Beware Of Cat_ And Other Encounters Of A Letter Carrier Part 5

"Well, don't worry about it," Karl replied, resignation lending a sigh to his voice. "He runs away whenever he can. He'll go all the way to the freeway where that tall fence stops him. Then he'll run back and forth looking for a way through. He'll tire out soon enough. I'll just drive over there in a few minutes and pick him up."

I tried to make light of it. "At least he's getting some exercise."

Karl smiled. "You know, that dog hates me. He belonged to my wife, and I promised I'd take care of him after she was gone. But he acts like he's in a prisoner of war camp. Maybe he blames me for her death, I don't know. He used to sit in my wife's lap when we watched TV, but now he lies in the corner watching me, like he's plotting his next opportunity to escape."

It was like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape The Great Escape, riding his motorcycle along the barbwire fence looking for an escape route from the n.a.z.i prison camp. And in the same way that Steve McQueen was always captured and returned to prison, Gus was always picked up at the freeway fence and brought home.

TWO SMALL, WHITE, poodle-looking dogs came yapping along the sidewalk like a miniature wolf pack on a hot scent. One stopped to sniff while the other one shot out ahead, then they traded places, attacking and investigating every little object in their path. poodle-looking dogs came yapping along the sidewalk like a miniature wolf pack on a hot scent. One stopped to sniff while the other one shot out ahead, then they traded places, attacking and investigating every little object in their path.

I was surprised when they eagerly jumped into my jeep without any coaxing. They wore collars and tags, but because of their energetic and skittish antics, I wanted to have them safely corralled before trying to learn where they lived. Fortunately, their address was only three or four houses off my route.

By the time I pulled up in front of their house, both dogs were sitting in my lap. I guess they were accustomed to riding in vehicles. When I looked at their house, sure enough, I spotted the side gate standing ajar. Then it took some tricky maneuvers to extricate myself from the jeep without letting the dogs out to run away again.

I don't know what I was expecting when I rang the doorbell, but I got a real shock when the owner filled up the doorway. He was enormous, with a belly hanging out over the elastic waistband of his sweat pants. A dingy grayish-white T-shirt couldn't quite hold him all in.

The thought of this huge man living with the two little high-strung poodles suddenly struck me as comical. To avoid laughing, I turned to point at the jeep and asked, "Are those your dogs?"

They were standing on my seat looking out the window at us, happily yapping and bouncing.

"Why, those little devils," the man said, coming through the door.

For a moment, then, I had a real bad feeling. He glanced at the open gate as his long strides propelled him swiftly toward the jeep. I had to jog to stay ahead of him. Would he hurt the dogs for trying to run away?

I slid the door open with the thought that if they took off again, I would let them go. Before I could react, however, the two little b.a.l.l.s of fur catapulted from the seat into the man's outstretched arms. They licked his wide chin as he snuggled his face into their fur. "You little rascals," he bellowed. "What am I going to do with you? Don't you know you could've gotten hurt? Or stolen?"

He turned on his heel and carried them up to the house, mumbling bits of baby talk and ignoring me. But that was okay. The dogs were safely home again, my fears were unwarranted, and I could go on with my day.

SAt.u.r.dAY MORNINGS CAN be pretty quiet in a residential neighborhood. With no businesses nearby attracting traffic, without the roar of school buses on the weekend, and with parents and their children sleeping in, I often spend the first hour or so on my route walking through a virtual ghost town. Shades are pulled, and newspapers still lie at the front door steps. It's a good time for me to inspect unique varieties of shrubs and perennials or discover new ideas for decks and gardens. I pa.s.s peacefully across the deserted lawns, lost in my own thoughts and daydreams. be pretty quiet in a residential neighborhood. With no businesses nearby attracting traffic, without the roar of school buses on the weekend, and with parents and their children sleeping in, I often spend the first hour or so on my route walking through a virtual ghost town. Shades are pulled, and newspapers still lie at the front door steps. It's a good time for me to inspect unique varieties of shrubs and perennials or discover new ideas for decks and gardens. I pa.s.s peacefully across the deserted lawns, lost in my own thoughts and daydreams.

