But much to managements’ annoyance, the clerks and carriers were allies, united in the struggle against half-baked politics.
It seemed managements’ policy that no one had the right to be too happy in his or her work. Talking was tolerated—barely. If either a clerk or carrier was thought to be talking too much, or if either one stopped pitching mail for even a second, there always came the reverberent, “Face the case!”
As a probationary Sub I was particularily subjected to the mercilessness of management. There were times when I was ordered to come to work at four thirty on a Saturday morning. And that was after having worked until eight thirty the night before. I might only work a couple of hours before being told to go home and report back that afternoon to finish Tour Two. I was never in one place for more than ten minutes at a time. I went from unloading the truck, to dumping sacks, to the face up table, to sorting parcels, to folding empty sacks, to sweeping the cases, back to the face up table, to loading the truck. I couldn’t take lunch until told to. I wasn’t really allowed to take a coffee break, but sometimes I got so tired I had to ask to sit down for ten minutes. I also had to ask permission to use the men’s room. And when I returned from the men’s room Mr. Dell always looked at me then his watch. I didn’t like how I was treated, but I had to put up with it. One peep of dissent from me and I was out of a job. Sayanora. Adios. Hit the bricks.
The reason I put up with their bullshit was because I had made up my mind to make a career out of the Post Office. The money was better than what I made at the gas station, and I was positive my high school diploma wouldn’t get me a higher paying job anywhere else. I was there to stay. I knew it meant I had to endure injustice, ridicule, humiliation, and maybe even physical pain. But I would survive. I would survive until I was an apathetic, flabby old blob with dark circles under my eyes.
I was at managements’ mercy for the first ninety days. After my probation period I could join the union and I would have some recourse in the event of unwarranted discipline. Still, the agreement between the unions and management favored the full time regular employees over the Subs. As long as I was a Sub, management had the power to play with my schedule and work assignments. Their irrational acts reminded me of another group of neanderthalic twits: Drill Sergeants!
But I survived basic training, and I could survive being a Sub. I made a vow to put up with anything the supervisors dished out because I knew there would come a time when I no longer would be a Sub, and their treatment of me would improve.
Chapter Five
Spring was off and running. In May, the weather had finally reached a constant setting: warm and pleasant. I don’t know if it had been a particularly harsh winter or if I just wasn’t used to the cold. But once the leaves were back on the trees and the grass was green again, I felt better all over except for my hormones which were shouting out to me, “Hey, Bozo, we want some action!”
Every day that I saw Cathy Jordan’s perfect half moons in her tight jeans reminded me that I hadn’t done the horizontal polka since leaving Vietnam. She still hadn’t come on to me, so I would have to make the first move. But exactly when that first move would take place I had no idea. She continued to pretend I didn’t exist. The only time she initiated a conversation with me was the time I dropped my sandwich on the swing room floor and after she stepped on it she said, “Oops, sorry, Peck.”
June was a very good month. I had completed my ninety day probation period, and even though I was still a Sub, I was allowed to join the American Postal Workers Union. I still had no regular starting time, and I was not guaranteed a forty hour work week, plus, I did not get paid for holidays. But because I was a member of the union, management couldn’t fire me just because they didn’t like my looks.
Go-Go convinced me to join the credit union and also sign up for the savings bond plan. Both were payroll deductions. Go-Go said that while retirement may seem an eternity away, it was best that I begin putting aside extra savings at an early age. Each bi-weekly pay stub listed gross pay, taxes, allotments, deductions, union dues, and net pay. By the time I slipped my mom a few bucks for household expenses I had enough money left over for a six pack of beer and a pretzel stick.
Well, okay, it wasn’t quite that bad. But I knew buying a car was out of the question until at least October. Fortunately, that problem was solved in late June. Fred, of Fred’s Exxon, was selling a ‘67 Chevy four-door sedan which still had it’s original factory paint job. My dad wanted that car for himself, and he only needed two weeks of overtime to buy it, then he promised me I would get his multi-layered, oil leaking, seat stuffing missing, ‘61 poor excuse for a car. He handed me the keys for the old Chevy one Sunday afternoon, but not before he had given it a final coat of paint. He had intended to paint it red, but he only had a little bit of red and a little bit of white.
What I ended up with was a pink ‘61 Chevy. I didn’t care! I had wheels! The first day I drove it to work I had the windows wide open and the AM radio turned up high. The warm breeze floated over me like a silk sheet. The bouquet of hops from the nearby Rheingold brewery filled my senses. I was alive!
Since Christmas I had not seen John at all. I had seen Bill only a few times until he graduated from Rutgers, then I saw him almost everyday. I had told him about the tiff between John and me, and he was not very understanding. He said I should apologize to John and Birdie, and I said I would if John apologized first. I felt bad about the fight I had with John, and the possibility that I would never again be his friend, but the real agony was that I was no longer welcomed at Henry’s.
Bill finally had his graduation party around the same time that I received my dad’s car. Bill called to invite me to the party at his house Friday night, seven sharp. I told him I had to work until eight thirty, but I would definitely be at his party. I asked if John was going to be there. Bill said John was in Baltimore attending some kind of management seminar.
By the time I finished work and drove to Bill’s house it was 8:50. The street was lined with cars and I had to park a block away. I parked under a street lamp, and when I was standing on Bill’s front porch I turned to look at my car. The light shining on that pink paint made the car stand out like a beacon in a cavern.
I rang the doorbell and in an instant the door flew open and there stood a short, blond-haired girl I had never seen before, holding a bottle of beer.
“Hi!” she said, with a wide drunken smile. “Are you here for Billy’s party?”
“Uh, yeah, that’s right.”
She put her arms around my neck and gave me a kiss on the mouth.
“I’m Judi,” she said. “That’s Judi with an ‘i’. What’s your name?”
“I, uh, it’s, Mackenzie. Mackenzie Peck. I’m a friend of Bill’s.”
“Aren’t we all?” Judi said as she pulled me into the house.
She led me into the living room where I had been a thousand times before, only this time all the faces were strange to me. There seemed to be an equal mix of guys and girls, all in varying degrees of drunkenness. The talk was loud. The laughter was loud. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young were loud.
“Hey, everybody!” Judi yelled, “This is…what did you say your name was?”
“Mac,” I replied.
“Oh, right.”
Judi pulled me into the kitchen crowded with more people I didn’t recognize. There was a keg of beer on the kitchen table, and on the floor next to King’s water dish was a washtub full of ice and bottled beer. An assortment of wine and liquor bottles stood like a miniature city skyline on the counter top. Judi pointed it all out to me.
“Here’s