these days.
We went along like this for the next few minutes. Meanwhile, that leg was swinging and her dress was hitched up to almost “you know where.” I caught myself wondering how much further up it would go before she pulled it back down. I realized then that I was starting to drift.
“Would you repeat that last question?” I asked.
“‘I said, ‘There is a rumor that Gloria was killed out there on the bay.’”
“I don’t know where you heard that,” I answered, “but it is just a rumor, you know.”
“Then there is no truth to it? I mean you are the postmaster . . . ”
“Not that I know of,” I answered.
With that, she snapped her notebook shut, stood and shook my hand across the desk, said her goodbye, and walked out the door. Well, goodbye to you too, I thought, and sat back in my chair. I went back over my answers and concluded I had pretty well covered myself. But the next day’s paper would tell the story. And I hoped there were would be no surprises.
Relieved the interview was over, I wandered out onto the main floor to see how things were going. The black-tiled floor absolutely glistened. What a change from this morning! Maybe my little “pep talk” had made a difference. I heard a buffer going somewhere, and I meandered toward the sound, all the while getting nods from the various workers. I even looked back from time to time to check for the middle finger going up behind my back. Seeing none, I put a little extra bounce to my walk. Maybe this outfit was going to fly after all.
I rounded a case and found the source of the noise. It was the longhaired shifty-eyed guy smoothly working the buffer back and forth. Seeing me standing there, he stopped the machine and gave me a questioning look.
“Looks great,” I said, with what I hoped was an approving smile.
“Yeah, it does look better,” he answered, and cast a shifty glance at the floor.
“You know, I still don’t have all the names down in this place,” I said.
He held out his hand. “It’s Halls, Jim Halls.”
“Gotcha,” I said, returning his handshake. “I’ll try to remember from now on.”
After a few more pleasantries I moved on, conscious that I was being peered at from various places on the floor. I walked around, stopping at a case here and there to talk. Picture a big four-foot long suitcase with no back to it, sitting on a table vertically folded out with a grid work of slots with each slot open at both ends big enough for letters. One person stands in front of the case sorting mail from a big pile lying in a trough on another table. Later, mail carriers take the sorted mail out of each slot, stuff it into their respective trucks and deliver it to the street mailboxes.
I noticed the cases weren’t very well positioned on the floor. I made a mental note to discuss this with Abby and the new supervisor. Maybe we could gain a little efficiency and a few less hours of overtime. Anything to lift the morale and, in my mind, relief from overtime, was the top need here.
* * *
After I got back to the B & B that evening, the hostess asked me if I would mind taking the old man for a spin up to the bluff in his wheelchair.
“Sure,” I said, “I could use the exercise.”
So away we went, with me pushing the old man up the graveled trail to the edge of the bluff. I actually had to puff a little to get the job done. Wild roses lined the path. There must have been an acre of them. Very pretty. It felt good to sit on a bench and look out over the bay. The sea had always intrigued me. The waves just kept coming, crashing upon the shore—just like in the movies. Where did any particular drop of water come from? Was it from a drop of rain that fell in Russia somewhere? Or was it China? I smiled at myself, thinking such deep thoughts.
“Wue . . . Wue.”
Startled, I looked over to see the old man raise his arm and gesture out to sea, his mouth wet with slobber.
What on earth was he trying to
We went along like this for the next few minutes. Meanwhile, that leg was swinging and her dress was hitched up to almost “you know where.” I caught myself wondering how much further up it would go before she pulled it back down. I realized then that I was starting to drift.
“Would you repeat that last question?” I asked.
“‘I said, ‘There is a rumor that Gloria was killed out there on the bay.’”
“I don’t know where you heard that,” I answered, “but it is just a rumor, you know.”
“Then there is no truth to it? I mean you are the postmaster . . . ”
“Not that I know of,” I answered.
With that, she snapped her notebook shut, stood and shook my hand across the desk, said her goodbye, and walked out the door. Well, goodbye to you too, I thought, and sat back in my chair. I went back over my answers and concluded I had pretty well covered myself. But the next day’s paper would tell the story. And I hoped there were would be no surprises.
Relieved the interview was over, I wandered out onto the main floor to see how things were going. The black-tiled floor absolutely glistened. What a change from this morning! Maybe my little “pep talk” had made a difference. I heard a buffer going somewhere, and I meandered toward the sound, all the while getting nods from the various workers. I even looked back from time to time to check for the middle finger going up behind my back. Seeing none, I put a little extra bounce to my walk. Maybe this outfit was going to fly after all.
I rounded a case and found the source of the noise. It was the longhaired shifty-eyed guy smoothly working the buffer back and forth. Seeing me standing there, he stopped the machine and gave me a questioning look.
“Looks great,” I said, with what I hoped was an approving smile.
“Yeah, it does look better,” he answered, and cast a shifty glance at the floor.
“You know, I still don’t have all the names down in this place,” I said.
He held out his hand. “It’s Halls, Jim Halls.”
“Gotcha,” I said, returning his handshake. “I’ll try to remember from now on.”
After a few more pleasantries I moved on, conscious that I was being peered at from various places on the floor. I walked around, stopping at a case here and there to talk. Picture a big four-foot long suitcase with no back to it, sitting on a table vertically folded out with a grid work of slots with each slot open at both ends big enough for letters. One person stands in front of the case sorting mail from a big pile lying in a trough on another table. Later, mail carriers take the sorted mail out of each slot, stuff it into their respective trucks and deliver it to the street mailboxes.
I noticed the cases weren’t very well positioned on the floor. I made a mental note to discuss this with Abby and the new supervisor. Maybe we could gain a little efficiency and a few less hours of overtime. Anything to lift the morale and, in my mind, relief from overtime, was the top need here.
* * *
After I got back to the B & B that evening, the hostess asked me if I would mind taking the old man for a spin up to the bluff in his wheelchair.
“Sure,” I said, “I could use the exercise.”
So away we went, with me pushing the old man up the graveled trail to the edge of the bluff. I actually had to puff a little to get the job done. Wild roses lined the path. There must have been an acre of them. Very pretty. It felt good to sit on a bench and look out over the bay. The sea had always intrigued me. The waves just kept coming, crashing upon the shore—just like in the movies. Where did any particular drop of water come from? Was it from a drop of rain that fell in Russia somewhere? Or was it China? I smiled at myself, thinking such deep thoughts.
“Wue . . . Wue.”
Startled, I looked over to see the old man raise his arm and gesture out to sea, his mouth wet with slobber.
What on earth was he trying to
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