Beware of Cat

by Vincent Wyckoff

  Again the smoke plumed forth as we sat in silence. It was such an unlikely story, but I couldn’t imagine Thomas lying to me. He had me hooked, though, so again I prodded. “Why did you quit, Thomas?”

  This time it took a while for him to respond. “I went to the hospital.”

  We were obviously entering a dark part of the story, so I backed off and let him smoke. When he began talking again, it was of his own volition.

  “I could have returned to work. They offered me my old position back, even after being out six months. I tried, but I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to return to the hospital.”

  “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

  “Because I didn’t want to miss my bus.”

  I didn’t know what to think at that point. It seemed I was misunderstanding something. “So you miss your bus. Take the next one.”

  “My bus was the 7f. Every day it stopped in front of my apartment at 6:28 AM. It arrived at my office right on time.”

  “But surely there were other buses that stopped at your corner.”

  “Not the 6:28 AM 7f,” he replied, wagging his head in the negative. “For a while I got up early to wait outside to be sure I didn’t miss it. And you’re right, dozens of buses went by, but not the 6:28 AM 7f.”

  This was just too much. “You got up early to watch buses go by until yours came along? How early did you go outside?”

  “Four o’clock. Sometimes three o’clock when sleep was impossible. I always worried that my alarm clock would malfunction.”

  “You could have just used two clocks,” I commented.

  “What if the power went out?”

  Ah, the logic of an obsessive-compulsive mind.

  “At the end, I couldn’t sleep at all. I kept checking the alarm, resetting it. Did I hit the wrong button? Better check again. Did I just hit PM rather than AM? Better check.” Thomas paused to crush out his cigarette. “They said I had a breakdown. Catherine left when I went into the hospital. I can’t blame her.”

  It was such a pathetic story, yet I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. His mother’s words regarding his inability to cope with the details in his life came back to me. After that, it didn’t seem appropriate to prod him about Catherine, or why his mother bought the house for him, or even the bushes lining his garage. I had learned enough for one day.

  One more time I wandered into the backyard, wishing there was something I could do to help. The kitchen knife and scissors still lay in the weeds where I had spied them weeks earlier. I stepped out to the alley to get a better view of the garage. It was very small, but appeared basically sound under the flaking and peeling paint. I looked up and down the alley, and then an idea hit me.

  “Thomas,” I called, returning to the front yard. “Maybe I can help with your garage problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me think about it. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

  I’m pleased to report that my plan worked out splendidly. In fact, the arrangement still exists. And the answers to some of my questions regarding Thomas’s personal life have slowly been revealed over the years. I even met the mysterious Catherine a time or two. But I’ll just say that the next time I saw Thomas, I told him, “You know the house across the alley from you, the one with a sauna in the front yard? The guy drives a motorcycle. I had a talk with him this morning, and . . .”

  The Wrong Place at the Right Time

  I noticed another mail jeep as it passed through my route one day. There are only a couple of good reasons for another letter carrier to drive through my route. Occasionally, a nearby mailman will swing by to join me for lunch. Or, if a carrier runs out of a postal form, it’s much quicker to borrow one from another letter carrier than to drive all the way back to the station. But an experienced carrier would have known where to find me. This jeep had driven right on by, so I had to consider yet another possibility.

  Substitute letter carriers can get miserably lost. It’s common to confuse numbered streets with numbered avenues in South Minneapolis. Once or twice a week a passing motorist stops me and asks for directions. Knowing that, and because I hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver, I finished the block and set out to find the wandering jeep. I didn’t have to search far. Just two streets over I spotted it at the curb near the far end of the block. Pulling in behind him, I parked and walked up to talk. I had never seen the carrier before.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  He pulled out a postal ID badge and an Inspection Service photo ID. Glancing at them, I also noted his solid build and his fresh, new uniform. His postal cap also looked new, without a sweat stain or bend in the brim.

  “What’s going on?”

  He nodded at a house near the alley up on the next side street. It was difficult to see from here, but when he read off the address, I knew exactly which house he meant. “Do you know who lives there?”

  “Of course,” I replied. I told him the resident’s name and added, “He’s lived there at least ten years. Now, what’s going on?”

  “Nobody else in the house?”

  I hesitated. As letter carriers, we’re not supposed to give out names and addresses of patrons. In my whole career I remember doing so only once. A young mother driving a minivan with two small children inside asked me where a particular family lived. “I must have written down the wrong address,” she said. I told her where they lived, but added, “Don’t tell them you heard it from me.” Shortly thereafter, I saw them all out in the backyard playing, so I knew it was okay.

  But this guy had identified himself as a postal inspector, a member of an elite cadre of law enforcement. Working behind the scenes, they often make the FBI look like kindergarten monitors. I had never seen an actual agent before, but now one sat in a jeep on my route. Something big was going down, and he needed information that I could give him.

  “Does anyone else live in the house?” he asked again.

  “Not that I know of. I’ve seen a woman a few times, but she’s a visitor. At least, she doesn’t receive any mail there.”

