It happened again. I saw one of the mailboxes I deliver to on TV. There are two kinds of jobs that pay particular attention to mailboxes: One is a mailman and the second is The Action News Team. When someone is killed, the cameraman always focuses on my mainstay and bread and butter; they capture an image of the mailbox.
I think mailboxes are the universal symbol of: This could have been you.
Not every house has a white picket fence, flowers or shrubs. Houses don’t share a commonality in color, shape or design, but every house, apartment and business has a mailbox. The mailbox makes a TV watcher stop and say, “That could have been my house. I could be dead. I have a mailbox.”
Today it was a domestic shooting and as soon as I saw the mailbox on TV I thought, “Better put a change of address in for Smith; He’s dead.”
The Smith’s did have a mailbox. This made them just like you and me, the TV team got that correct. An ordinary, elongated black mailbox. As a postman, I loved their mailbox. With a simple flip of my wrists, I could raise this lid and easily fit all of their mail. Yes, I judge each and every house by the size, shape and cleanliness of their mail box. A large box means you either get a lot of mail, or you recognize that a mailman does not control the size of newspapers, advertisements or magazines. A large box means you’re a thoughtful person. A small mailbox means you have not given thought to the size of your box or the person who has to deliver your mail. Smaller boxes means I have to stand on your porch and cram, crumple or bend your mail just to deliver it. A small box means you are selfish. Mailboxes covered in cobwebs, dust, car parts, cutlery, sprinkler heads, wrenches, ice scrapers and/or cigarette butts simply means you’re a dirty hoarder. I won’t be eating any of your Christmas cookies covered in cat hair.
The Smith’s box was the perfect size for newspapers, large advertisements and the many court ordered summons. But, it was very rare that I ever had to put their mail in the box, because there was always a gaggle, group or, dare I say, a murder of Smith’s waiting for their mail each and every day.
The Smith’s were an interesting lot to talk to. One of the younger Smiths loved the Post Office so much he had his zip code tattooed across his neck. Once I tried to tell him how much I loved his zip code tattoo, I figured, like me, he was also a big fan of the USPS “One Rate Priority Boxes,” but he said his tattoo meant “something different.”
Maybe he was more into our “Express Mail?” Generally, I’m a chit-chatty mailman, but I did not inquire further. Mr. Smith’s German Shepherd was eyeing my leg, and since the dog had tried to attack me the day before, I was almost out of pepper spray.
So, yes, the Action News Team got it correct. You could have been the one killed in that domestic dispute, because the Smith’s are just like you: They have a mailbox.
One guy wears pants every day and another mailman only wears shorts. One carrier delivers with gloves in the summertime and another doesn’t wear gloves during the Winter.
Before I leave for work, trying to decide what I’m going to wear is the most difficult decision of my day. I’m kind of jealous of the mailmen who seem neurotically obsessed about the uniformity of their uniform. The guy who wears shorts when there is a foot of snow claims he doesn’t get cold. After the latest snowstorm, his weather beaten and red-welted legs seemed to have their own opinions. The guy who wears his pants when it’s over 100 degrees in the summertime claims that wool is comfortable and can’t figure out why he loses 20 lbs at the end of each summer.
The carrier who always wears gloves also sterilizes his truck every day. So, I figured wearing gloves, regardless of the weather, was based entirely in his Verminophobia’d brain. Then, I looked at my fingertips and knuckles. Dehydrated from walking around in dry heat and with an empty water bottle, my hands looked like I’d gotten into a fight with over 600 #10 envelopes. It was like I was delivering Express, Priority and First Class mail with the options of Hepatitis A or B. I had to touch the mail to deliver the mail. I had to sort the mail to stick it in the mailbox. The blood that was delivered on each piece of mail could have been prevented if I was wearing gloves. I could only hope people found good fortune on this Red-letter day.
By trying to anticipate the weather and match my outfit accordingly, it takes time. I watch the weather on TV at night and then check the weather in the morning. I stand in front of my closet looking at the rows of blue shirts and in the pre-Springtime have to make the difficult decision of long or short sleeve. Do I wear long underwear or will boxers suffice? I check the weather on my I-phone to see if there has been a change in the day’s forecast.
