Beware Of Cat_ And Other Encounters Of A Letter Carrier Part 4

"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 a.s.sumed 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.

FOR A WEEK OR SO around Christmas I augment my uniform with a Santa Claus hat and beard. The little kids have a blast with that, and most of their parents enjoy it, too. One year I wore a full Santa outfit on Christmas Eve Day. Fortunately, it was cold enough to warrant the extra layer of clothing. around Christmas I augment my uniform with a Santa Claus hat and beard. The little kids have a blast with that, and most of their parents enjoy it, too. One year I wore a full Santa outfit on Christmas Eve Day. Fortunately, it was cold enough to warrant the extra layer of clothing.

Santa Claus seems to bring out the child in all of us, and many adults get into the spirit of it, too. They greet me with a "Good morning, Santa!" whether they have children at home or not. The Santa hat and beard brings smiles to their faces and a bit of cheer to the neighborhood. But the little children are the ones who really make it great. They stand at the door, excitement pulsing through them, too shy to actually say anything. It's even better, should I happen to have a package for them.

"Thank you, Santa," they say timidly, eyes full of wonder.

Then I have to tell them, "I'm not really Santa Claus, you know. I'm just his helper. But the next time I see him, I'll tell him what a great kid you are."

The excitement bubbles over then, and words tumble out of even the shyest ones, joyful at meeting Santa's helper. I have to admit, though, it's twice as much fun for me.

ONE SUMMER DAY the rumble of an approaching Harley-Davidson broke through my midday musings as I delivered mail. A full-dressed police motorcycle was leading a funeral procession. Warning lights flashed on either side of the windshield, with another one rotating from a post extending off the rear fender. The uniformed officer raced into the intersection to secure it for the long line of cars that followed. the rumble of an approaching Harley-Davidson broke through my midday musings as I delivered mail. A full-dressed police motorcycle was leading a funeral procession. Warning lights flashed on either side of the windshield, with another one rotating from a post extending off the rear fender. The uniformed officer raced into the intersection to secure it for the long line of cars that followed.

Whenever I see motorcycle cops I'm compelled to watch them pa.s.s, perhaps because they seem like a throwback to a less complicated era in history and law enforcement. Or, more likely, it's simply because there aren't that many of them around anymore. With flashing lights and deep-throated engines, polished chrome and glistening paint, starched uniforms, a heavy bra.s.s badge, and law enforcement insignia on the shoulders, you have the cla.s.sic picture of police power and prestige.

The motorcycle sped into the intersection, stopping at an angle to face crossing traffic. A knee-high boot stepped out to support the bike. Dark aviator-style sungla.s.ses peered out from beneath a short black visor on the helmet. An Adam's apple bobbed as a gloved hand rose to halt oncoming traffic. Only one vehicle approached, driven by a young man I recognized from my route.

Still a teenager, Darryl had been driving for only a couple of years. He used the old family car to attend a nearby two-year college. Slouched low in the seat, his head barely rising above the dashboard, he held the steering wheel in one hand while heavy ba.s.s notes reverberated from his stereo.

I had known Darryl throughout his entire school career. When he was in high school, his parents and I worried a little about some of his friends. They were a tough bunch, and it seemed for a while as though Darryl might take a wrong turn. But, as his father and I commented in a recent conversation, it appeared the worst was over. Darryl still liked to dress down, and the old family car looked like a junker under his care, but he went to school every day, and his father told me he thought Darryl was showing an interest in a career in business.

I followed the young man's line of sight back to the motorcycle cop, who was preparing to motor off to secure another intersection. Just then, Darryl pulled away from the stop sign. He turned in front of the cop, trying to get ahead of the procession. Why he waited so long, I don't know, but darting out ahead of the motorcycle was a bad idea.

Not seeing him right away, the police officer started off, then dodged toward the curb to avoid sideswiping Darryl's car. The next instant he shot forward, and I've never seen a cop so angry.

"Pull over!" he screamed at the kid. He took but a second to overtake the car. Waving wildly, he motioned to the curb. "Pull that car over. Now!" he bellowed.

Darryl went pale with fear. He sat up straight, both hands on the wheel, and diligently maneuvered to the side. The police officer leaped off the motorcycle to lambaste him at the driver's window.

"Are you crazy? What's wrong with you?" the cop demanded. "Of all the stupid things to do-you could have killed me!"

Showing a little sense at last, Darryl kept his mouth shut.

Furious, the cop reached through the window, grabbed the kid by the shirt, and yanked him up face to face. Even from across the street I could hear every word.

"You stupid fool! I ought to haul your a.s.s in and lock you up!"

