The Secret to Speed

Lumberton, North Carolina. Mid 1980s.

I can feel the air in the house breeze past my ears. I am running fast, faster than at any other time in my life. I go from my bedroom at the end of the hall to the living room in three seconds.

The reason I am able to run so fast is because of what is chasing me. For those three seconds, right at the back of my head, so close as to almost touch my hair and make my scalp tingle, is a sharp axe blade.

No one holds the handle to the axe. It floats in a dark vacuum of space. About a foot behind the handle, though, are two glowing red eyes. The eyes have no pupils, but they are focused on my spine and the back of my skull.



I reach base- the couch- and the axe and the eyes disappear.

This is all part of a game that I invented to motivate me to run faster. It only works for sprints, but sprints are all that I try to do as a child. I will not begin regularly running distances of more than a mile until 1990, when I am 13 years old.

Dad asks me why I run through the house like that, and I tell him the story of what is chasing me. He thinks this is amusing, and in turn tells me a story of when he was a kid. He imagined that there were little needles or pins sticking out from the heels of his shoes. The pins would pop him in the rear end as he ran, causing him to go faster, like a horse that is spurred.

***

It is Vacation Bible School week at my church, Hyde Park Baptist. I always hate these. I have just gotten out of public school for the summer, and now mom and dad are making me go to school again at the church, where we listen to Bible stories and have to make crafts out of ice cream sticks.

Late in the warm evening, while my parents socialize inside the sanctuary, I play hide and seek with the other kids of the church. Night has fallen, which of course makes it much easier to hide.

I can hear the boy who is “It” around the other side of the fellowship hall.

“Ready or not, here I come!” he shouts.

Base is on the other side of the fellowship hall, too- one of the columns on the front porch area. My plan simply is to sprint around to the front of the building, opposite the side from which the boy is coming. I need to be fast, so that if he sees me, then he will not have time to change direction, meet me at the front and tag me before I can touch base.

The axe appears behind me, along with the glowing red eyes. They fly toward me and I take off, sprinting as fast as I can through the darkness.

The axe blade can almost part the hair on the back of my head, but despite that pressing situation, I look to my left as I run, to see if there are other children hiding around the side of the building to where I am running, opposite of the boy who is “It.”

Turning my head to the side does not affect how fast I can run- or so I think.

To my shock, the red eyes catch up and karate chop me across the neck. I jerk to a sudden stop, my feet go flying up in the air in front of me. I land flat on my back, stunned, staring up at the stars.

What just happened? For a moment, I think I see the red eyes in the air a few feet above me, looking down. It was not the axe that hit me. The blow to my neck and throat did not feel like a blade. My head is still attached to my body, I think, though I lie very still for a few moments.

Finally, I sit up. No one saw me take the fall. I look around and see a steel cable, supporting a wooden power line pole for the church. The cable descends at a 45 degree angle from the top of the pole down to an anchor point on the ground. The cable is what clothes-lined me.



I rub my throat area and wow, it is sore. I immediately quit the game and go running to mom inside the church sanctuary to show her my neck.

“Nathan, what happened to you?”

I explain how I ran into the cable. One of the adults listening to the story is trying not to laugh.

“You’ve got a red mark on the back of your neck, too,” mom says. “How did you get a mark on the back of your neck?”

We come to the conclusion that I must have been running so hard that my head snapped around the cable when I flew into the air. But it all happened so fast that I cannot recall how I also got scraped on the back of the neck.

The red eyes won that round, and it turns out to be about the last time that I try to race the eyes or the axe.

Sky Toys and the Global Positioning System

Lumberton, North Carolina. 1986.

Today is a field trip for my third grade class to the Robeson County Planetarium.

The planetarium is one of the most fascinating buildings that I have ever been inside in my young life. As we sit in our theater styled chairs, the lights go out and the domed ceiling becomes the night sky. A narrator tells stories behind the history of the constellations. The Egyptian Pyramids, Greek and Roman gods appear overhead as we hear what the ancients thought about the heavens. I crane my neck, looking all around the ceiling and trying to take in everything that is going on. But it is too much.



When the program ends, the lights come back up and the man who runs the planetarium gives us a talk about Halley’s comet. It only comes by Earth once every 75 years, and this is the year. I really would like to see the comet. The lights dim slightly and he explains to us how to find it in the night sky, using a flashlight and pointing to certain grouping of stars that appear on the ceiling. He has lost me, though, and I feel the frustration welling in the back of my throat.

“So now, this may very well be a once in a lifetime chance for you to see the comet,” the man says. “Does everyone understand how to find it in the sky?”

All of my classmates shout, “Yeeeessss!”

I alone say, “Noooooo!”

“Does everyone promise me that they will go out on the first night it is clear and take a look at Halley’s comet?” the man asks.

“Yeeeesss!” the class responds.

“Nooooo!” I say at the same time.

The man either does not hear me or chooses to ignore my response.

In looking up at the night sky, I never do see what I know to be Halley’s comet. I later learn that 1986 was the worst viewing of the comet in thousands of years for people in the northern hemisphere, due to its positioning with the sun. It is difficult to spot with the naked eye in 1986. The next time it comes around, if I am still alive, will be in the year 2061, when I am 84 years old.

Western Carolina University. Spring Semester, 1996.

My favorite college course that I ever take at Western Carolina University is Astronomy 101. I enroll for honors credit, and I also take the night lab, which means it is a four credit course.

As part of the honors extra assignment, I have to write a research paper. The professor lets me compose a short story on an asteroid striking the earth. After I submit it, he tells me it is a “good read” and gives me an “A” for the course.

During the night lab, we set up enormous and expensive telescopes, and I see some pretty amazing stuff- the moon up close, Venus, the Orion star nebula, and the remnants of a supernova to name a few things. I also learn some constellations. As part of our assignments, we have to track the setting sun on the horizon each week throughout the semester. I go to a hill just above Graham Infirmary and watch some beautiful sunsets against the Great Smoky Mountains. My drawings of those mountains and where the sun disappears behind them each week is not the greatest work of art, however.

Unlike the fascination but then frustration that I felt at the planetarium, the class ignites a curiosity in me about the stars and the universe. If I could major in astronomy , I would. There is no such degree, however. What is more, after the basic 101 course, astronomy becomes the study of physics. The astronomy professor has a Ph.D. in physics, and his graduate student assistant, Ben, is a nice guy pursuing a degree in physics. I do not have the mind to comprehend the mathematical concepts of that subject.

Still, I always think back with fondness on that time in my life, the professor, the assistant, and a girl whom I knew in the class, Amy.

“Stop referring to what you are talking about as those three stars that form a triangle!” Ben tells Amy during the night lab. “Any three stars form a triangle!”

Amy and I laugh.

Wilmington, North Carolina. 2004.

I have just rented a place at Carolina Beach, one row back from the ocean. On the balcony outside, I can see many stars out over the water as I listen to the sound of the waves… I think I want to buy a telescope to get a better look at the celestial objects just outside my door.

After a trip to a hobby store and a $350 payment, I am the proud owner of an Orion refractor telescope with a German equatorial mount.

The scope is strong enough for me to see the color bands of Jupiter, along with four of that planet’s moons. I can also clearly see the rings of Saturn. The Orion nebula is a beautiful sight in my scope as well.



***

“Aaaahhhh!”

I hear the woman’s shriek and look up from my eyepiece. One of my neighbors in the beachfront condominium across the street sees me as she climbs the exterior stairs.

It takes me a moment to realize that she is shrieking at me. I am on the balcony in the complete darkness, and evidently, she believes that I am spying on her with my telescope.

I have been able to observe some ships out on the horizon with my instrument, but even if I wanted to be a “Peeping Tom,” her place is way too close for the telescope to be useful. From hers and other’s reactions, I learn that people are often leery of a single fellow, living alone, when they see that I own a telescope.

August 2005.

Some things have happened with my job that are beyond my control, and I have to move away from the beach. Unknown to me, I will not live in a place conducive to setting up a telescope for another eight years. I disassemble it, along with the equatorial mount, and pack it away at my parents’ house.

Tallahassee, Florida. November 2010.

I am winded and sweaty from having just run a 5k about as hard as I can go. One of my friends ran the race with me. She has recently become interested in the sport and trains for marathons. She crossed the finish line well ahead of me.

3.1 miles is not enough exercise for her, though, and she asks if I am interested in running longer.

“Sure,” I respond. She is cute and smarter than me, and I enjoy her company.

We proceed to run another five miles after the race is over and everyone has cleared out. Eight miles is the most that I have run since high school when I was on the cross country team, and I am pleased that I keep up with her pretty well.
During the run, she seems to know precisely how far we have gone and where to stop for the total of eight miles.

