Going Postal
Now that the doc says I can walk some, I decided to hobble on down the hall to pick up the mail. No big deal normally, but today I hear grumbling in the mail area behind our little metal boxes.I peek through the outbound mail slot right into the midsection of a postal worker whose zipper is losing the battle with the bulge.
"Is everything alright," I say.
"This is so confusing. The numbers don't go in order. I've never done this route before. They're just trying to get me FIRED!"
Hmm. Angry postal worker. I thought about how best to diffuse the situation. "Is there something I can do?"
"Come in here and help me figure this out," was the reply.
Upon opening the normally locked mail room door, I discovered that the bulging middle belonged to an aging Filipino man with a bad haircut, few teeth, and wildly painted little half-glasses perched on his nose. This was not a happy man.
"Look! It's already after 4 and I still haven't finished sorting this mail. See how these box numbers don't go in order? They did this on purpose. New route. No truck. And I'm supposed to be back by 5. They're just waiting there to fire me. Thirty years and this is how I get treated. So close to retirement. They don't want to have to pay me my pension. I'll show THEM! I'll take this to the Supreme Court! Oh, here's 405. See? These things don't go in order! Think they've got me. No. I have the Supreme Court on my side!"
All I wanted to do is calm the guy down. Without thinking, I uttered a gentle "shoosh" sound, at which point he says "Get out of here!"
Don't have to tell me twice.
Syndicate Me!
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