The funeral hea.r.s.e pa.s.sed them then, effectively interrupting the barrage of insults. Looking around, the officer realized he had to leave. Turning back to the kid, he said, "You wait right here. Understand me? You sit right here until I get back. You move so much as an inch, I'll throw the book at you."

With that, he remounted the motorcycle. Before racing off, he pointed a gloved finger at Darryl, and yelled, "Not one inch!" Then he tore off, whipping up a cloud of sand and pebbles.

From my angle at the corner I watched the young man as the funeral procession pa.s.sed. He slowly slouched down again, probably out of embarra.s.sment this time. Even after the last car pa.s.sed he remained sitting there. I considered the situation, and realized he had quite the dilemma on his hands. The whole incident had happened so quickly. I never saw the police officer take note of the license plate, or even the make or model of Darryl's car. There hadn't been time. In all likelihood then, the cop had no way of ever tracking him down.

I also knew that a funeral procession heading this way meant burial at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. That was at least four or five miles away. By the time his escort duties were finished, the police officer could very well have forgotten the whole incident. Maybe his threat had simply been a bluff.

On the other hand . . .

I crossed the street to work my way back down the other side. After all that commotion, complete silence hung over the neighborhood. Even the car's radio was turned off. He never looked at me, didn't seem to even notice me pa.s.sing. I wondered if he was considering the two horns of his dilemma, or if he was just too scared to move. Either way, when I returned to my jeep at the end of the block, he was still parked there by the side of the road.

A couple of hours later, after finishing my route, I detoured through the intersection on my way back to the post office. Darryl's car was still parked at the curb, the young man sitting in the shade on the lawn nearby. He had made his choice.

I talked to his parents a few days later. His father told me that he had spotted the car on his way home from work. This was late in the afternoon, several hours after the cop had left. Thinking his son had car trouble, he stopped to help. The kid confessed the whole story to him.

"He sat there all afternoon," the father recounted with a grin. "Five hours or more. When I said, 'Let's go home,' he shook his head, and said, 'No way.' I had to call the police to dispatch a squad car. A cop talked to him, gave him a lecture, then sent him home."

"He didn't get a ticket or anything?"

"Nope. But he sure learned a lesson."

Darryl went on to finish school, although the old family car didn't last that long. He's married now and manages a home improvement store in the suburbs. On a day shortly before last Christmas, I encountered Darryl and his wife at his folks' house. An infant lay curled in his arms when they greeted me at the door. Darryl grinned at the sight of my Santa hat and beard.

"I hoped you'd wear it," he said. "I remember as kids we'd always watch for you during Christmas break."

Pulling off a glove, I reached out to tickle the baby's chin. A toothless smile grinned back at me. I guess you just never know the effect a uniform will have on a person.

The American Dream

Several years ago I met Michael, a young man who had purchased a small house on my route. The structure was in dire need of repairs. He set to work on it, and over time we discussed his progress with plumbing, electrical, and painting. He was single and handy, and I enjoyed his perplexity over curtains and flowerpots while admiring his prowess installing new doors and windows.

Minneapolis has thousands of wonderful early to mid-twentieth-century dwellings-solid bungalows and st.u.r.dy wooden frame structures built to withstand the capricious nature of our northern climate. It's fascinating to watch them being cared for and restored. This particular post-and-beam structure, built in 1906, went through a dramatic restoration after Michael moved in. A contractor was brought in to work on the major exterior components, while Michael continued his slow but steady progress with the living s.p.a.ces.

At the outset, the old house seemed to sag and slouch under the great weight of its years. That was understandable when I saw four old roofs torn off, as well as three layers of siding. At least one of the layers of siding contained high levels of asbestos, and the contractor showed me the heavy black plastic liner in the dumpster used to contain the carcinogenic fibers.

"Every night we close that bag off to seal in the asbestos," he said, pointing at the dumpster. "I'll be glad when we can finally get it out of here."

"Me, too," I thought.

Within a few short weeks a new roof was installed, as well as lightweight vinyl siding. The house now seemed to stand taller and straighter with all that weight removed. It looked lighter and healthier, like a person getting back into shape by dieting and working out.

As repairs progressed, Michael told me how dissatisfied he had become with his job. He was employed as a diesel mechanic in a local shop, and his boss called him out at all hours of the night to make emergency repairs on trucks pa.s.sing through the metro area. "I know how much they're billing for my work," he complained to me one time. "But I still get the same old hourly wage."

Knowing how hard he worked, I suggested, "Why don't you start your own business?"

He snorted. "Yeah, right. Do you know how expensive all that equipment is? They have me over a barrel. I could never afford to go it alone."