I ask her about that.

On her wrist, no larger than a watch, is a Global Positioning System device. Designed specifically for runners, I suppose, it lets her know exactly where she is on the planet and keeps track of the mileage she covers.



It is a rather amazing device. I have seen the Christmas television commercials for the “Garmin,” a GPS system for cars, and GPS navigators were built into some of the vehicles at the dealerships where I worked, but this is the first one I have come across for individuals to wear on their wrists.

She looks at me a little strangely. Perhaps the wristwatch GPS has been around for a while and I am behind the times.

Miami, Florida. June 2012.

I just bought a Garmin GPS to help me locate some apartment complexes in Miami, where I will move later this month to start a new job. My cell phone rings, and I see it is the lady I am replacing here in Miami calling me. I need to talk with her and set up place to meet. Sitting at a stop sign at a busy intersection is not where I should take her call, though. I glance behind me. There are no cars, so I will simply back off the road onto the grass. I answer the phone.

“Hey April, can you hold on a minute? I’m going to back off the road so we can talk.”

As I move the car in reverse, I hear an awful crunching sound. My Garmin guided me to this street, but it could not warn me about a low concrete pole protecting a fire hydrant.

Sure enough, I get out of my car to find the rear tail light is busted and the bumper is crushed inward. The pole was below my line of sight, which irritates me. I had no chance. It was just bad luck that I got the call right at that moment.

As much as I do not want to acknowledge it, this incident feels like an omen of what is to come in Miami.

The GPS will prove very valuable too me in navigating this city, though printed maps give me a better feel for exactly where I am and where other things are in relation to me.

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The anxiety and stresses of my experience in Miami are behind me, now.

I rent a house with a fairly large backyard here in Suwannee County. For the first time in eight years, I can use my telescope again. Mom and Dad bring it from North Carolina, and to my pleasant surprise, no parts are missing when I assemble it.

The Orion nebula, along with the colorful bands of Jupiter, are back for me to view. I use a red lens flashlight to study my star charts in the backyard.

***

Browsing the internet, looking for some possible new eyepieces for the scope, I stumble across something called “The Celestron Personal Planetarium Sky Scout.” After watching a video on how the device works, I am sold. I order it immediately.

When it arrives a few days later, it is even better than what I hoped for. The Sky Scout uses a GPS system to identify my location on the globe. Once that is locked, I can point it at any object in the sky and it will tell me what I am looking at, often through audio narration. What is more, I can punch in the object that I want to observe, and arrows will light up on the device to guide me to where the object is in the sky.



It has made my backyard astronomy experience much more enjoyable. Often I do not use the telescope at all, as the Sky Scout can educate me about plenty of things in the night sky visible to the naked eye.

“Have the knowledge of a professional astronomer in the palm of your hand,” is one of the advertising slogans. It is true. The device brings back memories of some of the things that I learned in Astronomy 101.

I am a bit of a Luddite. I admit that. But I also have to acknowledge that GPS systems can be pretty cool. The Sky Scout in particular has given me access to a lot of information that I never would have been able to figure out on my own.

A Day at the Post Office, Part 4

Alexandria, Virginia. October 2006

5:30 pm

One good thing about route 52 is that I have carried it before.

I remember this set of four doors in a cul-de-sac, all of them red, each to a very nice townhome.

These four addresses receive lots of mail on a daily basis, but one home in particular gets lots of clothing catalogues and magazines. The mail slot is very small.



As the sun begins to set, I slide and shove the catalogues, one by one, through the slot.

Suddenly the door opens, and there stands a young woman, probably slightly older than me, with dirty blonde hair pulled back from a pretty white face. She is barefoot, wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt.

“I thought I would save you the trouble of putting all that through the slot,” she says.

“Oh, thanks,” I say.

The woman has a remarkable figure, and it is obvious that she is wearing no bra. Similar to the European lady whom I encountered earlier, she has just seared herself permanently into my brain.

I can feel my face begin to heat up, to turn red. I hand her the stack of mail, which she holds against her stomach. She sees my embarrassment and cocks her head to the side with a quizzical expression. Then she understands, and a cute little smile forms on her face.

I think I am in love.

“Is that everything?” she asks.

“Yes ma’am. I believe so.”

“Thank you,” she says.

As she moves to close the door, she deliberately arches her back and sticks out her chest, smiling at the power that she knows she has over me.

The door shuts, and I hang my head for a moment. “Why do women do that?” I think to myself. I feel a pain in my stomach, a loneliness that pierces through the physical discomfort of the job.

As I walk back to the LLV, I find myself muttering, “I really wish you would not do that. You are very beautiful and I would be very good to you, but please don’t tease me unless you are serious. If you are not serious, then I wish you would just leave me alone.”

She has made quite the impression on me. For the rest of my time with the Post Office, I will ask each morning for the opportunity to carry route 52, and I will get to carry it multiple more times. I always look for her and even knock on her door when I have a stack of magazines for the address. But she never answers, and I do not see her again.

***

When I lived in Las Vegas and applied to take the Postal exams, first in California, and then in DC as those openings popped up on the internet, I envisioned the job of mail carrier to be a rather leisurely one, with pleasant walks outside. I would get off work at a reasonable hour and have time to write. It did not occur to me that I would have to wear a head lamp on a daily basis.

The sun has gone down, now. Before I gather the mail from the back of the LLV for the next block of homes, I turn on the light of the head lamp and put the band around my head. Both the metal parts and the elastic are a bit grimy from the previous days’ sweat. It is not long before I feel the batteries begin to heat up in the center of my forehead. At least I can see the addresses on the mail, though.



10:00 pm

My cell phone rings. It is Gary, the evening shift supervisor. Raj has long since gone home.

“Marshburn, where are you at?”

“I’ve got some cluster boxes left on the final leg of route 52,” I answer.

“Do you think you’ll be back to the station in the next half hour?” he asks.

“In the next half hour? No, sir. This last bunch will take me at least an hour to deliver. It’s a lot of townhomes.”

“All right,” Gary says. “I’m sending Melvin out to you. Where exactly are you at now?”

I give him the location. Unlike Raj, Gary is a former mail carrier. I get the sense that he would rather return to mail carrying. The stress of being a mid-level supervisor, of being chewed on from both ends, is not making him happy. He was once one of the guys, but now he has to deal with the carrier union as if he is an adversary.

Melvin is one of my favorite people at the station. He and I were hired at the same time. Melvin has a cool and friendly personality, and is much better adjusted to this job than I am, I think. He is an African-American with a short, stocky build. Individuals with these types of physiques- thick legs and thick arms- seem to be among the best mail carriers, male or female and regardless of race.

The last part of route 52 is a maze of expensive townhouses. The mail for these homes is delivered to a set of cluster boxes that set at various locations. It is part of the sorting game to figure out which mail tray goes with each box, and then to find where that box is hiding.

I use my master key to unlock the box I am at now, and with the aid of my head lamp, I distribute a tray and packages.

These townhomes are interesting. They are very nice. One of the residents told me that that each sells for at least $600,000. But only railroad tracks divide them from the projects. It is strange to me that someone would pay that much money just to live a few feet away from project housing and, ostensibly, a high crime rate. Also, Reagan International Airport is very close by, and the sound from planes taking off and landing is substantial.

Melvin pulls up in his Post Office mini-van.

I give him half of my remaining mail. What takes some time, though, is that I then have to go and unlock each of the remaining cluster boxes on the route, as I have the only key. After driving around all the roads to accomplish this, I return to the spot where Melvin first pulled up. After we are done, I will have to drive around again and lock all the boxes that Melvin worked.

At one point, he and I are working at boxes within a few feet of each other. A train barrels down the tracks, blowing its horn incessantly. The noise is incredible, rattling windows and my ear drums. It takes a few minutes for the train to get by.

After the commotion has passed, Melvin and I exchange looks.

“Man, that train was off the chain!” Melvin exclaims.

“Can you believe people pay $600,000 to live like this?” I ask.

Melvin shakes his head, the light on his own head lamp flashing back and forth.

11:00 pm

Melvin and I pull back into the station and back our vehicles into the appropriate spots. I take the load of outgoing mail inside.

“Thanks for the help, Melvin,” I say.

“No problem, man,” he answers. “I know you would do the same for me.”

“Yes, I would. But you never seem to need it.”

Inside the station, Gary is waiting for me. The place is very quiet again under the bright fluorescent lights. No one else is here except for a few of the night shift mail clerks at work, putting unsorted mail tubs at the various routes. Finally, my day is done and I can go home.

