Beware of Cat

by Vincent Wyckoff

  Swallowing my anger, and with all the nonchalance I could muster, I replied, “Gee, Stan, I’ll have to tell my wife about that. She’s Jewish, too, you know, so maybe she could get in on some of that action.”

  Stan’s eyes went big and round as he stammered, “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “Sure, Stan, I know just what you mean. Here’s your mail.”

  I walked off, leaving him to think about it. After that, even though I still talk to him nearly every day, that particular subject has never come up again.

  WHEN I RETURNED FROM a vacation a few years ago, I had more trouble with an elderly patron. He had greeted the African-American letter carrier substituting on my route with racial slurs and told him to stay out of his yard.

  I was furious. When I arrived at the man’s house I rang the bell and banged on the front door. I had a pretty good hunch he was home, but he refused to come to the door. Unable to vent my anger, I bundled up his mail and took it with me. Day after day for a week I rang the doorbell, then brought his mail back and tossed it in a tub on the floor. There really wasn’t any precedent for my behavior. Perhaps I would be in trouble for holding back this fellow’s mail, but it seemed as though the lines had been drawn, and until he came forward to answer for his actions, I refused to deliver his mail.

  The job of a substitute letter carrier is tough enough without the added burden of dealing with a ranting racist. All letter carriers start out as substitutes. I did it for two and a half years before getting a regular assignment. Every day you’re on a different route, walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods, looking for hidden mailboxes and lurking dogs. Subs work long days, often doing a whole route and then carrying overtime mail off a second route. I worked six days a week, at least ten hours a day, for months at a time. It’s a test of endurance. Because of this shared experience, senior carriers look out for the welfare of substitutes. Whether it’s a simple word of encouragement, advice on dressing for the weather, or a secret shortcut on a particular route, we try to offer support. In this case, I intended to back up the substitute by confronting an incorrigible patron.

  Finally, one morning at least a week after my return, a front window clerk came to get me as I cased mail. She told me a customer wanted to know why he wasn’t getting any deliveries. Maybe the fellow thought I would go easier on him if there were others around, but it didn’t work out that way.

  “Where’s my mail?” he demanded as I approached the counter.

  “I thought you told the mail carrier to stay out of your yard.”

  “So? What’s that got to do with you?”

  “Didn’t you tell him not to set foot in your yard again?”

  I was really mad now; his sarcasm had pushed all my buttons.

  I wanted him to acknowledge out loud, in front of a lobby full of customers, the real reason why he wasn’t getting any mail.

  He was so upset he could barely speak. Louder now, and spluttering belligerently, he demanded, “Where’s my mail?”

  “You threatened a letter carrier, a friend of mine.”

  “I didn’t threaten anyone. Give me my mail!”

  “You said, ‘Stay out of my yard, or else.’ That sure sounds like a threat to me.”

  His face was glowing with anger. “Just give me my mail!”

  “Why should I? You didn’t want it when the sub tried delivering it.”

  A pause, and then, “I don’t want his kind in my yard!”

  There. He’d said it, and now an uncomfortable silence fell over the lobby. Customers standing in line looked shocked. The window clerks stood back, warily watching us. Leaning in closer, I lowered my voice. “On his easiest day, that black man works harder than you ever dreamed of working. If you ever threaten him again, I’ll have delivery to your house permanently suspended. You’ll need to get a post office box if you want any mail.” I didn’t know if I could actually do that, but

  he didn’t know that, and if he continued running his mouth,

  I sure would try.

  As I turned to go back to work, I told the window clerk where to find the tub of curtailed mail. Several letter carriers had gathered behind me in support, nodding their approval. The substitute carrier was standing there too, looking a little self-conscious. I slapped him on the back as I passed, and that broke the tension. Smiles broke out, the line of customers began to move again, and we all got back to work.

  Delivering mail to that man was uncomfortable for a while. I didn’t see him for a long time, but finally, as he mowed the lawn in his backyard one afternoon, he waved at me and I nodded. Given a choice, I wouldn’t have had it end that way, but I suppose it’ll just have to be good enough.

  A Snapshot in Time

  Taking my break one afternoon in a park near my route, I watched three boys swoop into the parking lot on their bicycles. Shirttails fluttering, they darted across each other’s paths, laughing, arms thrown out recklessly. Down the length of the parking lot they flew like a small flock of birds, too much in the moment to notice me.

  At the far end they banked into wide turns before racing back. A firm grip and a mighty jerk on the handlebars created the most airtime from two speed bumps. Exhilaration pushed them ever faster and higher. On this, the first day after the last day of the school year, three months of summer vacation must have felt like an eternity of freedom.

  From the open door of my postal jeep I watched them careen across the parking lot yet again. At the far end, one of the boys dismounted and grabbed an old board from beside a mound of sand the street department had dumped after the spring street sweeping. He leaned the board against the curb to create a ramp leading out of the parking lot. No sooner was it in place than one of his comrades zoomed in at full speed, launched himself off the ramp, and hurtled himself high up on the pile of sand. They took turns to see who could soar the farthest. It was a fast-paced circus act in which none of the horseplay is scripted, and all the stunts are impromptu.