A few years ago I was startled out of one of these Sat.u.r.day morning reveries by the sudden appearance of a young woman at her front door. Still in her robe, she clutched an oversized mug of coffee in both hands. I had talked to her and her husband many times, and we had become good friends. Finding them up and about on a Sat.u.r.day morning was a rarity.

"You wouldn't believe what happened to us last night," she said as she stepped outside to talk. Her conversational voice is always loud and demonstrative.

Bloodshot eyes peered at me from under her dyed black hair, which was in dire need of a brush. I smiled and said, "Well, it looks to me like you had a good time."

"Oh, it started out just fine," she replied with a grin. "Dinner and a few drinks. Heard a great new band down on the West Bank. We got home about midnight." She paused and frowned. "Then, after we went to bed, someone stole our car. Can you believe it?"

I knew her car, a ten-year-old dented rust bucket, and the only thing hard to believe was that anyone would even consider stealing it. But I kept a straight face. "You're kidding! Where was it parked?"

"Right out front here. I did the driving last night, and you know I hate parking in the garage."

The truth of the matter was they never parked in the garage. It was so full of car parts and old furniture that there was no way anyone could have parked a car in there.

"Did you call the police?"

"Yeah. They've already been here and gone. They said they'd probably find it, but no guarantees about what kind of condition it would be in."

"Well, I'm really sorry," I said. "It's just so hard to believe someone would steal a car from right in front of your house. And right under that street light."

"The cop told us that with a screwdriver a car thief can break into a car, start it up, and drive off faster than I can using my key."

The whole episode seemed implausible to me. After all, this was a relatively crime-free neighborhood. A person would have to be mighty desperate to steal a beat-up old car like that one. Her husband joined us, and as they told me about the band they had seen the night before, my gaze wandered past them over a hill down on the next block. I could just make out the roofline of a car. It caught my eye because it seemed to be parked at an odd angle to the curb.

"Hold on a second," I said, stepping up between them on the top step to get a better view down the street. The color was right, and it appeared to be a full-size sedan like theirs. I descended the steps and began walking toward the lip of the hill and the car beyond. "That sure looks like your car down there," I called over my shoulder to them.

It was. Wearing their pajamas and bathrobes, they followed me down the street. We found the gearshift in neutral neutral instead of instead of park park. After rolling across the intersection and downhill for half a block, the car had jumped the curb and come to rest against a boulevard tree. The impact had been slight, the damage minor, especially in light of the normal decrepit appearance of the car.

We sure had fun teasing her about it, though, and even the cops had a good laugh when they returned to close the case.

I FOUND ANOTHER ITEM one day that wasn't exactly lost, either, but had far more serious potential consequences. I had returned to my jeep after delivering a block of mail and found an extremely upset little boy. Next to him was the smallest two-wheeled bicycle I had ever seen. The training wheels looked like they belonged on a toy truck. As I drew near, his sobbing howls escalated in volume and intensity. He was anxiously watching me, and I sensed that his performance was intended to attract and hold my attention. Strapped over his shoulder was a school backpack. Tears streamed down his chubby black cheeks as he clung with both hands to the bicycle. one day that wasn't exactly lost, either, but had far more serious potential consequences. I had returned to my jeep after delivering a block of mail and found an extremely upset little boy. Next to him was the smallest two-wheeled bicycle I had ever seen. The training wheels looked like they belonged on a toy truck. As I drew near, his sobbing howls escalated in volume and intensity. He was anxiously watching me, and I sensed that his performance was intended to attract and hold my attention. Strapped over his shoulder was a school backpack. Tears streamed down his chubby black cheeks as he clung with both hands to the bicycle.