“Marshburn, you missed carrying out a guy’s mail today,” Gary says.

My heart sinks. “What?”

“He’s had his mail on hold for a couple of weeks, and today it was supposed to go out. He called here this evening, asking about it.”

I see that Gary has a tub with the mail setting beside him.

“I’m sorry. I did not know. Can’t it go out tomorrow?” I ask.

Gary shakes his head. “Post Office says it has to go today.”

I sigh, resigning myself to the fact that I have to go out on the street again.

Gary sees the expression on my face. He thinks for a moment.

“Go on home, Marshburn. I’ll take it out.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“Yeah. Go on home.”

Exhaustion and hunger keep me from arguing with him.

11:30 pm

I do not want to eat fast food again for my late dinner. Those are the only restaurants open at this time of night.

Beside my apartment complex is a buffet restaurant. Though not a chain, it is very similar to Golden Corral or Ryan’s. If it is still open when I get off work, I have learned to go in and load up. I get the Styrofoam “To-Go” trays, four or five of them, and pile each one with as much food as it can hold. The restaurant charges me by the pound.

I key into my apartment and head straight for the refrigerator. Without taking off any part of my uniform, I grab one of the to-go trays from inside. I do not bother to warm it up. The grease has congealed to white globs on the roast beef, but I do not care. I sit down in my recliner and eat and eat. Meat, potatoes, vegetables.

Eventually, there is enough of a bottom on my stomach that I can stand up, take off my uniform and step into the shower to wash off the dirt from the day.

After the shower, I go back to the refrigerator eat some more from the trays, this time warming it up in my microwave first. It is well after midnight when I collapse on my bed.

Like a ceiling fan on high speed that has just been turned off, I keep spinning in my sleep, gradually winding down. I dream of sorting mail for most of the night.

6:30 am

My radio alarm clock goes off.

I awake to annoying DJ chatter and a strange, metallic taste in my mouth. I shake off the dreams of sorting mail to realize that I have another day of the real thing ahead of me.

7:30 am

I clock in and begin walking down the long, concrete floor.

Dillon, the other morning supervisor, is coming toward me.

“Marshburn, I have you putting up and carrying route 63 today. You will also need to carry part of route 12.”

“Is route 52 available?” I ask.

Dillon gives me a steady look. “No, I’ve got 52 covered.”

As I take my position at the sorting bins for route 63, I hear Rodney on route 15 sing out:

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life! So let’s make this the best day of the rest of your life! Yesterday was the future, tomorrow is the past, so let’s get to it!”

In addition to Rodney’s chant, I am thinking of some lines by Stephen King from his work, Storm of the Century. In it, a mysterious character, Andre Linoge, speaks to one of the residents of a small island town in Maine. Linoge is later revealed to most likely be the Biblical demon, “Legion.”

“That is what Hell is all about- repetition.” Linoge tells him. “I think in our hearts, most of us know that… Remember what I said, Robbie. Hell is repetition.”

As I sort the mail on route 63, I think about the woman I saw yesterday on Route 52. I have fantasies about seeing her again, asking her out and even marrying her. The pain of this existence is overbearing, though, and I am glad that I do not have a family.

No, even with her, I do not think that I want to bring children into this world.

A Day at the Post Office, Part 3

Alexandria, Virginia. October 2006

2:45pm

Raj wanted me to call in around 2:30 to let him know where I was on route 71.

I have my cell phone in the LLV with me, and I dial the station.

“Alexandria Memorial Annex,” Raj says. I recognize his Indian or Pakistani accent.

“Raj, it’s Nathan Marshburn. I’m calling in to update you.”

“Where are you?” Raj asks. “I’ve got half of route 52 sitting on the floor waiting.”

“Sir, looking at what is left in my truck, I have to say that I am about one third of the way done with the route.”

“One third to go or one third done?”

“One third done. About two thirds of the mail for the route is still in my truck.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Marshburn. Everyone on the overtime list is still out on the street. Ken, Francois and Kevin will probably come back first, but I have other mail routes they need to carry. I need to you to go faster, Mr. Marshburn. I have no help to send you.”

Though I have never served in the military or been in combat, the feeling in my stomach is probably a hint of what a soldier must experience when he is deep in the bush with the enemy and needs a load of napalm dropped on the tree line. He radios in his position, only to be told no fast movers are available.

The thing is, I have to ask for the "air strike" on a daily basis. It has gotten old to my supervisors, my coworkers, and me. I have become numb to what the floor manager tells me as far as assistance. I respond like I am on the radio in combat. “Roger that.”

“You are on your own, sir,” Raj says.

I punch the end call button on my phone. As usual, there are miles to go before I sleep.

Also, I have yet to eat anything today.

Rarely in my life have I been able to force myself to get up early enough to grab breakfast, and it has never happened on this job. I am not a morning person. I will almost always trade food for sleep, and I sleep as long as I can in the mornings before having to report to work.

At the Post Office, we are allotted one half hour for lunch, which is ridiculous. The only thing that I can eat in a half hour is greasy fast food, and getting in and out of even those restaurants is a challenge in the crowded DC area. There are rarely restaurants along my mail route. I have to break off, fight the traffic and the clock to get to a McDonalds or Subway. It is also very much in my head that the time I spend eating is more time I will have to spend on the street later, after night has fallen.

I need an energy boost, though, so I take my LLV off the designated route and drive to the nearest fast food restaurant that I know of- Burger King. There, I wolf down some cheeseburgers and a fruit punch drink before getting back on the street. My lunch is not nearly enough calories, and neither is it healthy calories. I am on a miniature “Supersize Me” diet.

4:30 pm

The next addresses are businesses that get tubs of mail. It looks like I will need to use the hand truck and wheel in the plastic tubs. I open the back of the LLV and pull out the red painted heavy duty hand truck. It has two wheels that are inflatable and actually have treads on them, just like small tires.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to walk the block with my hand truck. I carry out about as much mail as I carry in. It is also my job to collect the outgoing mail and drive it back to the station at the end of the day.

As I load up the hand truck and slide down the back door, I see a woman standing on the sidewalk, glaring at me.

She is in her 40s, and I cannot be sure if her brownish red hair is dyed or natural. Rather thick glasses set on the end of her nose, giving her a bit of the schoolmarm look. Her most noticeable features, however, are her white, bare knees. She has on these brown, high heeled shoes with brownish-grey stockings that come up to her knee caps before folding over slightly. Her skirt is a little short, allowing me to see the knees. It is not a look that I am used to for a woman.

“Excuse, me?” she asks. “Do you know what time it is?”

“It’s about 4:45, ma’am,” I answer.

“Yes. It is almost five o’clock, and we are just now getting our mail. There is no time to go through and read it before the end of the business day.”

“Yes ma’am?”

“This is a law firm,” she says. “We receive many important documents, and we have deadlines to file things. It is important that we get our mail early enough to respond. This late in the day is not acceptable.”

“You have the option to send and receive things via Express Mail, ma’am. That guarantees delivery by noon the next day in most cases.”

“The regular mail used to come in the morning,” she says. “Now it is getting here later and later in the day.”

After a few months, I now have a much better understanding of the term, “Going Postal.” At my current rate of delivery, I am going to be on the street until close to midnight. There is no time to deal with this woman.

I move to the driver’s side of my truck. “Well, I’m sorry, ma’am. I can give you the phone number to my supervisor if you would like to talk to him about it.”

“Yeah, and I could spit in the wind, too!” she yells at me.

I watch her for a moment as she turns her back and walks away.

5:00pm

It is the beginning of rush hour, though traffic is always pretty heavy here. There is a group of small shops and then some larger businesses that I need to get the mail to, and parking is tight on these particular streets. I see an opening next to the curb and squeeze in. As I get out of the truck, there is an Asian lady in the car in front of me with her window down and waving.

“You’re going to have to back up,” she says. “I can’t get out.”

I look at the distance between the front of my LLV and her back bumper. It is a good three feet.

“Lady, you’ve got room to get out. I’ve got a lot of mail to deliver. I’m sorry.”

Paying her no more attention other than to note her look of confusion at my response, I walk to the back of my truck and figure out the next load. First will be a four story building with deliveries on each floor. I break out the hand truck again.

Once inside the building, I take the elevator to the top floor. One of the stops is to another law firm.

I leave the hand truck setting at the front door and pick up a couple of their tubs of mail with my hands.

Inside, it appears that some sort of celebration is going on. Young men and women, about my age, have popped a bottle of champagne. There is a nice cake with white icing as well.

The women are fit and attractive, like the girls I saw in college. It bothers me that they do not even look at me, though, as I pass by in my Post Office uniform, carrying their load of heavy mail. The guys, in their white collars and neck ties ignore me, too.