  “Is her name Terry?” he asked, crisp and businesslike. Then he answered his own question. “She’s at work. Verified.”

  “Okay, well, really, I don’t know anything about her.” I found it irritating that this outsider knew something about my route that I didn’t know.

  “Any children in the house?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  “How about pets? Does he have any dogs?”

  “No. It’s just him. Listen, can you tell me what’s going on?”

  “Do you think he’s home right now?”

  I looked at the house. The man’s pickup truck sat outside. “He’s a construction worker,” I said. “But you probably already know that. Sometimes he takes time off when the work slows down. Looks like he’s home, that’s his truck.”

  “Well, okay then. Thanks for your help.”

  “But, can’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “No time.” Looking at his watch, he added, “We’re going in.”

  “We?”

  The jeep started up and he edged away from the curb. Looking around, I spotted a squad car on the next block and two policemen stalking up the alley. Across the street sat two unmarked cars. And, now that I really looked, a man standing on the corner didn’t belong there. I sure didn’t recognize him from the neighborhood. I also caught furtive movements in the backyard.

  Parked in front of the house now, the inspector walked briskly up the sidewalk. Under his arm he carried an Express Mail packet, which required a signature. That is, if it was real.

  From the safety of my jeep just half a block away, I had a good view of the proceedings. He made a dashing, fit, competent-looking letter carrier as he bounded up the steps. Then I realized that what had l
ooked like a stocky, muscular build was actually a bulletproof vest under his postal shirt. Without hesitation, he rang the bell.

  After a minute the resident appeared in the doorway. The inspector greeted him with a smile. He held out the Express Mail envelope, indicating where it needed to be signed. I watched as police officers crept along the side of the house. Across the street, the plainclothes cop sauntered closer.

  The whole thing happened very quickly. The inspector held out a pen. When the resident finished signing and handed the pen back, the agent grabbed his wrist and yanked him outside. The man fell down the steps. Within seconds he was face down on the lawn, the inspector grappling to handcuff him. Cops surrounded the scene, guns drawn. And they kept coming—out of neighboring yards, a cargo van, and an unmarked sheriff’s car I hadn’t noticed.

  Afterwards, as the inspector removed his vest, he filled me in on what had happened. The guy had been dealing heroin and methamphetamines for quite a while. This was news to me; in all the times I talked to him, I had seen no sign of illegal activity.

  “Didn’t you notice all the Express Mail envelopes?” the inspector asked. “Haven’t you ever wondered why he’d be getting so many of them?”

  He was right. Now that I thought about it, I remembered delivering overnight packages on several occasions. I must have unwittingly facilitated his entrepreneurial escapade.

  The inspector told me that the man’s sister supplied the drugs, shipping them through the mail from Texas. Random searches by drug-sniffing dogs had alerted the Inspection Service.

  “She didn’t want the drugs sitting around in the mail stream, so she sent them overnight delivery. I’m sure there was plenty of profit to cover the extra expense.”

  His cell phone rang while we spoke. The authorities in Texas told him their bust had gone off perfectly down there, too. Inspectors had coordinated their raids so neither end would be suspicious or forewarned. I, for one, was totally impressed.

  EVERY WEEK I RECEIVE requests for information on specific residents from government agencies and law enforcement. These are form letters sent out by county or state authorities seeking the whereabouts of bail jumpers or deadbeat dads.

  After the 9/11 terrorist attacks, I arrived at a nearby National Guard unit to retrieve their outgoing mail and was confronted by a troop of M-16–wielding guards. These fellows were not kidding around. I was taken to the mailroom building under armed escort, but I wasn’t allowed to leave my jeep.

  “Hey,” I confided to the nearest soldier, his rifle aimed at my head. “You know, this mail doesn’t mean all that much to me. I’ll be happy to leave if you want.”

  Instead, soldiers collected the sacks of outgoing mail and piled them in my vehicle. While I was never in real danger, it was unnerving to have at least a dozen fully automatic weapons pointed at me.

  That little adventure occurred because I volunteered to go to the airbase on a day the regular letter carrier had off. I didn’t think to ask, and nobody warned me of the heightened security. I haven’t made that mistake again, but sometimes a situation just develops, and by simple coincidence the mailman wanders right into the middle of it.

  One of those uncomfortable incidents happened to me on another route. The regular carrier needed to get off early on Saturday, so we split up his afternoon deliveries. It was a gorgeous day, with no reason for me to expect trouble. I even left the station early to begin my rounds. I decided to work the mail off the other route first, while still fresh, with the idea that many people wouldn’t be out yet, and their dogs would still be inside. I would return to the familiarity of my own route later in the morning. By walking a little quicker, I intended to make up lost time and finish my route close to my regular schedule.

  I launched into the challenge of searching for unfamiliar mailboxes and house address numbers while avoiding discarded garden implements, all the while watching for missorted letters and listening for stray dogs. The plan worked well for several blocks. Then, while fingering through mail for the next house, I heard voices rising in anger. A man and woman, really upset, were screaming at each other. I paused for a moment to listen. The racket was coming from the open window of the house in front of me.