"h.e.l.lo, young man," I said, walking past him to the back of my jeep. A fresh round of wailing erupted. I took off my satchel and stuffed it inside. Turning to face him, I squatted down to be closer to his size, but kept my distance. I had never seen this child before. I wanted to help him, but I needed to avoid any sort of action that could somehow be misconstrued as improper. While I'm walking my route, there are eyes everywhere. Even when I haven't seen or talked to anyone for a couple of hours, people make note of my pa.s.sing. The last thing I wanted was for someone down the block, glancing out their window, to misread my intentions or motives. But the poor kid was crying his eyes out. He wasn't faking this fear, and right now all I wanted to do was wrap him up in a bear hug and rea.s.sure him that everything would be okay.

"What's your name, little buddy?" I asked, forcing cheerfulness. Many people are more open and trusting around someone in a uniform, but this little fellow was just too upset for that. After pausing briefly to catch his breath, he began howling again, although not nearly as loud as before. His big brown eyes never left me.

I told him my name. "I'm the mailman around here. I sure would like to help you if you'd let me."

Deep sobs interspersed with hiccups.

"Do you live around here?"

Finally, a timid nod. His face was drenched with tears and snot. I opened the door again and was startled by the immediate resumption of ear-splitting wails. I grabbed a tissue and quickly shut the door. Taking a few steps toward him, I dropped to one knee and held the tissue out to him. "Here you go, pal. Use this to wipe off your face." I should have known there was no way he would let go of the bike. His bicycle and backpack were the only familiar items remaining to him, and he clung to them for dear life. But I had no intention of getting any closer to wipe his face off. It turned out to be sort of a standoff, with the white tissue suspended between us. I finally gave up.

We were at the far back edge of my route. I knew everybody for several blocks in front of us, so I a.s.sumed he lived in the other direction. I pointed over his shoulder. "Do you live over that way?"

It took a moment for him to nod. Then he tried to speak. "Mom," hiccup, hiccup. "My mom," hiccup. Deep, shuddering gasps.

"Your mother. Is she home?"

His head wagged sideways, then he blurted, "I don't know where she is!"

"Can you show me where you live?"

He nodded before reciting his address. It came out with a deliberate enunciation, like a student giving an answer on an oral exam. His house was just a few blocks away, but he had crossed at least one busy street to get here.

It seemed my options were few, especially since I was afraid he'd start crying again if I even looked away from him. I did not dare load him and his bike into the jeep. Besides, I didn't think he would trust me that far. Where were all the nosy neighbors now, and why didn't someone step outside to see what all the commotion was about?

"I'm five years old."

The soft voice caught me by surprise. What was this, a glimmer of rationality? The tear-stained face looked up at me with trust and hope. His fingers nervously kneaded the grips on the handlebars.

"Five years old?" I echoed. "My goodness, are you in school?"

He nodded.

"What school do you go to?"

"Morris Park."

That was good to know, because it was nearby, and if his mother didn't show up maybe they could help me. I was still considering options when he said, "My name is Jermaine."

Again I was surprised by his candid offer of information. But then it occurred to me that a five year old has a very limited repertoire of solid facts. This kid was all alone and couldn't find his mother, but he was giving me everything he knew in an effort to do the right thing.

"My mom's name is Danielle."

That one nearly melted my heart.

"Okay, Jermaine. That's great. You're five years old and you go to Morris Park School. Your mom's name is Danielle. You even know your address. You must be the smartest kid in your cla.s.s."

He started to smile, but got serious again real quick. "I'm only in kindergarten."

"Kindergarten?" I exclaimed. "That's my favorite!"

Now I got the smile.

"So, this is what we're going to do, Jermaine. I want you to listen real good, because we have to have a plan, right?"

A nod.

"Good. Now, I want you to ride your bicycle, and I'm going to drive my jeep." A shadow of fear crossed his face, so I quickly added, "But we won't split up, okay? I'll just drive along beside you." I had no idea how I would pull that off, but I couldn't let this kid start crying again.