I could just set the mail down and walk out. But the feeling of resentment and also a desire to be a part of their group causes me to enter the room with the cake and champagne.

“Excuse me,” I say, “where would you like this?”

The women do not even bother to look up. One of the guys, who appears to be my age, glances at me. “Just set it down outside,” he says, and turns away.

You are not smarter than me, I think as I set the mail down outside their door. I could do what you do. I deserve to be a part of your group.

5:20pm

I return to my LLV with the hand truck. To my satisfaction, I see that the Asian lady and her car are gone. Apparently, she did have enough room to get out.

Parked in her place, though, is another Post Office LLV. Kenny, one of the regular route guys whose name is on the overtime list is waiting for me.

“Hey, man!” I say.

“I’ve got the second half of route 52 for you,” he says. “They wanted to send it out so you didn’t have to make the trip back to the station.”

“Okay, thanks,” I respond. It is not the first time that they have worked it this way.

Kenny helps me move the mail from his truck to mine, and so I do not bother to ask if he is going to help me deliver it.

He leaves without saying much else to me.

So now, I have half of route 52 in my truck, and a substantial remaining portion of route 71.

Raj’s accented “You are on your own, sir!” echoes in my head as I take a moment to watch the sun beginning to set behind the buildings of Old Town Alexandria.

Night comes much sooner this time of year.

To be continued…

A Day at the Post Office, Part 2

Alexandria, Virginia. October 2006.

I ring the doorbell. This house has an item of registered mail that requires signature for delivery.

No one answers.

Typically, I would keep moving. Registered mail is different, though. If I lose a piece of registered mail, I could lose my job. People ship high value items via registered mail. Everyone who touches it has to sign first, like a chain of custody log for the confiscated cocaine in a drug dealer’s trial.

I do not want to carry a piece of registered mail with me back to the station. I want to get rid of it now, so I ring the doorbell again.

Finally, the door opens, and I am startled.

There stands a beautiful, red headed woman, completely naked except for a tiny white towel wrapped around her.

She sees my facial expression and gives me a small, knowing smile.

“Uh… I have some mail that you have to sign for ma’am,” I say.

“Oh, thank you,” she says. “I have to apologize. I was in the bath when you rang.”

She speaks with a foreign accent- European, but I am not sure from what country.

I hold out the paper and pen for her to sign. She takes the pen and leans over, giving me an up close view of almost the entirety of her two breasts. It is an image that is immediately seared into my brain for the rest of my life.

She is watching my reaction. “I apologize for me,” she says.

There is a sexual ease to her, the way she moves and speaks. Her skin looks soft and smooth, and she seems to be quite comfortable with her naked body.

I cannot manage to say anything, and she takes pleasure in that. In another instant, the door has closed and I am left to return to the toil of the day.

Some of the other carriers at the Post Office make jokes about the women they are stopping in to see along their routes. I think that is all they are- jokes. For me, it is simply a fantasy. Even if I was invited by a woman, there is no time for that. I could never finish the mail route. I have to call the office for help on a daily basis as it is.

Many of the small letter envelopes are pre-sorted by machine. In the mornings, I pick up the plastic trays for these letters on my way out to load the truck. Again, it would be helpful to put rubber bands around the letters for each house, so that it is easier to sort when I am out on the street. This is not the way the Post Office wants it done, though. I am instructed not to touch the individual letters in these machine sorted trays until I have started my route.

There is a precise method to delivering the mail on the street that the Post Office wants me to use. Almost all of the routes in Old Town are walking routes. I park the LLV (long life vehicle) at the corner of designated block, or at least as close as I can get to that corner. I open the back of the LLV, and hopefully I have loaded the mail correctly so that the trays and parcels that I need first are right there in order. Parcels and packages go in the satchel that I wear on my shoulder. Next, I look at the trays of mail that I personally sorted this morning. These are primarily flats, or large envelopes and magazines. I balance the flats on the underside of my left forearm, also using my stomach as necessary to keep them from falling. Now, I look into the tray of machine sorted letters and find where the break is for the next block (Often, I make a mistake in this regard and either grab too many or too few of the letters). These are to be held in the left hand. I close the door and lock up the truck.

I begin walking the block. The idea is that as I make deliveries on the block, it will all be in order and will guide me around the block, back to the LLV when I have distributed all the mail in my hand, on my arm, and in my satchel. As I walk toward a house, I should be fingering through the letters in my left hand for those that go to that house. I pull them and place them on my forearm on top of the corresponding flats. Then I finger the flats for that house and fold them over the letters. Hopefully, I have done this by the time I reach the house. I put the mail through the slot and move toward the next address, repeating the sorting process for that house.

Maybe it is just me, but there are a number of things that slow me down, even if I do park in the right spot and grab the right amount of mail, in order.

People in Old Town receive lots of mail. Many houses get stacks of magazines on a daily basis. The mail for a given block is often too much for me to carry in one load. I have to pass out everything I can carry, and then come back to the LLV for two and three loads, when the Post Office has calculated the time needed to carry this block is for one trip. The packages and parcels are very often too many, too large, and too awkwardly shaped to all fit in my satchel.

Old Town Alexandria is one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the whole country. I deliver mail to Senator John McCain, Governor Mark Warner, and General Colin Powell. At the same time, I also deliver mail to housing projects, usually very close and within plain window view of the nice homes. One postal worker has told me that a certain housing project here has more diagnosed cases of AIDS per household than anywhere in the United States- though I do not know his source of information.

The disparity in the amount of mail between rich and poor amazes me, too. There are addresses in the projects that never get mail, it seems. Sometimes old men or women are standing or sitting outside waiting for me.

“You got my check today?” they ask.

Sometimes I do have it, sometimes I do not. They are not happy when I do not have it and they think there has to be some mistake.

The Post Office has taken into account this disparity in mail volume, though. Routes that have housing projects on them are considerably longer (more addresses) than those on the affluent streets. I generally prefer carrying mail in the projects if given the choice. I would rather walk longer with less mail in my arms. Also, the people in the projects look at me and talk to me as if they respect my occupation. This is not true in the rich neighborhoods. I am becoming very class conscious in this job. Also, if I tell the truth, many of the women in the projects are just as physically beautiful to me as the women I see getting into Mercedes and living in the fancy townhouses of Alexandria. These women in the projects often give me warm smiles. The other ladies give me smug smiles if they look at me at all.

The mail slots in the townhouses are very old and very small, for the most part. They were not built for sliding large amounts of magazines through them. I fold the magazines over and do the best I can, but often I have to stand at a door for a while, putting magazines through the tiny slots one at a time, tearing the covers against the sharp metal corners. Again, the Post Office has calculated that I should be able to put all mail through the slot in one motion and keep moving…

Dogs. All the stereotypes that you have heard about dogs and mailmen are true. It is a puzzling thing.

A dog is frequently waiting behind the door for me, like they can sense when I am there. The vicious snarling is really something to hear. Sometimes I will just stand at a door, listening to the dog on the other side foam at the mouth, literally ramming parts of its body against the door. When I stick the mail through the slot, I have to be careful not to put any part of a finger through as well. That is what the dog wants. The mail gets torn to shreds as they snatch it from my hands with their teeth through the door slot.

I like dogs, and dogs almost always like me. Something happens when I am wearing the Post Office uniform, though. I become the enemy. They look at me dead in the eyes through windows of a house, snarling and trying to bite through the glass. There is no question that they would attack me if given the chance.

I walk down the street in one neighborhood. A big, black Labrador retriever is being held on a leash by a young woman. Labs have some of the best temperaments of any breed in the world. I have never met one that was not friendly.

Despite the time crunch of the day, I want to greet the dog. It is a stress reliever.

“Is it okay if I pet your dog?” I ask the lady.

“Sure,” she says. “He does not bite. He’s very friendly.”

I reach down and let the dog smell my hand. He stands quietly while I pet him on this throat and chest. I give his ears a squeeze.

After a few moments, I stand back up.

“Thank you,” I say to her, and am about to continue walking. The look in the dog’s eye changes. Suddenly he snarls and lunges straight at my crotch. The woman pulls back on the leash just as his jaws snap an inch from my zipper.

“Whoa! What the hell is wrong with him?” I yell.

The woman is shocked herself, but she says, “There’s nothing wrong with him.”

She looks at me as if I was the one who did something wrong as she holds tight against the leash.

Maybe it is the smell of the mail and how it gets on the uniform. Maybe it is because mailmen are always moving so quickly from door to door and into the dogs’ territory that annoys the animals. At any rate, I learn not to mess with them when I am in a Post Office uniform.

