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…
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