I pointed down the street in the direction we would be going. "You stop at each corner and wait for me, Jermaine. I don't want you crossing any streets unless I'm right next to you, okay?"

His foot was already on the pedal when he nodded at me.

We started off slowly. The tiny wheels of the bike prevented him from going very fast, but he pedaled for all he was worth. When we got to a busier street, I had to speed up a bit because of traffic. Locating him in the side view mirror took a moment, but when I found him, I immediately veered back to the curb. He stood in the middle of the sidewalk straddling his bicycle. I threw open my door to hear him screaming, "Don't leave me! Don't leave me!"

"I won't leave you, Jermaine. I'm right here."

Fighting through the tears he got back on his bike. After that, I turned on my hazard lights and idled along the curb to stay next to him. Jermaine kept a constant watch on me. I realized that to a casual observer this might look improper, that perhaps the mailman was up to no good, but people could think whatever they wanted. Jermaine had been through enough already, and I wasn't going to abandon him.

Once we got moving again it took only a few minutes to reach his house. We pulled up in front of a modest dwelling with the telltale signs of a resident child: a deflated basketball in the yard and action figure stickers in the window. Jermaine watched as I climbed the steps to ring the doorbell.

Getting no response at the door, I asked him, "Do you have any friends in the neighborhood?"

He shook his head.

"How about neighbors? Do you know any of your neighbors?"

Negative. "My mom might."

Coming down the steps I decided to check the backyard. "Wait here, Jermaine. I'm going to try the back door. I'll be right back, okay?"

With no luck in the backyard, either, I had to decide which neighbor's house to approach. That's the other thing about a letter carrier's uniform; complete strangers will open their doors to talk to you, and the time had come to enlist some help so I could get back to work.

But now there was a taxi parked behind my jeep, its back door hanging open. Jermaine was in the arms of the woman I knew must be named Danielle. Both were in tears, even though Jermaine was bawling his mother out for leaving him all alone. He was really mad, and I couldn't blame him.

On my way to the jeep, I told her how proud she should be of her son. "He's a smart kid," I told her, bringing on a fresh round of tears. "He figured out what he needed to do to take care of himself."

She explained that her car had broken down, and she had to get a tow truck and a cab. She had been worried sick about not being home when her son returned from school. For his part, Jermaine wouldn't let go of her and didn't look back at me. Even though he hadn't really been lost, I was glad he'd found me.

I've never spoken to him again. He's much older now, and I see him walking through my route or shooting hoops in the schoolyard with his buddies. He never waves or acknowledges me, but when our eyes meet, I know he remembers.

A Cup of Coffee

Snow had started falling around dinnertime the day before. Big fat flakes, without a wind to disturb the soft edges of acc.u.mulation. Coming down in thick swirls, it alighted so gently and swiftly you would swear you could see it pile up. By mid-morning of the next day, eight or ten inches of new snow redefined the landscape. The sun came out, sparkling with an eye-piercing brilliance off the glittering white surface.

Delivering the mail that morning was like walking in loose sand. Icy granules of snow packed down underfoot, then slid out from beneath my boots, making each step a lung-busting challenge. By lunchtime I was exhausted. Breaking new trail is hard work, and I still had four or five hours of walking ahead of me. My pace slowed. Instead of simply struggling and pushing through it, however, I decided to try to admire the beauty of the wintry landscape.

All the cla.s.sic winter snow scenes appeared: cedar fence rails and posts bearing a delicate mantle of snow; dark green boughs of pine and balsam weighed down under fresh white drifts, occasionally revealing the brilliant red flash of a cardinal. A small charcoal grill, neglected for the winter on a front stoop, became a rocket ship with its cone head capsule of snow. Other items lost their ident.i.ties altogether, indiscriminate lumps under the thick white blanket.

