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brought his mail back and tossed it in a tub on the floor. There really wasn’t any precedent for my behavior. Perhaps I would be in trouble for holding back this fellow’s mail, but it seemed as though the lines had been drawn, and until he came forward to answer for his actions, I refused to deliver his mail.
    The job of a substitute letter carrier is tough enough without the added burden of dealing with a ranting racist. All letter carriers start out as substitutes. I did it for two and a half years before getting a regular assignment. Every day you’re on a different route, walking through unfamiliar neighborhoods, looking for hidden mailboxes and lurking dogs. Subs work long days, often doing a whole route and then carrying overtime mail off a second route. I worked six days a week, at least ten hours a day, for months at a time. It’s a test of endurance. Because of this shared experience, senior carriers look out for the welfare of substitutes. Whether it’s a simple word of encouragement, advice on dressing for the weather, or a secret shortcut on a particular route, we try to offer support. In this case, I intended to back up the substitute by confronting an incorrigible patron.
    Finally, one morning at least a week after my return, a front window clerk came to get me as I cased mail. She told me a customer wanted to know why he wasn’t getting any deliveries. Maybe the fellow thought I would go easier on him if there were others around, but it didn’t work out that way.
    “Where’s my mail?” he demanded as I approached the counter.
    “I thought you told the mail carrier to stay out of your yard.”
    “So? What’s that got to do with you?”
    “Didn’t you tell him not to set foot in your yard again?”
I was really mad now; his sarcasm had pushed all my buttons.
I wanted him to acknowledge out loud, in front of a lobby full of customers, the real reason why he wasn’t getting any mail.
    He was so upset he could barely speak. Louder now, and spluttering belligerently, he demanded, “Where’s my mail?”
    “You threatened a letter carrier, a friend of mine.”
    “I didn’t threaten anyone. Give me my mail!”
    “You said, ‘Stay out of my yard, or else.’ That sure sounds like a threat to me.”
    His face was glowing with anger. “Just give me my mail!”
    “Why should I? You didn’t want it when the sub tried delivering it.”
    A pause, and then, “I don’t want his kind in my yard!”
    There. He’d said it, and now an uncomfortable silence fell over the lobby. Customers standing in line looked shocked. The window clerks stood back, warily watching us. Leaning in closer, I lowered my voice. “On his easiest day, that black man works harder than you ever dreamed of working. If you ever threaten him again, I’ll have delivery to your house permanently suspended. You’ll need to get a post office box if you want any mail.” I didn’t know if I could actually do that, but
he didn’t know that, and if he continued running his mouth,
I sure would try.
    As I turned to go back to work, I told the window clerk where to find the tub of curtailed mail. Several letter carriers had gathered behind me in support, nodding their approval. The substitute carrier was standing there too, looking a little self-conscious. I slapped him on the back as I passed, and that broke the tension. Smiles broke out, the line of customers began to move again, and we all got back to work.
    Delivering mail to that man was uncomfortable for a while. I didn’t see him for a long time, but finally, as he mowed the lawn in his backyard one afternoon, he waved at me and I nodded. Given a choice, I wouldn’t have had it end that way, but I suppose it’ll just have to be good enough.

A Snapshot in Time
    Taking my break one afternoon in a park near my route, I watched three boys swoop into the parking lot on their bicycles. Shirttails fluttering, they darted across each other’s paths, laughing, arms thrown out