But I knew he was thinking about it, and probably had been since long before I mentioned it, because one day he just up and quit his job. He posted his name and phone number at all the truck stops and wayside rest areas within range. At home and in his pickup truck, he installed CB radios to take calls at all hours of the day.

He started small, working out of his truck. The next year he added a big trailer for hauling more tools, parts, and tires. Salvaged truck parts began appearing on his porch. Most of these he was able to recondition and use in repairs. Business kept building.

One morning he came home as I was delivering his mail. His coveralls were filthy, covered with grease and torn at the knees. He looked exhausted, but when I greeted him a broad smile blossomed across his face.

"Been out all night," he said.

"Are you sorry you took the plunge?"

"No way. These over-the-roaders will pay anything to keep their rigs running. They're all on tight schedules, and when they need help, they usually need it right now."

He laughed while inspecting his blackened hands. "If I can scrub some of this grunge off, I hope to do some paperwork, then maybe get a nap."

One day I noticed a school bus parked in front of his house. Perched on a ladder, Michael operated a power grinder, sanding off the orange paint. "You work on school buses, too?" I asked.

"Nope. This baby is mine." Climbing down from the ladder, he added, "Come look in the back door."

The rear b.u.mper had been extended, and onto it had been bolted a huge steel vise. When he opened the back door, I saw that all the pa.s.senger seats had been removed.

"This is my new shop on wheels. I can haul all my tools and plenty of spare parts. I'm converting some of the wiring to run power tools. What do you think of it?"

"Amazing," was all I could say.

The handfuls of mail he received every day told me that checks were coming in from trucking companies all over the country. He always left his outgoing mail for me to take: hand-addressed envelopes to firms far and wide. Business was steady and continuing to grow.

After a while, a wife was added to the picture, and more recently a son. I always smile to see the old bus b.u.mping through the neighborhood. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is the dirty coveralls.

"I buy them at the second-hand store," he explained one time. "They're impossible to clean, so I wear them until they're shot, then I throw them away. They only cost a couple of bucks, so it's cheaper than trying to clean them."

His wife does the books now, so he's getting more sleep. She even learned CB lingo to take calls. A large addition has been added to the back of the house, and a two-and-a-half stall garage has replaced the old dilapidated one-car structure. His little enterprise is a great success story.

Late on a cold winter night I stopped at a neighborhood convenience store to gas up before going home. Inside the store, I was surprised when a transient warming himself at the coffee machine turned out to be my friend the mechanic.

"Got another call?" I asked.

"Yeah. I've been running all day." From his grime-darkened face flashed the smooth white grin. "It never fails. On the coldest nights the calls back up." He toasted me with a twenty-four-ounce cup of coffee. "This should get me through."

"Maybe you need to hire an apprentice, or take on a partner," I said.

"Been thinking about that," he said, heading toward the cashier.

He wore black coveralls, which hid most of the dirt, but I could see how they bagged out at the knees. One of the back pockets was torn and hung down his leg like a piece of shedding skin. I thought they must be nearing retirement to the trashcan. A wool stocking cap stretched down low over his forehead, and fingerless gloves revealed his grimy fingernails and hands. The leather on his steel-toed boots was worn off in front, exposing the steel plates underneath.

He shuffled up to the cashier, placed the coffee on the counter, and began digging inside the coveralls for his wallet. The woman looked him up and down, then glanced outside at the icy crystals blowing past the window. Her expression softened when she again looked at my friend, and she reached out to pat his hand gently. "It's okay," she said softly. "You don't have to pay."

Not Quite Lost and Found

One warm summer day, a large, unfamiliar dog suddenly appeared at my side. I was startled, but he didn't act aggressive or nervous. He simply walked up at an angle from the street and fell into stride beside me. He wore a collar and tags, but I had two fists full of mail, so I continued on my way, intending to look at his ID ID when my hands were free. when my hands were free.

When I stopped to put mail in a slot, he paused and waited beside me. If I took more than a few seconds, he quietly sat down and surveyed the neighborhood around us. He seemed to pay no particular attention to anything, either by sniffing or "marking." He was simply out for a walk, and apparently he had decided to share it with me for a while.

In a way it was flattering, the way he waited for me. With the neighborhood under his constant surveillance, I had my own canine bodyguard. He stood tall and slender, with the gray and white markings of a husky. There was an athletic elegance in his movement, a confidence in his light-footed stride, leaving no doubt that he was quite capable of taking care of himself.

With my hands finally free, I sat on the front steps of a corner house and whistled him closer. He came to me without a moment's hesitation. His tags told me that his name was Wolf, and he lived four or five blocks off my route.

