(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…
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