Beware of Cat (6 page)

Like the time I locked myself out of the jeep. The door isn’t supposed to lock without a key, but the mechanism on this particular vehicle had rattled itself loose. As if in a nightmare, I watched in slow motion as the little metal knob dropped when I slid the door shut. The keys still hung from the dashboard ignition where I had left them. Fortunately, I knew everyone on the block, so I knocked on the door of the nearest retired couple, knowing they would be home.

All I wanted was to use their telephone to call my supervisor. I told them that there were extra sets of keys at the post office, but the old gentleman of the house would hear nothing of that. He insisted on helping me. The coat hanger he brought out was useless. We bent it into all sorts of configurations, but virtually everything on those old jeeps, other than the windows, is made of metal, so there was nowhere for the coat hanger to penetrate. But we tried both doors anyhow, and the rear door, too, and while we worked more neighbors joined us.

I explained to them how sloppy the locking mechanisms are on the jeeps. In some cases, one key will open several vehicles. One by one, then, we tried all of our own keys, laughing and joking our way around the jeep. As we did so, the little group continued to grow. Someone produced a tiny screwdriver, inserted it into the keyhole, and managed to move the lock, but not quite enough to open it. Of course, after that, everyone had to try his hand with the screwdriver.

Finally, good old common sense and ingenuity shuffled up. “I believe I have just the item to open that lock,” the oldest resident on the block proclaimed. His gnarled, arthritic hands rested on the doorframe as he studied my dilemma. We all went silent and looked at the diminutive speaker. He winked at me. “I’ll be right back.”

Watching him amble down the sidewalk, I worried about all the time I had lost. He lived halfway down the block. The remaining old-timers stood along the curb chatting. It appeared that I was back in that slow-motion nightmare again, and there wasn’t much I could do about the situation but let it play itself out.

When the man finally returned, he walked doubled over under the weight of the tool he carried. It turned out to be the largest magnet I had ever seen. It must have weighed seven or eight pounds. “Got it down at the foundry where I used to work,” he explained, struggling to hoist it up to the door. For a moment I worried he might drop it. I could imagine explaining to my boss how a gigantic magnet happened to smash through my window.

It kept sticking to the metal door, but with a couple of us lifting, we managed to slide it up the outside of the window. As if by magic, and to a chorus of cheers, the magnet disengaged the small metal latch right through the glass of the window. When I finally drove away, the guys were still hanging out at the curb, reminiscing about lifetimes of experiences. While I’m sure that the story of using a magnet to get into the mailman’s jeep would rate low on their all-time list of creative problem solving, it sure had impressed me.

OF COURSE, I’VE ALSO
encountered seniors who are not so impressive, who show the darker aspects of the life-long racism they have held. A few years ago a severe storm on the Fourth of July blew down tens of thousands of acres of forest in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in northern Minnesota. My wife and I own a cabin nearby, and several patrons asked about damage to our property. Other than half a dozen trees knocked down, we weathered the storm just fine. After the blow-down, the big concern has been the dead trees drying into fuel for a potentially massive forest fire. An older man on my route offered a solution.

“I tell you what they ought to do,” Stan commented one morning as we stood on his front stoop.

“What’s that?” I asked.

He leaned in confidentially, and said, “They should send a bunch of them Jews up there. They’d figure out a way to make lumber out of all those trees, and probably make a bunch of money off it, too.” He stepped back and cackled at what he considered a clever wisecrack.

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.