To be continued…

A Day at the Post Office, Part 1

Alexandria, Virginia. October, 2006.

(Names have been changed)

7:30 am

I clock in and begin walking down the concrete floor, looking for a supervisor to give me my assignment for the day.

I pass by Rodney’s station on route 15. He is already there, sorting the crates of mail and putting it up in trays.

An athletic looking African-American, Rodney is an avid Washington Redskins fan. He flashes a smile as I pass and sings out his familiar song, loud enough for the entire station to hear:

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life! So let’s make this the best day of the rest of your life! Yesterday was the past, tomorrow is the future, so let’s get to it!”

Every single morning he does this. Half the time, he gets the words mixed up. He will sing out: “Today is the first day of the rest of your life! So let’s make this the best day of the rest of your life! Yesterday is the future, tomorrow was the past, so let’s get to it!”

I am glad he does it, but it is too early in the morning to laugh or smile much.

Raj, one of the floor supervisors, comes from either Pakistan or India. He is a hard worker and is trying to do his best. None of the mail carriers, and I literally mean none, like management. His is a lonely job, constantly clashing with the mail carrier union. Still, there is no heavy lifting to what he does. He does not have to go out on the street. Raj sees me and walks up.

“Marshburn, I have you on route 71 today. You need to put up that route. I want you to finish that as soon as you can and call back in around 2:00. I will need you to do half of route 52 today as well.”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He walks away. I smile to myself, half of me wanting to laugh, the other half trying to fight off waves of despair. I have never done route 71 before. So far, I have not been able to put up the mail and deliver an entire route before 9 pm. What he just gave me is an impossible work load to get done before midnight.

8:00 am

I stand on a rubber mat on the concrete floor, surrounded on three sides by metal sorting trays that go about a foot over my head. In the opening behind me is a cart with boxes of unsorted mail. The trays are marked with the streets and houses of route 71. When I pick up a piece of mail, I look at the address, and then find the appropriate slot on the metal trays to insert it. There are bigger slots in the trays for businesses.



To get a route all to myself, I have to work here for about three years. As it is now, I come in each day and get an assignment based on which of the regular carriers called in sick or is on vacation. After Halloween and through Christmas, though, no one is allowed to take vacation time.

I hear Raj’s voice behind me. I turn and see that he is talking with another utility mail carrier just like me who is only now arriving at work.

He tells Raj that he was late because there was a car accident. Richard, the carrier who gave me street training here at the station when I first began working, is passing by pushing a cart of mail. He interjects:

“Nascar says go high and push on through the smoke.”

Raj and the other mail carrier give Richard blank and confused looks, respectively. But I get it.

11:00 am

“Hey Professor, you’re still here?”

I recognize the Puerto Rican accent of George or Jorge. I turn and force a smile.

“Yep, still putting up this mail,” I respond.

He moves on without further comment. There is not much to say. We are supposed to be on the street delivering the mail by 10:30 am. I just cannot get it all sorted that fast, though.

George is funny guy. He stands about 6’5” or 6’6”. The managers dislike him for some reason, and it is no secret that they are trying to get him fired. George primarily does express mail runs in the morning. Those are the letters and packages that have to be delivered before 12 noon. George has one of the shortest routes in the station because of this. He comes back after the morning express mail runs, puts up his route and then heads out.

I have worked his route before. There is more mail than others because it is almost entirely businesses, but there are fewer addresses, which makes it go faster. Often when I walk past George’s station, it looks like he is loafing, carrying on and laughing, bouncing back and forth between English and Spanish.

I like George. It is good to hear laughter in this place, which everyone refers to as “The Rock.” Its real name is Alexandria Memorial Annex, and it is one of the busiest mail stations in the entire country. Managers or supervisors get chewed up and spit out here, or so I have been told. They change out about every six months.

***

When I got hired by the Post Office for the Washington, DC region, I made a stupid move. I had the highest score on the postal exam, and they asked me where I wanted to go. Having no idea that there was a big difference in difficulty of assignments, I told them, “It doesn’t matter. Just stick me where you need the most people.”

Before actually reporting to “The Rock” in May, I went through a week of general training with other new hires. Our class instructor asked each of us where we were assigned.

“Arlington,” one guy said.

“Oh, I know Beth Williams out there,” our instructor responded. “She is a great manager. Tell her I said hello.”

“Springfield,” another person said.

“Talk to Bob Shelton out there. He’ll make life easy for you," the instructor said to him.

“Falls Church.”

“Fairfax.”

And so it went. When it was my turn, I said “Alexandria Memorial.”

The instructor paused for a moment and her eyes got a little big.

“Jesus will watch over you along with all of his angels,” she said.

***

“Marshburn, it is past 11 and you are still here. What’s the problem?” Raj asks.

“No excuses, sir,” I say. “I am going as fast as I can.”

Raj watches me for a couple of minutes as I continue to put up the mail. As I work, I am waiting to hear if he can offer any suggestions on how to go faster. None are forthcoming. Eventually, I look over my shoulder and he is gone.

Finally, around 11:30, I finish putting all the mail in the metal trays. Now it is time to take the mail down and stack it in plastic trays to be loaded into the truck, in the order it will be delivered.

Putting rubber bands around all the mail for the different addresses helps when I am out on the street. For whatever reason, though, this is forbidden. I will get in trouble if caught doing it. Perhaps it is the cost of rubber bands. I have heard from other carriers, though, that management just wants us on the street as soon as possible. Putting rubber bands on the mail is more time at the station.

It is about 11:45 when I finish taking down the mail for route 71 and have it loaded up on a push cart. There is a separate push cart for the parcels. I pull both toward the elevators down to the ground level and the trucks. I see that I am the last carrier leaving the station, and there are about 100 routes here. The place is depressingly quiet, and again I fight off the waves of anxiety. I have literally been left behind.

My arms have always been skinny, but I notice that they look even thinner now as I push the carts. Despite eating a buffet every chance that I get, I am down to about 140 lbs.

Correctly loading the LLV (long life vehicle) is an important part of the process, too. Not having worked the route before, I have to trust that the metal trays were oriented correctly to the way the route will work on the street. The parcels go in one part of the truck. I have trays of flats (magazines and large envelopes) and trays of letters that I carefully stack in what I hope is the right order for delivery.



My bar code scanner is hooked to my belt, and I have the master key to the cluster boxes on the route. I climb into the driver’s seat of the LLV, fasten my orange seatbelt, crank the engine and head out to the streets of Old Town Alexandria.

It is just after 12:00pm, when most other mail carriers are taking their half hour lunch break.

To be continued…

$15 Magic

Las Vegas. January 2006.

“Yes, Mr. Marshburn. I am calling you back in regard to your application for health insurance with our company.”

“Yes, sir?” I respond over my cell phone. I am standing in the break room of the car dealership.

“You listed that you presently take Accutane?”

“That is correct.”

“You also listed that you were diagnosed with colitis one year ago?”

“Yes, that is true.”

“Because of these medical issues, I am sorry, but you do not qualify to be insured by our company,” the man on the other end of the line says.

***

Eventually, after being turned down by a few other health insurance companies, I find one that will insure me for certain things, with a $5000 deductible. So, at least I do not have to worry about going bankrupt if I get into a car accident out here in Las Vegas. My job with the car dealership does not offer health insurance benefits.

***

Cullowhee, North Carolina. 2008.

While in graduate school, I write a blog entry encouraging our political leaders to reform health care. I write that the public will thank them for it and even build statues in their honor because of it.

***

Live Oak, Florida. Present Day.

The hunched over lady limps up to the receptionist window of the doctor’s office. I watch as she fumbles around in her pocket book. Her shoes are worn and dirty, her clothes simple. I was here in the waiting room when she was called back to see the doctor. Now, she has come out, and it is time to pay the bill.

“How much is it going to be?” she asks the receptionist.

“$175, Ms. Graham.”

The lady looks down.

The door between the waiting room and the treatment rooms opens. A nurse calls out, “Nathan!”

I stand up. The others, old and sickly for the most part, look at me, a healthy young man wearing a suit and tie.

I walk back, see the doctor, and within 15 minutes am again standing in front of the receptionist counter. She gives me back my Blue Cross/ Blue Shield health insurance card that I have by virtue of being a state employee.

“That will be $15,” she says.

***

Over the past couple of weeks, through conversations on Friday night at the Brown Lantern Bar, through lunch conversations at the Downtown Café or other restaurants in Live Oak, I have learned that I am perhaps the only person in Suwannee County who supports Obama care.

One of the attractive waitresses at the Brown Lantern asked me last week what everyone was arguing with me about. They had all ganged up on me.

