Going Postal

So, there I was, the day before Christmas, ten days before my seventieth birthday, doing what most septuagenarians do on unseasonably warm Sunday mornings in December: I was delivering the mail. Actually, I wasn’t delivering those ads, catalogues, charity solicitations, and other detritus that fills our mailboxes on a daily basis. I was lugging last-minute Christmas packages from my overflowing truck to the doorsteps of eager River Falls residents. That’s right, folks, I have added still another occupation to my already lengthy resumé.

The first thing everyone—including my lovely bride—wanted to know is “Why do you want another job? You’re supposed to be retired, and you don’t need the money.” It’s a good question. There are a few easy answers, I suppose. First, being a mailman is one of the few things I haven’t done in my lifetime, so, why not? Second, I have grown increasingly frustrated waiting for my editor/publisher to get my manuscript back to me with suggested edits so that I can take the next step on getting my novel out there. She has now had the book for fifteen months, and I’m still waiting. Rather than pacing angrily around the house, I decided to burn off my irritation with some strenuous labor. Third, the extra money can finance more trips to the casino. I like craps. I like blackjack. I like slots. But I never take anything out of the bank for gambling forays—that cash comes from “extra money.” So, the money I earn from this job qualifies.

For more complex, psychological reasons, Kathleen and I discussed the possible explanations for my need to move constantly forward and keep trying new things. I decided it probably had something to do with the way my dad raised us. When we were little, my brother Dan and I would be recruited to help with the latest home-improvement project in our house. If I bent a nail while hammering it, my dad would snatch the hammer away from me and say “Go read a book. You’d better get a good education, because you’ll never make a living working with your hands.” Conversely, if Dan made the same mistake, my dad would say, “Try it again. With your lack of brains, you’re going to have to get a job in the trades, so you’d better learn to do it right.” Thus, we were put into particular pigeon holes at an early age. Dan became an ironworker, and I kept going back to school for higher and higher academic degrees. It took years for me to finally figure out that my dad was wrong, and I was actually pretty good at doing lots of different things. So, if a psychologist were to analyze me, he or she would probably say that I have spent the last sixty years of my life trying to prove to my dad that I’m capable of doing things outside of academia. In any case, I love the challenge of trying something new and proving to myself that I can do it. Finally, I’ve always been curious about how the complex system of the U.S. Postal Service operates.

Regardless of the reasons, I started applying for a postal job at the first of November. There was never an actual interview with a human being, just a bunch of steps to be completed on the internet. I had to be fingerprinted in Minnesota, give a detailed education history, and explain the various jobs I’ve had in the past. So, yeah, it took a while to fill out all of that. When they eventually accepted me, I was sent to a two-day orientation and defensive-driving course in Eau Claire, Wisconsin. Then I spent another day in Hudson learning to drive one of the right-side trucks I would be using. The adjustment to the right side has been remarkably smooth, and I don’t even notice the difference anymore. In fact, the vehicles have such a tight turn radius that I like them better than my regular car. The condition of the ancient trucks—well, that’s a different story. Most of the ones I’ve seen are over thirty years old and pretty beat up. The first day I tried to drive mine, I couldn’t get the key out of the ignition. A manager showed me that I have to shove the gear shifter (on the column) hard into park and hold it there with my right hand, while weaving my left hand through the steering wheel, and wiggling the key just right in order to get it out. The gauges are dark and difficult to read, and I can’t see what gear I’m in, so I have to select drive, neutral, or reverse by feel and sound, rather than being able see it visually.

The day after I passed my driver’s test, they put me right to work. It was the weekend before Christmas and they were desperate for help, so they threw me into the deep end without much of an explanation about what I was expected to do. The River Falls P.O., like most in the country, was built to handle letters and mail, but today’s world deals primarily with packages. On my third day on the job, our little office delivered over 6,000 packages. When I walked in the first day, the main room was chaotic, with a flurry of activity and no floor space to even walk across the room. My “training,” such as it was, consisted of: “Here’s your truck, there are the packages. Organize them, drive around, and deliver them to right address, just outside the front door.” It was a bit more organized than that, but much of the job involved learning-by-doing. In order to make up for the time I lost trying to find my way around the neighborhoods with which I was unfamiliar, I often jogged up the long, uphill driveways, and back down to the truck. The packages ranged from small things you can fit in one hand, to large boxes up to seventy pounds. At my training and orientation session, I was made familiar with an assortment of cardinal rules which are never to be broken. I think that, out of necessity, I violated every single one of those rules on my very first day. I was sore, tired, and frustrated my first few days, but, just a week later, it’s all starting to come easier and feel more familiar. I’m finding it challenging, but kind of fun, too—especially the organizational end of things. The metaphor most of the workers use for packing their trucks efficiently is the old video game of Tetris.

The people I work with have been amazing. Having worked twelve-hour days or longer for several weeks leading up to the holidays, often without a day off, they are exhausted and stressed at times. But they deal with it all with a sort of gallows-humor specific to their profession. I overheard many such conversations while out on the loading dock. On my first day, I heard one guy singing, It’s the most wonderful time of the year, in a sarcastic warble. His compatriots responded by throwing boxes at him or using obscenity-laced outbursts to politely suggest that he quiet down. Another driver ranted, “These greedy fuckers keep buying more and more stuff that they don’t really need!” I have discovered that the Postal Service delivers about one-third of all of Amazon’s parcels. Because of that, several people have been heard exclaiming the various creative ways they would like to kill and dismember Amazon owner Jeff Bezos.

Despite the stressful conditions during the holiday season, these dedicated people are amazing to watch. About half of the people who work here are women, and, regardless of gender, they all work with speed, efficiency, and good humor. In the morning, while it’s still dark outside, the music blasts and people sing along while quickly sorting packages into carts representing the various routes in and around River Falls. Joe, the guy I have been assisting, sometimes spends from 6:30 to noon just sorting the mail he will deliver that day, while I use his truck to distribute packages. After my second run, he takes over the truck, while I switch to my car to head out with another load. Once, he showed me his truck before he headed out. It was completely jammed with letters and packages, without an inch of space left empty (again, the Tetris comparison applies). Even the step up to the cab, the dashboard, and the floor next to his seat were crammed with parcels. I think he had a box on his lap, too. Despite the apparent chaos, the truck was meticulously organized with a system that only he understood, in such a way that he could follow his route without any wasted motion. As he pulled out of the parking lot that afternoon, I knew that he could not possibly complete his route until long after dark.

The hard work and diligence of these men and women is all pretty inspiring, and once again, I find myself striving to prove that I can be a valuable member of a new organization. Maybe someday I’ll be able to say, “Dad would be proud.”