Over the years I've brought many dogs home. Most of them lived on my route and knew me, so they were willing to jump into my jeep for a ride home. One black lab could open the gate to his yard if it wasn't secured with a pin through the latch. When I brought him home, he sat high atop the trays of mail, holding his thick Labrador bulk as steady as possible to avoid falling from his perch. He seemed to study our route, his big black head swiveling to inspect every object we pa.s.sed. I imagined him thinking, "Well, duh! So this this is where I turned wrong and got lost!" is where I turned wrong and got lost!"

I sat on the front steps of the house petting Wolf. With his quiet disposition I got the distinct impression that he wasn't lost at all. He knew exactly where his house was, and he was visiting with me of his own volition. I had to decide if I should try to get him in my jeep for a ride home. The Postal Service wasn't paying me to rescue lost dogs, especially if it required leaving my route to do so.

On the other hand, the neighborhood wouldn't tolerate a dog running loose for too long. Animal Control would be notified, and I didn't want Wolf to have to endure that humiliation.

Just then the front door behind me opened and the lady of the house emerged. "I see you have some company today," she said.

I laughed. Jingling the dog tags, I said, "His name is Wolf. I guess he decided to join me for a walk. I'm trying to decide if I dare drive him home."

"Where does he live?"

I had talked to Jeanie many times, so I knew she had lost her own dog about a year earlier to old age and cancer. She was a kind person, with an abiding love of animals. An adult daughter had just moved back in with her.

"He lives just a few blocks away," I said. "Maybe half a mile at the most."

Wolf suddenly stood up and climbed the steps. He gently nuzzled Jeanie, rubbing against her legs like a cat. She scratched his ears while looking at his tag. "There's a phone number here. If you want, I'll call the owners to come over and get him. He can wait inside with me."

Thanking her for her generosity, I got up to leave. She opened the door, and Wolf sauntered in like he owned the place. I walked away knowing that he would be safe and provided for.

The next day, Jeanie met me at the door. "They sent a couple of their kids over to get him," she informed me. "Did you know there are five children in that household? I guess they leave the gate open all the time, especially when they're playing outside in the summer."

She glanced up the block before returning her attention to me. "I tell you what, though. That Wolf is the nicest dog. Made no fuss at all while he was here." She lowered her voice, adding, "I think he kind of liked the peace and quiet after those rambunctious children." I left her standing on the stoop. There had been a hint of sadness in her voice, which I chalked up to the memory of her old dog.

A few days after my unscheduled meeting with Wolf, I encountered another surprise. At Jeanie's house, sitting in the sunshine on the front steps, was the big gray and white husky. He bowed his head to me, and gave one friendly wag of his tail. I sat down next to him and patted his head.

"What are you doing here?" I asked. He seemed very content, like he enjoyed the sun on his face and the warmth reflecting off the concrete steps. I reached behind me and rapped on the door.

Now it was my turn to say, "Looks like you've got company, Jeanie." A wonderful smile spread across her face when she saw Wolf. His tail wagged several times at the sight of her.

Ultimately, Wolf moved in full time. His family decided it was easier to visit him at Jeanie's rather than drag him home every couple of days. So, in the end, while I guess it wouldn't be accurate to say that Wolf had ever been truly lost, it certainly could be said that someone had found him.

GUS WAS AN OLD schnauzer mixed-breed who belonged to Karl, a retired letter carrier who lived on my route. Karl had been retired for more years than I had worked for the post office. Every now and then he came outside to discuss the latest changes in the job. One day while Karl and I stood at his door talking, Gus shot outside and hurled himself down the steps. He tore a direct line across the front yard into the street. I looked up at Karl, thinking maybe he should call out to him, but he just stood there, calmly watching his dog beat a straight-line path away from us. With no fences to impede his progress, Gus ran full speed through yards and alleys, never breaking course or his short-legged stride, until he was finally lost from sight. schnauzer mixed-breed who belonged to Karl, a retired letter carrier who lived on my route. Karl had been retired for more years than I had worked for the post office. Every now and then he came outside to discuss the latest changes in the job. One day while Karl and I stood at his door talking, Gus shot outside and hurled himself down the steps. He tore a direct line across the front yard into the street. I looked up at Karl, thinking maybe he should call out to him, but he just stood there, calmly watching his dog beat a straight-line path away from us. With no fences to impede his progress, Gus ran full speed through yards and alleys, never breaking course or his short-legged stride, until he was finally lost from sight.

"Geez, Karl, I'm really sorry," I said, still stunned by the emphatic way in which Gus had made his escape.