“I’m defending Obama care,” I tell her.

A shocked look comes over her face. “Boo!” she says to me.

The restaurant most likely does not give her health insurance. She is married to a cop, though, so she would have benefits through his job.

Across the country, it seems that I have misjudged the way many Americans would react to health care reform. It is still early, though. Obama care has not had time to work, yet.

The most vociferous detractors of health care reform strike me to be people who have had government or company provided health insurance almost their entire lives. A lot of them are military veterans.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I think those that argue with me believe they deserve the benefit of health insurance because of the hard work they have done and the position they have achieved in life. Others in society who have not worked as hard do not deserve the same benefit.

If that is their position, then I come from a simply different moral philosophy. Health care should not be a reward for hard work. Everyone should have it, regardless of what has happened to them or where they are in life. Sure, those who disagree with Obama care have worked hard, but there is an element of luck involved in this, too. Not everyone can have a government job. Not everyone can make a career with a good company that provides benefits. There are winners and losers in life. But the losers should still have something as basic as affordable health care.

Almost everyone who has argued with me on Obama care also claims to be a Christian and attends church, so far as I know. I will admit that, despite the best efforts of my parents to raise me as a Southern Baptist, I do not consider myself a Christian and have not been to a church service since 1998. Still, this opposing stance (to me) does not seem to be in line with what Jesus would do. The disregard for their fellow humans appears to be a contradiction to his teachings.

“We can’t afford it bro!” One guy said to me at the bar. “We can’t afford to take care of everyone in society. If people think it is bad here, they should go to the Dominican Republic and see how people live there. My church did a mission trip there.”

“We have to try,” I answered him. “And if we can’t afford it, then we need to reprioritize our spending. The old health care system was broken. We have to try something different. Also, you shouldn’t hold up the Dominican Republic as a model. America should be the model for the rest of the world.”

Perhaps there is something genetic, or engrained in our DNA about this argument.

One of my friends from law school sends me a weekly write up that he does for his investment firm. He is a nice guy and has always been very successful. He played football for an ACC school and still stays in tremendous shape.

He posted an article on his social media page and called it “Spot Me Some Entitlements, Bro!” The article was a dagger of a piece, basically saying that men with more upper body strength tend to be conservative in their political thinking, while men with less upper body strength tend to be liberal and favoring wealth redistribution. The idea is that strong men do not need the help. Going back to prehistoric times, they can go out and hunt whatever they need. Weaker guys need more help from the community to provide for them and their families.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/health/article-2325414/Men-physically-strong-likely-right-wing-political-views.html

Maybe he has a point, or maybe it is all nonsense. I do not know. I acknowledge that part of what shapes my thinking on this is from selfish personal experience- I have had some health issues, and it startled me when I could not get health insurance. All my savings could be wiped out in an instant through no fault of my own. Also, being successful is not so easy, at least for me. Keeping a job and building wealth has proven to be a continuing challenge.

I also acknowledge that I am no expert on how Obama care will work or how it is supposed to work. The old system was a wreck for many Americans, though, and we can do better. The reaction of many of my friends and colleagues to Obama care has surprised and puzzled me. But I find that the older I am getting, the less certain I am of many things.

Athleticism

Lumberton, North Carolina. 1989 or 1990

The basketball is loose, near the sideline. I sprint for it and get there first.

Oh, man. Here I am, charging on a fast break down the basketball court at Littlefield High School.

Littlefield is a grade 7th through 12th school, but the total student body population is only about 600. I am in 8th grade, playing a game of pickup basketball with my brother and some friends.

I have watched several high school basketball games on this court, and the players are larger than life to me in the green and gold (yellow) uniforms and “Hornets” insignia. One guy on the team, Tim, can jump so high that when he takes a jump shot, it looks like he is shooting down on the goal.

This is also the floor where I sit in the bleachers and watch the pretty Littlefield cheerleaders. I am in love with one of the cheerleaders, a red head named Amy. She has never paid attention to me, though. The cheerleaders do their routines during the timeouts, and then jog back over to the first row of bleachers when the game begins again. After their routines, one cheerleader does a slow split as the others jog off. It is a sight forever etched in my brain, her smiling at the crowd as she slides to the floor with her tan legs. She holds the pose for a moment, and then gets up to join the other girls.

I run past the exact spot on the floor where she performs those incredible splits, going as fast as I can while bouncing a basketball.

The gym also has a stage for plays and school presentations. Coach T sits on the stage in a metal folding chair, watching our pickup game. Coach T is an all-around good coach for any sport. I want to impress him because he is the high school baseball coach, and that is the team I would like to join more than any other.

I do not know if anyone is behind me, catching up to steal the ball, but I don’t dare look. The basket is only a few more feet ahead.

The white bordered square on the glass backboard looms ahead of me. When shooting the ball, I have been taught that you should concentrate on the back of the rim- unless you want to bank the shot in. If you want to bank it off the glass, then make sure the ball hits in the middle of that square, and it will go in.



I cannot dunk a basketball, so this is going to be a lay-up off the glass.

Hit the square, I think to myself. Hit the square.

I am under the goal, now, still running about as hard as I can go. I put the ball up with two hands, like a chest pass, and it hits the center of the glass square perfectly.

Instead of going into the hoop, though, the ball launches backward and lands well behind the three point line. It bounces clear back to half court.

Everyone sort of freezes in stunned silence. Coach T has his arms crossed on his chest, and keeps a stoic expression. My friend, Ron, is the first to burst out in laughter. He puts his hands on his knees and doubles over.

My brother, a very good basketball player, just stares at me. We are both at an awkward age where we do not say much to each other in public, in front of other people. But once we are home, he lets me have it.

Years later, even in the present, he still talks about that play.

“We were all just shocked,” he says. “I couldn’t believe that you were that uncoordinated. I mean, the ball bounced back to half court. Didn’t you know how to make a lay-up?”

“I hit the square!” I answer defensively. “I was always told that if you hit the square, the ball will go in!”

After that disastrous attempt at a lay-up, I work on my technique a little more and learn that if I go up with one hand and pull the ball back from the backboard just before I release, then it takes away the momentum of my sprint and softens the bounce against the square. The ball should go in.

Luckily, no girls were around to watch that spectacle of athleticism.

The Ferris Wheel

Kissimmee, Florida. February 2012.

I can hear the crowd cheering inside the Silver Spurs Arena. The rodeo has already started. I have never been to a rodeo in person, and I was looking forward to this. I debate whether or not to buy a ticket and see what is left.

"Excuse me, ma'am?" I say to a lady on the other side of the glass window at the ticket booth.

"Yes, sir?"

"Do you know if they've had the bull riding, yet?"

"Yeah, that's one of the first things they did. It's over, now."

That decides me. The bulls were the main thing I wanted to see.

"Okay. Thank you."

"I'm sorry," she says.

I smile at her and walk away from the arena. About fifty yards to the south is the entrance to the Osceola County Fair. Florida seems to hold their county fairs in the winter, which is definitely a change from where I grew up in North Carolina. I have always associated the fair with early autumn or even Halloween.

Night has fallen here in Kissimmee, and I stand in line for my ticket with talkative teenagers and guys wearing cowboy hats with girls hugging their arms.

"How many?" the man in the booth asks me when it is my turn at the window.

"Just me," I say.

"Just you?" he echoes.

"Yep."

"That'll be five dollars."

Once inside the grounds, I walk around for a bit, to take a look at all the attractions.

The predominant feature is the Ferris wheel. I have never ridden on one of these, either, and I think back to a story that my dad told me from his childhood.

He was at a fair, probably the Pender County Fair in North Carolina in the late 1950s or the early 1960s. He rode a Ferris wheel for the first time, along with his brother and a friend. Dad said that he was amazed by all that he could see, as he had never been so high in the air before. He had a royal time, too, as the Ferris wheel operator apparently forgot they were on board. They rode for about half an hour.

I think I want to go up in the Ferris wheel. In the darkness, I know that I will only be able to see lights down below, but I am still curious.

There is quite a long line of people, and I am hungry. So I buy a hot dog and a bottle of water to eat and drink while I wait.

After about ten minutes, I am close enough to the base of the wheel to see a sign that gives me pause. It reads in all caps: "NO SINGLE RIDERS." I have waited this long, though, and I do not know when the opportunity to ride a Ferris wheel might present itself again. So I stay in line.

Four men stand at the base, loading the passengers into the gondolas. As I watch them, I see that they are carefully picking and choosing who goes into each one. The gondolas swing back and forth on the rim of the wheel, and I suppose balancing each of the gondolas is an important thing.