  One of the boys dropped his bike at the side of the sand pile and scampered over to the corner of the parking lot where the park department had placed an outdoor toilet. Instead of going inside, however, he knelt down to reach underneath the enclosed unit. In the meantime, the other two boys left their bikes and took seats against the mound of sand. Jostling and elbowing each other, they squirmed impatiently, flinging handfuls of sand, until their friend returned. He had extracted a magazine from its hiding place under the toilet, and now he took a seat between his two companions.

  My postal jeep was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Positioned directly in front of where the boys sat, with my door wide open, I was totally exposed to their view. Even so, I was sure they hadn’t noticed me. I felt a little self-conscious at the thought that I might be spying on them, but at the same time I didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing their pre-adolescent escapades. So, in the end, I simply watched as they became quietly engrossed in turning the pages of the magazine.

  For a few minutes the park became utterly still. It was like plunging into a vacuum. But it wasn’t long before I heard a snicker, then a snort. Soon a grimy finger pointed at a picture and all three boys burst out laughing.

  Within moments the magazine was safely stashed back under the toilet. Once again the boys mounted their bikes. The few quiet moments were quickly forgotten as they charged across the parking lot with renewed energy and shouts of delight. They flew past me and continued out of the parking lot, skittering away like leaves blown by the wind.

  The Power of the Uniform

  Wearing the same outfit to work every day sure makes it easier to get dressed so early in the morning. Even though all letter carriers wear the same uniforms, making us easy to identify on the street, there are subtle differences. For instance, my feet seldom get cold, so all winter I get by with simple rubber galoshes against the snow, while many carriers plod around in he
avy felt-lined boots. Because we handle thin pieces of paper all day, mittens are too clumsy, but you’ll find about as many styles of gloves in use as there are carriers. I have a partially amputated finger on my left hand that is impossible to keep warm. To get me through the winter, my ingenious wife slit open the seam between two fingers on my glove, sewed them together, and now my short finger rides along in warmth beside my index finger.

  Some letter carriers get by with baseball caps all winter, while others use the USPS-issued fake-fur hats with the warm earflaps. We have competitions each spring to see who will be the first to wear shorts out on the route. But all these minor differences aside, the blue letter-carrier uniforms are easily recognized moving through the neighborhood.

  ONE AFTERNOON, A DAY-CARE teacher ran outside, stopped me on the sidewalk, and invited me in to greet her preschool class. Feeling a bit like I had suddenly walked into Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, I entered to find seven or eight children sitting in a circle on the floor. They had made a post office out of a discarded appliance crate. A slot was cut in one wall to accept letters, and a small American flag topped the roof.

  After I showed them my uniform, and the key chain with the strange shaped key for opening collection boxes, one student was selected to show me the old leather purse they used as a mail satchel. The long strap hung low off the little girl’s shoulder as she demonstrated how she delivered handmade letters to the other children. Brightly colored, hand-drawn stamps adorned the envelopes, and it was apparent that a lot of work had gone into the writing of numbers and letters.

  “I see you’re learning your numbers and spelling,” I said to the class.

  Before I could continue, the little girl with the leather purse piped up, “P is for Penelope!”

  Her sudden outburst surprised me, and I smiled down at her. “That’s a beautiful name,” I said.

  She wrapped an arm around my leg and asked, “Mr. Mailman, do you deliver to my house?”

  Her perky voice and ringlets transformed Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood into a Shirley Temple movie. She looked up at me with big round eyes, determined that I was her carrier.

  “Well, that depends on where you live,” I said.

  She paused, thinking hard, and said, “I live in Minneapolis.”

  I couldn’t bear to disappoint those adoring eyes, so I said, “In that case, I think I do deliver to your house!”

  She jumped up and down and clapped her hands. Playing my role to the hilt, I returned after work with some USPS activity books, as well as an extra letter-carrier cap the children could use while delivering their mail. They didn’t need the whole uniform. With their imaginations, the old leather purse was as real as my mail satchel. But the cap could still somehow make it all official.

  JUST AS I’M READILY RECOGNIZED in my uniform, I know most of the cars that my patrons drive. I’m constantly hailed on the street with honks and waves. Total strangers spot my uniform and stop me to ask for directions. When Lorraine and her pals return from a garage sale expedition, they often pull over to show off the treasures they’ve collected.

  I enjoy this familiarity; it’s a small-town friendliness smack in the middle of the big city. On the other hand, it’s interesting to note that when I encounter these same people after hours, without my uniform, they hardly recognize me at all. At the neighborhood coffee shop, or the library, my greetings are often met with blank stares. I even attended a block party one night where everyone in attendance lived on my route. For several minutes I walked around unnoticed before a woman blurted out, “Oh, my God! I know you! You’re the mailman, aren’t you?”

  One time in the grocery store, my wife and I ran into Agnes and her husband Ed, a retired couple I had talked to many times while delivering mail. They ignored my greetings and avoided looking at me. The harder I tried, the more obvious it became that they didn’t recognize me. Finally, they hustled their cart down the aisle just to get away. I couldn’t let them run off thinking I was some kind of babbling lunatic, so I chased after them, explaining, “I’m your mailman, remember?”

