she didn’t need them. As you know, when this is done, a person is guaranteed at least two hours whether they work or not. There were other things, too numerous to mention. I had no choice but to start papering the walls with grievances. She got after me with letters of reprimand. One of them stated I had a bad odor problem. That was so stupid and untrue. The letter was withdrawn because she had no witnesses.
“Sometimes, I’m sure that bastard of an O.I.C. put pressure on her to try to get me to say or do something wrong. He didn’t like it when he came on to me and I told him to take a flying leap.”