Finally, it is my turn to get into one.

"Who else you got with you?"

"It's just me," I say.

"Aaah," the man exhales, scratching his forehead. "I can't put you in one by yourself."

"It screws up the balance?" I ask.

"You got it." He thinks for a moment. "Here, you can get in this one."

I sit for a minute by myself while people climb into a couple of other gondolas. Then one of the men directs a family of three to get into the gondola with me.

The family stands frozen for a moment. It is a young couple, younger than me, probably, with a small boy. The woman is pretty obese, and the guy is big, too, but in a brawny style. He is 6'2" or 6'3".

"Can we have a car by ourselves?" the woman asks.

"Sorry," the man answers. "I've got to put you in with him."

The husband tries to usher his wife in.

"I don't want to ride with him!" she says loudly.

This obviously embarrasses the husband, who strikes me as a good ole' country boy. When she sees his embarrassment, I suppose it occurs to her as well how she must sound, so the entire family climbs in with me.

I look at them and shrug sheepishly. "Sorry."

They say nothing, the husband shyly looking down at the floor of the gondola.

The Ferris wheel starts up. The kid has his head on his mom's shoulder, and he is staring at me. The mom has a small, sour frown on her face and avoids eye contact with me, though she is staring at her husband and seems to be wanting some reaction.

I turn and look out over the countryside. Though I cannot see them in the night, I know that the fair grounds below are surrounded primarily by open fields. In the distance to the north, I see a lot of lights. I wonder if these are the lights of Orlando. To the northwest horizon is another set of lights, some of which are neon red and blue. I wonder if this is part of Disney World- if I can really see that far. It would be nice to know. Instead, the lights remain a mystery.

The ride is over soon. The family and I climb out, quickly replaced by a young couple.

I do not hang around at the fair much longer after my ride on the Ferris wheel. Next time the chance comes up, perhaps it will be in the day- or at least I will know what I am looking at from high in the air. Maybe next time, too, a cute girl will be with me and I will not have to stress out a family of three... Maybe, but I have learned not to hold my breath, and to instead go ahead and take the chances when they arise.

David Copperfield

Las Vegas. Spring 2005.

"There must be some mistake. I think you are at our table."

I look up and see an older, balding man with intense blue eyes peering down at me. To his left is a beautiful woman with reddish brown hair. To his right is a fit looking guy, probably only a few years older than me. The younger man wears small glasses and looks intelligent.

"Really? I don't know," I answer. "I just sat down where the usher told me. "

People are flooding into the theater, which is not that large, and taking up the seats quickly. So this group of three decide to sit down at the table with me.

The theater is filled with cocktail tables covered with white cloths. The tables seat up to four people, though only two people are at most of the tables. The four of us are sort of crowded in together.

"What is your name?" the younger guy asks me.

"My name is Nathan. I'm out here on vacation."

"By yourself?"

I smile. At this point in my life, I am growing more comfortable with being alone, in going to social events alone. I am getting more used to people thinking of that as a little odd. "Yes, I'm by myself. How about you guys?"

"It's a sort of business trip," the older man says, studying me carefully. "This is Dan, my accountant."

I smile and nod to him. I look at the woman and smile at her, too, though I decide not to ask who she is.

Dan seems like a nice guy, but the older fellow is obviously irritated by my presence.

"Is this your first time to Las Vegas?" Dan asks.

"No, I came out for the first time in 2003."

"You know, I was hoping to be able to talk business with my colleagues here," the older man says.

The abruptness of his comment startles me. I do not know how to respond. "Oh, I'm sorry."

I look around. There is one empty table left close by. "I suppose I can ask the usher to move me to that table."

The older man gives me a look like he is trying to keep from yelling at me to do it, to move. At that moment, though, an usher seats two women at the table. It is a full house, now- no empty tables left. A waiter brings each of us a cocktail, which is included in the price of the ticket.

The friendly thing might be for us all to clink glasses and say "Cheers!" But we do not do it. The look on Dan's face is unfortunate. The older man is not happy, now, and this is not good for Dan, I can tell. The woman seems apathetic to it all.

I sip my cocktail. It might be a great cocktail, but I would not know. I have only recently started drinking, and nothing tastes that good to me. No matter what the mix, the flavor and odor of alcohol is overriding.

I try to be affable. "When I saw that David Copperfield was performing in Vegas, I knew this would be a rare chance for me. I grew up in North Carolina. He is the first magician I ever remember seeing on television. He made the Statue of Liberty disappear when I was a kid."

Dan forces a brief smile. The older man does not. The woman is looking away, uninterested.

"Where are you guys from?" I ask.

No one speaks for a moment.

"You don't know who I am?" the older man asks.

This surprises me. The glare and intensity of his eyes are something, but I take a moment to study his face anyway.

"No."

"Really?" he asks. "You have no idea who I am?"

"I'm sorry," I answer. "Should I? What is it that you do?"

"I'm a businessman," he says, looking away as he speaks with what might be described as disgust.

The lights to the theater go down. From his tone and expression, I decide not to ask him further questions.

The show is great. David Copperfield is only a few feet away on stage, and I keep my eyes there the entire time, rather than looking at my three unhappy table companions.

Toward the end of the show, Copperfield says that his parents are in the audience, and a spotlight shines on their table. It is only three away from ours, and actually further back. The parents are both dressed nicely, in evening ballroom style.

When the show ends and the lights come back up, I tell the three sitting at my table, "I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Vegas."

"Thank you, you as well," Dan answers. The older man and the beautiful woman say nothing.

The crowd filters out, but Copperfield's parents stay seated at their table, probably waiting to speak to their son.

As I walk by them, I say, "I enjoyed your son's show." They acknowledge me with a nod.

***

After my return from Vegas to North Carolina, I studied my credit card bill. I noticed that the price of the ticket to the show was not charged. It was an expensive ticket, and I keep waiting for the charge to appear on my monthly bills. It never does.

Only years later does it occur to me that the older man or Dan probably complained to the theater about what happened, and that everyone at the table got to see the show for free.

It is not the first time, and it is not the last time, when I go alone to a social event and find myself, through no control of my own, plugged in with a romantic couple or a group of people who do not want me there. Another instance that comes to mind is the Osceola County Fair in the spring of 2012. I will tell that story next week.

At least I got to see David Copperfield's show for free.

The Cross Country Team

Lumberton, North Carolina. Fall, 1994.

I am lying on my back, looking up at the sunny, clear autumn sky as we perform our stretches in the west end zone of the football field.

The cross country season is in full swing. Our meets are normally on Tuesdays, and so the coach has designated Wednesdays as our long run days. We do not have to push ourselves for time- for a fast run on Wednesdays- but the coach expects us to go eight miles.

As we stretch, Penny, a cute blond on the team, sits close to me along with her friend, Dawn. I try to start a conversation with her as the coach walks around.

"Are you taking a foreign language this year, Penny?" I ask.

"I'm in Spanish II," she answers.

"I'm taking French," I say. " My teacher says that French is a much more developed language than Spanish. English is more developed than either of them."

Penny does not say anything.

"For example, in English, the words 'brain' and 'mind' have two different meanings. But Spanish has no separate word for brain and mind. That language just uses one name, or so my teacher says."

Flat on my back, I can not see Penny's reaction, but she says nothing. The coach comes around and looks down at me with a curious expression.

After our stretches, we head out from the high school into town, on the designated route for our run.

I ran 10 miles not too long ago, and I really do not feel the need to go eight miles today. None of the guys on the team do. All the girls are running together, though, separate from us boys. They are ahead of us but within sight, putting in a good pace, trying to get the run finished in a reasonable time.

David, one of the guys on the team, says he knows a short cut that will slice about two miles off the run.

All the guys agree to go with him, and we make sure the girls do not see us as we take a right off the main road.

Of course, we arrive back at the high school well before the girls. The coach is waiting for us.

I expect him to make some comment about how fast we did the eight miles, but I can tell he does not care. In addition to cross country, he is the head basketball coach at the high school. This is more on his mind and is his passion. The best runner on our team joined in part because he wants a starting slot when basketball season starts.

When the girls do finally get back, we are standing around under a tree, waiting on them. The coach has gone inside the school for a few minutes.

The shock on the girls' faces amuses me. David sees the opportunity to needle them a bit.

"What took you all so long?" he asks.

For whatever reason, this sets Dawn off. She launches into a heated diatribe against us guys and how we cheated. She says we should be ashamed of ourselves.

David is as shocked by Dawn's reaction, and I have to laugh at his facial expression, too.

"I'll do it again!" he says to her.