  Slowly, then, I continued my approach, hoping they would break off the fight if they saw me outside their window. After only a couple steps, however, the yelling resumed even louder than before. Then I heard a sharp “WHACK!”

  Again I stopped. For a moment there was silence, but the slap seemed to resonate in the air. The man started yelling again, and I inched closer. When I reached the bottom of the steps, I heard an even louder “SMACK!” He shouted names at her, his voice quivering with rage.

  I was alone and totally exposed on their walkway. No doubt the man could hurt her. He probably already had. I couldn’t just leave, and maybe there wasn’t even time to go for help. With my heart pounding, I searched for the appropriate thing to do. In a daze I climbed the steps.

  From the landing, in the breaks in his vicious tirade, I heard whimpering, sniffles, and moans. The man’s voice grew louder again. He sounded big, and as vulnerable as I felt standing out on their front steps, I couldn’t imagine what the woman was going through inside the house. The street and yards remained vacant. I felt the tension building, another explosion imminent. Then my hand reached out and pushed the doorbell.

  “Oh crap!” I cursed, realizing what I had done. “Now what am I supposed to do?”

  Except for the banging of my heart in my ears, there was complete silence. Again I searched the block for help, but found no one around. Had the neighbors heard the fight? Had someone already called the police?

  When I turned back to the house, the inside door swung open, and a huge man in boxer shorts and T-shirt looked out at me.

  “What!” he demanded.

  “Umm . . .” I looked at the stack of letters in my hand. “I’m really sorry to disturb you,” I stalled. “Really I am, but you see, I’m new on this route. I’ve never been here before, and I just wondered if this mail belongs to you.” I shoved a handful of letters at him.

  It was the lamest excuse imaginable, but under the circumstances, it was the best I could do.

  “What?” he retorted, angry. “You can’t be serious.”

  I detected a shadow of movement behind him. Again I thrust the letters at him to keep him distracted. “Would you just check a couple of these names?”

  He opened the screen door to grab the letters, but didn’t come outside. While he haphazardly rifled through the stack, I heard the side door quietly swing open and shut. Apparently, he couldn’t hear it from inside.

  “Well, thanks,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief while retreating down the steps.

  “What? Hey, wait a minute,” he called, but I was already cruising across the front lawn. Just in time, too, to see the neighbor’s side door slip shut.

  “Come back here!” he demanded. “Not all this is mine.”

  I flicked a carefree wave over my shoulder behind me. “Thanks again,” I called.

  Out in the open, away from their front stoop, I felt much safer. I knew he wouldn’t make an issue of things out in public. My adrenaline was pumping, though, and for a while I probably set speed records for delivering the mail.

  I’ve never been back to that block, never met that woman. But I kept myself informed through the regular carrier. He ran into her a few weeks later when she returned with friends to move out. She had a court-issued restraining order against her husband. Soon they divorced, moved their separate ways, and sold the house.

  I would like to thank that woman. She kept her wits, did exactly what she needed to do—and her escape permitted mine. She didn’t look back, and for that I’m truly grateful.

  A Nod and a Grin

  Jackson was a quiet young man on my route who grew up in a house full of girls. H
e had a modest nature, but his sisters were not shy at all. Every day in the summer the girls argued over who would get the mail from me to hand deliver to their mother, grandmother, or one of their aunts. The matrons lined up chairs across the front porch and read magazines or knitted while keeping an eye on the children playing in the yard. I suspected that in summertime, with all those bodies residing under one roof, the front yard was welcomed as another room to spread out in. While he often took part in their fun and games, it seemed to me that Jackson more often stood on the sidelines, quietly observing his sisters, sometimes smiling at their boisterous antics.

  The family claimed a Dakota Indian heritage, and I think Jackson was the second oldest among his siblings, but there were cousins who lived with them from time to time so it was difficult to place him in the group of children. He always watched me as I delivered their mail, and something in his intense gaze made me wonder if he saw in me a role model. After all, there had been no father figure in the household for all the years I had known them.

  An uncle moved in and out of the house several times over the years. He was a decent fellow, but down on his luck in the job department. The entire family was courteous and polite. The young girls always said please and thank you when I gave them the mail, and the adult women usually had a friendly greeting or comment for me as I passed. I never heard a bad word or a voice raised in anger.

  I’m sure they struggled financially. They didn’t own a car, and they all went shopping together, trooping down the sidewalk to the bus stop like a family of ducks. Over the years I noticed several articles of clothing passed along from child to child, and they received government checks. Even so, every year during the Letter Carrier’s Food Drive, I picked up a full bag of groceries from their front porch for the food shelf.

  Their yard was always littered with toys and tricycles and discarded clothing. They had an ancient rotary lawn mower that the children teamed up to push over the grass, but it didn’t help the constant clutter or bare spots that erupted each summer under the children’s play. I overheard a neighbor refer to them as “that trash down the block,” but I didn’t see them that way. The mother, aunts, and grandmother were committed to and involved in every aspect of the children’s lives; they played together and took care of each other better than many of the “neatest” families on my route.