  They stopped, took a closer look, and then nearly fell over themselves apologizing. After I introduced them to my wife, we couldn’t get away for the longest time. Now I usually don’t say anything unless a person recognizes me and says “hello” first. It’s just too awkward and difficult.

  SOME PEOPLE EXPECT MORE out of their letter carrier than the simple delivery of their mail.

  “Take this package for me, will you? Here’s five bucks for postage. Just leave the change in the mailbox tomorrow.”

  It should be obvious that letter carriers don’t have the time to mail packages for patrons. Besides, we’ve been warned against handling cash for people out on the street. Most of us will occasionally mail items for elderly shut-ins who have no other option, but that’s it.

  Another complaint we hear often is, “How come you get here in the afternoon? I want my mail in the morning.”

  I try to explain. “The way this route is set up, sir, your delivery is later in the day. There’s nothing I can do about it. Not everyone can get their mail at nine in the morning.”

  “Well, I pay taxes. The way I see it, you guys work for me, and I want an earlier delivery.”

  Then I have to explain that their taxes have nothing to do with the Postal Service. We’re an independent federal agency. The Postal Service is part of the executive branch of the federal government, but the postmaster general hasn’t been a member of the presidential cabinet since 1970. Through the sale of postage we raise our own operating funds. However, because of this pseudo-government connection, and our daily service to the American public, letter carriers are often asked to perform above and beyond the line of duty.

  One of the toughest demands I ever faced occurred when I came upon the scene of an accident. I had heard the squealing tires. Witnesses shouted for help. Several people dialed 911, and dozens of pedestrians and homeowners gathered around. But as I approached the scene, I was the one ushered to the side of the elderly woman who had been struck by a car. The crowd made room for me to pass through, as if my uniform automatically qualified me to lend assistance. Somehow I became the one to sit in the street with her.

  I held her cold hands in mine. She wasn’t a resident of my route. I found out later that she lived less than half a mile away. She had been to the bank to buy traveler’s checks for a tour to Norway, the first overseas trip of her life. As she walked home, a car had run a red light and hit her in the crosswalk.

  Now it was stopped in the middle of the intersection. The driver stalked around it in a fit of anguish. “I killed her!” he wailed, slapping at his head and grabbing his hair. Punching the trunk of the car, he yelled, “I can’t believe this! I killed her. I just know it. It’s all my fault. I killed her!”

  “Will somebody get him out of here?” I called to the crowd. Two men immediately corralled him and led him around to the far side of the car.

  “Ambulance is on the way!” someone shouted.

  The woman opened her eyes, but they didn’t focus on anything. I leaned closer, offering words of comfort. Seconds later, her eyes rolled back, and I thought this was the end.

  “Don’t go away!” I pleaded. “Stay here. Talk to me.”

  Time and again we did this. Each time seemed to be the last. I kneaded her cold hands and stroked her bare arms.

  “Where’s that damn ambulance?” I yelled. By now the crowd was overflowing the intersection. Traffic was blocked off. Where had all these people come from? And why was I the one sitting in the middle of the street?

  “Paramedics are sixty seconds away,” someone called. Now the siren was audible. “I have a patch-through to the ambulance driver,” a man said, stepping up to offer me his cell phone.

  For a fleeting moment I wondered how a person should answer a phone with a dispatched ambulance dr
iver on the other end of the line.

  “Hello,” I said, much louder than necessary, trying to cover my shaky nerves.

  “Is the victim conscious?”

  “Not really. She’s sort of in and out of it.”

  “Try to keep her awake. Is she bleeding?”

  “Not that I can see.”

  “Okay. We’re thirty seconds out. Can you cover her? Keep her warm?”

  It was at least eighty-five degrees outside. Sweat trickled off my brow into my eyes, but I assumed that shock was the real worry here. The woman’s hands were ice cold. “Anybody got a blanket?” I called to the crowd.

  Within seconds we were deluged with blankets, beach towels, and sweaters.

  Her eyes opened again as I covered her. A glint of light appeared, and I thought she actually looked at me. “You’re going to be okay,” I lied. “Help is just seconds away.”

  Then her eyes rolled back to a ghostly white stare. This time she really seemed gone. Squeezing her hands as hard as I could, I pleaded, “Please, don’t go away! Not after all this. Don’t you dare die on me!”

  A paramedic nudged me out of the way. Her lifeless hands flopped to the street as I let them go. I staggered through the crowd. That final vision haunted me for days.

  One morning a few days later I overheard a fellow carrier describing how a car had hit a “dear old patron” on his route. I knew it had to be the same woman. Through him, I learned that she survived, although doctors had to put her in a coma for two weeks to protect her brain. Months later she was home, telling her letter carrier all about her injuries—and her revised tour plans. Within a year, the seventy-year-old woman completed her long-delayed journey to Norway. I’ve never seen her again, although I probably wouldn’t recognize her if I did. That first meeting was enough for me.