At one point I spotted a strange imprint in the snow near a row of bushes. A large bird, perhaps a hawk or owl of some sort, had scooped up a morsel of food. Individual feathers from the tips of the raptor's outstretched wings marked the snow. From the impressive length of the wingspan, and the depth of the feathered imprints, I deduced that he must have been struggling as hard as I was in the snow. I could almost feel his exertion as he tried to pull himself back aloft.

The harsh sc.r.a.ping of shovels on concrete broke the snow's hush. Plodding along, I came upon a trio of snow shovelers near the far end of the block. I had never seen the workers before. They must have been hired to shovel, but that seemed odd, because all the usual snow-removal outfits used plows or s...o...b..owers. An enterprising youngster might earn some extra cash shoveling for neighbors, but these three were adults. They wouldn't make much profit clearing snow by hand. Their old pickup truck, a rusty, dented, road-salt-encrusted wreck, was parked near the corner.

Drawing near, I saw there were two men and a woman, all with the long, shiny black hair of Native Americans. One of the men appeared to be too old and overweight for the physical strain. He took short breaks between scoops to catch his breath. The way he leaned forward, using the shovel for support, betrayed his age and discomfort. Even though the temperature was below freezing, none of them wore hats or gloves, and the big man's coat hung open. When he spotted me, I groaned and looked away.

I felt him coming up the sidewalk behind me as I put mail in the slot. When I turned around, he greeted me with a broad grin and a glint of humor in his eyes. "Aaniin niiji," he said. "h.e.l.lo, my friend."

Heavy swaths of gray hair along his temples and deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes showed him to be even older than I had imagined. I resigned myself to the inevitable request I had been expecting. He surprised me by asking, "Hey, my friend, do you have an aspirin?"

If he was trying to make a living by shoveling snow, I had no doubt that he was in desperate need of aspirins. I looked at his companions, leaning on their shovels and watching for my response.

His expression was open and sincere. I wished I did have some aspirins to give him. But I had to reply, "Sorry, I don't have any with me."

If anything, the old man's good-natured smile grew even larger. "Well," he said, "it was worth a try." He waved an arm across the neighborhood. "Walking through all this snow, I thought you might have some."

His voice was soft but resonated with a depth of character. With that and his impressive size and bearing, he could have been a leader of men had he so chosen. Perhaps he was.

Showing no inclination to leave, he repositioned his hands over the top of the shovel handle. His partners resumed working, and I took a moment to look at them. The woman was of an indeterminate middle age, with a tough look about her, as though life hadn't always been kind to her. The other fellow was much younger and looked downright mean. But then, anyone with a tattoo on his face looks intimidating to me. The three of them were just the most improbable looking crew for a job like this.

The old man drew a deep sigh. I thought about offering him a couple dollars to buy some aspirins, but he hadn't actually asked for money, and I didn't want to offend him. I was puzzled, however, as to how they happened to be here shoveling snow. They certainly weren't from around here.

I turned to move on, wishing I had something encouraging to say to complement the old man's friendly smile. The thought of all the miles I had yet to walk crossed my mind, and I said, "You know, even better than aspirins, I wish I had a good cup of hot coffee."

Once again his smile burst forth, this time revealing the gaps of several missing teeth. "Ah, yes," he commented, nodding thoughtfully. "A cup of strong coffee would be good."

His soft but direct response emboldened me, and I asked, "So, what brings you out here? I mean, I know the couple that lives here-did they hire you to shovel?"

His response was swift and to the point, as if he'd antic.i.p.ated the question. "We're staying at a shelter downtown. That's my wife there, and my son," he added, nodding at the pair of shovelers. "When the snow came, the people at the shelter asked for volunteers to help dig out the old folks." He turned his head toward his truck and pointed to it with his lips. "I drive that old pickup, so I said we'd go."

He told me more, then, adding that they would soon be heading back up north. I a.s.sumed he meant to one of the Ojibwe reservations in northern Minnesota.

"It will soon be syruping time," he said, smiling. "My son is the best at boiling down the sap. Even the others bring their sap to him to cook. He knows just when the sugar is best."