***

From then own, Dawn is always fussing at David, no matter what he does. Dawn is a pretty girl, and it is entertaining to watch her get so worked up.

The coach notices how she seems irritated by David as well. One day after she has said something harsh to David, the coach speaks.

"You know what you need to do, Dawn? You need to get yourself a young man like that, and cultivate him."

I burst out laughing. The phrase "cultivate him," and the way it sounds in the Robeson County accent of my coach cracks me up.

Dawn turns and glares at me with venomous eyes.

***

About a year later, I saw Penny in a Waldenbooks in Fayetteville. I tried to speak to her, but I could tell now that our shared connection of the cross country team had ended, she no longer had any interest in interacting with me. Or maybe it was just that I could not think of any good lines to say to her in Waldenbooks.

I also saw Dawn some months later, out in town in Lumberton. She was going to walk past me without saying anything, but I spoke to her. She stopped and wheeled, breathing a bit heavy, like out of exasperation.

I had more confidence with Dawn, but all I knew to ask her was what she was doing after high school. She said she was looking into some community college programs.

That was it. That was all that I had in my head to speak. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought she gave me a look like I had missed an opportunity. She turned and walked away, and I never saw her again.

In the years since I ran on the cross country team, my instincts in knowing what to say to women has only marginally improved.

The Gap

My favorite place on the planet is Cullowhee, North Carolina.

That small town is home to Western Carolina University, where I spent five of the most important years of my life. I attended WCU from August 1995 through May of 1998, or three academic years. Then I dropped out of college for a year, before returning in August of 1999 and earning my degree in May of 2000.

In August of 2007, I came back to WCU as a student in the Master of Arts History program. After assessing the job market for people with history degrees, however, I decided to leave after a year and enroll in law school. That appears to have been a wise decision, though I had a blast in Cullowhee.

Western Carolina University and the surrounding towns- Cullowhee, Sylva and Dillsboro have a wonderful, magical place in my mind. My undergraduate years at WCU were the most important in forming who I am as an adult. A decade after that, the lone year in graduate school is still the happiest year I have had in my life so far.

Even now as I type these words, though, I do not want to write about my experiences at Western. The memories are too intense, and I think that frankly I have suppressed most of them just so that I can focus on getting through my days in the present.

I would not do the memories or the magic justice, sitting here at a desk in Florida. If I ever get the chance to spend a significant amount of time in Cullowhee again, then I am sure the old emotions will come flooding back and I will want to record them.

But for now the memories are just too happy, too sad... too "raw" for me to put myself through such an exercise. I said August 2007 through the summer 2008 was the happiest span of my life. I lived life like I wish I had done as an undergraduate. So I do not want to try and revisit that extreme high. It would be too painful to come back down.

In turn, September 1997 through the spring 1998 in Cullowhee was the most painful year of my life. I grew my hair out, got an ear ring and tried to grow a beard. One of my best friends from WCU refers to it as the year that I decided to be a pirate. It was the year before I dropped out. I remember going to a hockey game in Fayetteville over the Christmas break in 1997 with my dad, brother, and my uncle. I overheard my uncle comment to dad about me, "He looks wiped out."

That was the year I lost faith in a god that loved us, and I truly began to understand what loneliness meant. I do not care to revisit my discovery of those dark places, either.

So there is a gap in this blog about my experiences- a very significant gap. The first blog I ever wrote was for the Graduate Student Association at WCU, when I was there in 2007 and 2008. That captures some of what the happiest year was like for me, but only a small portion.

I could spend an eternity exploring that time. The smell of the buildings at Western, the way the trees and plants looked in different seasons of the year, the heat of the summer and the cold of the winter there, the extreme beauty of how young we all were then, how I changed in that place, and so much more. And so much more. But there is no going back, unless a heaven exists. It makes my chest feel like it is going to explode as I type this draft on a Saturday evening.

I have to stop. There will just be a gap. It was a total of five years of my life. Five years now, in the present, will pass by very quickly, I believe, without nearly the significance. Those five years at Western, though, were the most important and most treasured years of my life. It is too hard to write about them.

The Irrelevance of iPhone Shell Shock

Millbrook K-12 School, Raleigh, North Carolina. 1983.

It is my group's turn to do exercises. Today, these exercises will be on the new computers. It hurt my feelings a bit when, a few weeks ago, the teacher did not assign me to the first group, supposedly the smartest students in my first grade class. I have been placed in the group of second smartest students. She did not tell us how she was classifying the groups, of course, but I know. The first group is ahead of mine on the number of exercises completed. My group is ahead of all the others.

I sit down in front of one of the computers, looking at the big blue screen while the other students in my group take their places as well. It is the first time that I have ever seen a computer in person or touched a keyboard. The teacher's aide, a lady with dark red hair and thick glasses, sets up the program for me. It is a series of spelling exercises.

A cartoon, computer graphic image of a bare, pink skinned foot appears. Five dotted lines are below the picture- the spaces to type in letters- and an automated voice says, "Ankle. Spell ankle."

I type in the letters slowly in the five blank spaces, searching for them on the keyboard. A...N...K...L..E. Then I press the "enter" key.

"That is incorrect," the voice says. "Spell ankle."

Confused, I type in the word again. a...n...k...l...e.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

A...n...k...l...e.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

Maybe the computer is wrong, I think. So I try an incorrect spelling.

a...n...k...e...l.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

I raise my hand in frustration.

The teacher's aide comes over, a small and sour frown on her face. I do not think she likes me that much, as I do not like school. It was much better when Mom taught me at home. I did not have to go to kindergarten because she taught me at home, and this is my first year of being in a classroom and being around other students.

"I am trying to spell ankle, but it keeps telling me that I am wrong," I say to her.

"Well, type it in again," she says.

She watches as I press the keys a...n...k...l...e. Then I press enter.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

I look up at the teacher's aide. Now she looks confused, and I feel vindicated.

She leans over and tries to type the word in herself.

"That is incorrect. Spell ankle."

"Go have a seat back at your desk, " she says. "I'll see if I can fix this."

I walk across the classroom back to my desk, and watch as she tries to get past the "ankle" screen to no avail. She calls over the regular teacher, Mrs. Hawkins, and the two of them try to figure out what is going on. Meanwhile, the students on the other computers type away, and I get an anxious feeling that I am being left behind.

The teacher's aide ends up turning off the computer, and I do not get to do any exercises that day...

Thus begins my rocky relationship with technology and computers.



***

Present day.

One of the reliefs of my new job in Live Oak is that I do not have an iPhone.

I work hard here, putting in much more than 40 hours per week. A difference between being a government lawyer and a lawyer at a private firm, though, is that when I leave the government office, the work stays there. My mind is free to think about other things if I choose. That is rarely the case in private practice, where you always have to be ready to take a phone call and make money for the firm.

Last year, I held a job in sales. As part of our company issued gear, I was given an iPad and an iPhone. I used the iPad for one day, but decided that it was not as user-friendly as my lap top computer. I put it back in its box and never turned it on again.

The iPhone was necessary, though, given the nature of the job. Answering emails quickly was vital, and I answered more than I care to count on the iPhone, punching away at the small screen with my thumbs.

Emails came in at all hours of the day and night- from my boss, from students (customers). The pinging sound that the iPhone made when a new email came in slowly but surely began to grind on my nerves. Each time I heard that sound, it was like being hit with anxiety pellets.

In my job here in Live Oak, there is a prosecutor and some members of the court who have their iPhones set with that same sound when they receive an email. I hear their phones go off when I am sitting in their offices or perhaps the hearing room. Each time I hear it, I get a slight nauseating feeling.

World War I veterans would laugh at me for using the term "shell shock" in the title of this blog entry.

Computers have made my life better in many ways. I like the internet, Facebook, and Youtube. Writing this blog would obviously be impossible without computers.

But there are many things about computers and smartphones that make me feel stress and unhappiness, too. I do not like text messaging, tweets, iPads and iPhones.

What I have discovered though, is that no one cares what I do not like about computers and smart phones. I feel like I am the only person on the planet who prefers to stare out a window as opposed to messing with an app on an iPhone. If I do not participate in the newest wave of technology, then I run the risk of quickly becoming irrelevant in my job and even in social circles.

So far, anyway, this job is very satisfying in that I still get to work with printed books and printed files. I hand write my notes on a legal pad. Westlaw and the internet provide important research functions, but I am lucky in that the vast majority of my time consists of face to face contact with people, working with paper and pen, and working within my own creativity with the facts of the case in front of a judge or jury.

It is a refuge from the pellets of anxiety being lobbed at me, a foxhole to protect against the strange and unpleasant electronic sounds of an incoming shell...I mean incoming email.