Today, I chose pants with a smartly matched Post Office issued 7-buttoned shirt. Instead of opting for a long-sleeved undershirt, I grabbed my Post Office fleece jacket off the rack, looked in the mirror and loved the man I saw in that uniform.
By mid-afternoon, though, I was hot. And not in the way I thought I looked. You can’t change a horse in mid-stream and you also can’t take off your pants when you’re delivering mail. We’re allowed (maybe even encouraged) to pee in a cup in the back of our truck, but taking off our pants and delivering mail is definitely frowned upon.
As I was making a solemn vow to switch from CBS to ABC news for my weather updates, I stepped on a cat. I thought I hated dogs. In all fairness to me, this cat was hiding beneath a piece of plywood (don’t ask, just believe) on the porch and when I scared life 2 through 5 out of this cat it turned and ran up the nearest tree it could find. That tree was my blue pants. One claw away from damaging the most precious package I was carrying—mine—the cat jumped off my thigh and hid beneath a car.
I’ve made the conversion to a pants guy. And with this decision, I think I’ll be able to sleep in an extra 10-minutes.
“Your disregard for safety will not be tolerated.” That’s what it says in the report. I was not safe.
Driving a vehicle with the steering wheel on the right hand side, takes a little bit of getting used to. On a two way street, I have to judge where the centerline is on the left side of my vehicle while sitting on the right hand side. Getting this correct not only keeps me from looking like a drunk driver weaving down the street, but it’s also crucial in preventing a head-on collision. Sitting in my postal truck, I feel like a fat passenger in an airline seat. When I first started driving this truck, I sometimes spilled over into on-coming traffic.
There are still times when I try to open the “wrong” door of my mail truck. Even after spending eight hours behind the wheel of a vehicle that is better suited for driving in New Zealand, I get confused. Several times, after delivering mail and looking forward to getting home, I’ve sat down in the passenger seat of my car and looked for the steering wheel.
I’ve learned the key to being a mailman is to “trust the mirrors.” Thanks to my mirrors, I have not killed two people on bicycles, three dogs and a lady holding a baby who tried to hand me mail on the wrong side of the truck.
Still, I disregard safety.
Wonder Woman should trade in her invisible airplane for a mail truck. Driving down neighborhood streets, it seems like no one can see me. Maybe it’s because kids know their side-street schedule, or maybe kids are just stupid. The concept of “look both ways before crossing the street” seems to be a forgotten lesson in school.
To date I have not run over a little girl who was chasing her cat (more importantly, I didn’t hit the cat), a boy learning to ride a motorcycle should be dead and a little boy on a tricycle actually drove down the middle of the road and played chicken with my mail truck. He won.
The FBI once pulled me over and showed me a photo of a “person of interest.” I knew where he lived. A little girl ran up and said, “A man tried to get me to come into the bushes.” I walked her home and called the police.
Then, there was today. I thought I was being safe. I lifted with my legs and not with my back. I used my turn signal, looked to the left, the right and then the left again. When I slipped, I caught myself and when I fell I landed on a package I was getting ready to deliver. At some point, between sorting the mail and looking for a mailbox, I felt a pain in my leg. It was that pain in the ass dog. Blackie got the best of me and a piece of my flesh, too.
And this will go down on my personal record, “Your disregard for safety will not be tolerated.”
Note: I recently wrote a letter to the editor that appears and can be viewed by clicking here: Salt Lake Tribune. The version that appears in print was heavily edited, so I’m presenting the unedited letter here:
Dear Editor:
Grandmas have them and so do secretaries. St. Patrick has one and Mother-in-Laws do too.
I’m talking days.
Lovers get Valentine’s Day and even my BFF gets a Friendship Day on the first Sunday of August. There is Bosses Day and even a National Day of Prayer (personally, Bosses Day and Prayer Day are redundant because God is the ultimate Boss). But, it’s giving February 2 to Groundhogs that makes me say, “When will cats get their day?”
Since cats are frisky and cute, give ultimate love and are this man’s best friend, I will speak for kittens everywhere and say, “Give us our day; Right Meow!”
