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.
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.
Whenever I see motorcycle cops I’m compelled to watch them pass, 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 brass badge, and law enforcement insignia on the shoulders, you have the classic 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 sunglasses 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 bass 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 ass in and lock you up!”
The funeral hearse passed 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 passed. He slowly slouched down again, probably out of embarrassment this time. Even after the last car passed 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 passing. 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 sturdy 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 spaces.
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 passing 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 bumper had been extended, and onto it had been bolted a huge steel vise. When he opened the back door, I saw that all the passenger 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 bumping 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 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 w
ith 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 passed. I imagined him thinking, “Well, duh! So this 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.
Beware of Cat Page 7
