Yes, I had a great deal to think about. If I couldn’t change the past, then maybe it was time to shape my own future.
I looked at the squirrel and I could’ve sworn he was smiling at me.
Chapter Four
I took the Civil Service Exam at the Main Post Office in East Orange one week after being fired from the gas station. It took nearly a month to find out my score. Two weeks after finding out my grade I was having a beer at O’Leary’s, celebrating the coming of Spring, when Ugly came in for his lunch break. I told him I got a grade of 78, plus the extra five points for being a veteran brought my score up to 83.
“Great,” said Ugly. “You should be hearing from Mr. Stevens soon. Then you’ll get to meet Mr. Sadhouse. I know for a fact there’ll be an opening for a clerk soon.”
“Hold on,” I said, “I was told my name would go on a waiting list. I may not get a job for a couple of years.”
“No way. I put in a good word for you. I’m their fair haired boy, you know. When I recommend someone it’s because I know that person will do a good job. And Postmaster Sadhouse knows that.”
“I appreciate the faith you have in me, Ugly.”
“Ain’t no big thing. Us homies have to stick together, right?”
After I filled out the application for the Post Office, I had a short interview with Mr. Stevens, the Superintendent of Mails. He was a big fat slob in loose fitting clothes. He had a large, pock-marked nose and a droopy face. I disliked him from the start. He looked over my application for several minutes before speaking.
“You didn’t put down any employment references,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“I just got back from Vietnam nine months ago. I was wounded. I haven’t been able to work until now.”
“Do you have a disability?”
“No.”
“Did you receive a Purple Heart?”
“No.”
“No? Isn’t that unusual? What was the extent of your wounds?”
“I had a broken hand.”
“How did that happen?”
“You don’t…I mean it happened kind of fast.”
“But, you’re okay now. You can pitch mail and lift sacks with no problem? Because if it is a problem I want to know right now.”
“Oh no, I’m fine now.”
Six days later I received a letter ordering me to report to Postmaster Sadhouse. I didn’t want to go on the date stated in the letter because it was a sunny, warm day, the first one we had in months. But I went anyway. Mr. Sadhouse didn’t smile when he met me, but he did shake my hand. He looked about the same age as Mr. Stevens, but was the complete opposite in appearance. Mr. Sadhouse was trim and well tailored, and had a clear voice. He looked directly at me when he spoke, but in a way that made me feel like I was undeserving to work in his Post Office.
“So you’re a friend of Mr. O’Leary’s,” he said.
“Yeah. Me and Dennis go back a long way.”
“I see. The carriers call him Ugly. Is that what you call him too?”
“Yeah, that’s right, that’s what we call him. Ugly.”
“He had a rough time in Vietnam,” Mr. Sadhouse said. “But thank God he came out all right. He’s a fine carrier. One of the best we have. You should do well if you follow his lead.”
“I’ll do that. But…I thought I was going to be a clerk, not a carrier.”
“You’ll be on probation for three months. Yes, you’ll start off as a clerk, however, I may have a carrier opening at the end of that three months. If you work to our satisfaction you might be allowed to switch to the carrier side. Mr. O’Leary stated it was your desire to be a letter carrier. Isn’t that so?”
“Oh right, right. A carrier, that’s what I want to be.”
I hadn’t really thought about being a letter carrier. I thought I was just going to work inside the Post Office, sorting mail. But I suppose being a letter carrier wouldn’t be such a bad job. I mean, how difficult could it be to walk around town putting letters in mailboxes? Plus, I would be in uniform again.
“I understand you were in Vietnam, too,” Mr. Sadhouse said.
“Yeah, I was.”
“It’s a sad situation over there. I hope we’re out soon. I have a nephew over there right now.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes. He’s a sergeant in the Air Force. He says he’s not in any danger, but I don’t know how that could be in a war zone.”
“What’s his MOS? I mean, what’s his job?”
“He’s a clerk-typist.”
Those words made me wince. And for a brief second my mind raced back to my endless days behind a typewriter. God, how I had hated being stuck in an office while kids younger than me were grabbing all the glory.
The last thing Mr. Sadhouse did before I left his office was to swear me in. I had to take some stupid oath about protecting the sanctity of the mail. It was almost like the oath I took when I was at the Army Induction Center in Newark. The oath in both cases was laughable.
My mom and dad were happy I finally had a good job. My dad was especially happy because I was completely broke and I was always hitting him up for money.
My first day of work was on a Saturday. Mr. Dell, the tour supervisor, met me at the time clock. He was a balding, pot-bellied man who looked like he wanted to be someplace other than the Post Office. After my time card punching instructions he took me aside to tell me that promptness and the ability to follow orders was all he expected of me. Then he added accuracy. That’s what he expected of me. Then he added respect for others. Then he added speed and accuracy. But that was all he expected of me. And honesty. And truthfullness. That’s all.
Then Mr. Dell reminded me that I was on probation for ninety days. During that ninety days I had to prove myself worthy of continuing to work for the North Orange Post Office. If I did all that was expected of me, and more, I should have no trouble becoming a permanent employee.
I didn’t know whether to salute him or knee him in the groin.
I worked the second tour. I worked a six day, forty hour week. My work days always ended at eight thirty, which meant two days a week I started at noon, and four other days I started at two thirty. Overtime meant I started work earlier, not stay later.
The hours suited me fine. I could go to O’Leary’s after work and still not worry about getting up early. My title was Substitute Postal Clerk, or Sub for short. I found out later that Sub also meant Sub-human, because that’s the way I was sometimes treated.
Mr. Dell introduced me to the rest of the staff. Most of the clerks greeted me in a genuine, friendly fashion, but others treated me like I had invaded their private domain, like I was not to be trusted, like I was only there to spy on them and report their every infraction to the Postmaster. The untrusting and uncaring were the oldtimers—in the Army we called them Lifers—their eyes were vacant and underlined with dark circles, the result of too many years reading too many addresses.
My first assignment was the face up table. Not a table exactly, it was a wide conveyor belt where four of us stood and culled the half ton of mail dumped at the lower end of the belt. Directly in front of us was a thinner, high speed belt into which we fed letters with the stamp down and to the left. The letters were gathered at the end of the belt by someone who would then feed them through a machine which canceled the stamp and printed a postmark on the envelope.