I propose that March 12th of each and every year be dedicated to cats. Because March is the third month of the year and the letter “C” is the third letter in the alphabet. The letter “A” comes first and that gives us the “one” in twelve. Admittedly, the letter “T” is the 20th letter in the alphabet, but there is no such date as March 120th. I suppose if you were a practitioner of the Julian Day Calendar it would make sense to add “CAT” as “3 + 1 + 20” as in “C + A + T” and that would be “24” and according to the Julian Calendar this would be January 24th. But this, of course, is absurd.
January 24th is too close to New Year’s Day and Martin Luther King Day, it is also absurd to think anyone uses the Julian Calendar except for recluses using the Julian as a derivative-fractional-entity of the Mayan Calendar in order to calculate the end of the world (For those curious (like a cat) this will be June 19, 2012).
Much like the United States of America is not abbreviated “USOA,” because the innocuous “O” of “of” is as useless as the “0” in “20.” Ipso facto, I’m pleased to see we all agree that March 12 spells “CAT” and, therefore this will be their day.
To celebrate the day of CATs, the legislature first needs to get rid of rule #4.15.07.K9 that specifically prevents any resident of this state from housing more than five cats within the incorporated city limits. Anyone who owns one cat knows that the amount of love from one cat is only increased by a factorial of Meow! with each and every cat in addition to one. In fact, the Federation Uniting Cats and Kittens (horrible acronym; Great cause) is currently in a copyright infringement lawsuit with Lays Potato Chips over the slogan, “Bet you just can’t have one.”
March 12 is fast approaching, but we still have time to plan on booking Ted Nugent to headline the “Cat Scratch Fever” kick-off event. It should also be noted that during the Feline Fun Run that dog owners, pregnant ladies, organ transplant patients, children under 5, people with HIV/AIDs and people susceptible to Toxoplasmosis should not attend. While cats are superior with their ability to have 9 lives, people only get one. We’d hate for March 12 to turn into a Meow Day Massacre.
So, gather the healthy and get ready for Cat Day on March 12. Let’s all make a solemn meow to frolic with our felines.
Phil (Whiskers) Jacobsen
I didn’t give much thought to shoes when I started at the Post Office. Now, I have a designated place stocked with shoe glue, shoelaces, moleskin and Band-Aids ready to be called into action. The trunk of my car looks like a Buster Brown cobbler has set up shop.
On my first day of work, I knew the basics of delivering mail—match the address on the envelope to the number on house, then go to the next house. Repeat until the truck was empty. I knew I’d be walking a lot. I had no idea this could mean 10-14 miles per day. The only time I’ve spent walking this kind of distance was hiking in the mountains. So, I took my knowledge of backpacking and bought very expensive and heavy hiking boots.
By the end of my first day delivering mail, it felt like I was carrying lead weights around my ankles and this was a problem with a capital Pb. By the end of the first week, I thought I would get used to all of the walking, blisters and speed skater like thighs, and then I remembered the second thing I knew about hiking. If you mind the ounces, the pounds will take care of themselves.
As a Postal Carrier there are days when I feel like Pepe the Pack Mule traversing the cliffs of the Grand Canyon. The only difference being that as a mailman instead of carrying fat Americans I’m carrying a fat lot of junk mail to junk food eating fat Americans.
Knowing I could not control the flow of the mail, I decided to trim some weight from my shoes. I switched from hiking boots to canvas Chuck Taylors. From the first step, I realized this was a bad idea; unfortunately I had 14 more miles of steps in front of me. Without any cushion or support, the Chucks were definitely lighter, but I was able to feel every pebble in the street and thorn that embedded itself in my soul (sic).
Now I have become the postal version of Imelda Marcos. For those not current on their 1980s pop culture, this means I have a lot shoes—and 15 mink coats.
Running, walking, rain, snow, sleet, Gore-tex, Bush-tex (for those not familiar with 2000s pop culture, this means these shoes are retarded) and steel-toed ass-kicking dog shoes. All of these shoes are kept in the trunk of my car so I can properly change into the appropriate footwear according to the road and route conditions.
And this brings me to the third thing I’ve learned about walking: If you change your shoes, you can change your attitude.
Note: I’m also informing the public about my fascination for feet so if that day comes when a Police Officer says, “Can I check your trunk?” There is absolutely no misinterpretation, regardless of what my shoe collection may look like or my Internet cache may suggest, that I have anything to do with being a foot fetishist (NSFW—For those not familiar with Internet pop-culture this means Not Safe For Work—or moms).