Delivering the Mail
August 7, 1999
5:50 a.m.
The post office in Columbus is a huge building of dark red stone. There's a walkway in front of it, built like a massive rock awning held up by square columns that are maybe as thick as I am tall. Pigeons get in there, and ... well ... they do what pigeons do. Still, it's a pretty neat building. A street runs past the front doors, and cars park along both sides. It just so happens that my new job has put me in a building right next to the post office. So a little after lunch yesterday I took my collection of half a dozen manuscripts in their fresh manila envelopes under arm and strode toward Mecca. It was a nice day, bordering on hot but overcast and breezy enough to be pleasant. I stepped under the walkway, looking at parked cars as I made my way toward the doorway. A red pickup was first, then a metallic green Sable. Across the way sat a blue car of an older make that I don't know. There was nothing special about this day at that point. Nothing to make it stand out. I had finished a cost estimate, and worked on a tool we're developing to analyze supplier costs. I had just had a great lunch with Charles Eckert where we talked about our writing and his mother. I was going to have a meeting with my boss later in the afternoon. Nothing special. Nothing specifically worth remembering ten years from now. Ahead of me was a white car of an indeterminate American make. It was parked with its trunk toward me, the drivers' side facing the open road. Suddenly, a piercing shriek rose. The car rocked a little back and forth. Another wail joined the first. I stopped walking and just tried to figure out what was happening. I couldn't see a danged thing, though. There didn't appear to be any people in the car. No animals. Squilch. I took a tentative step forward. More screams came, enough for me to get my bearings and realize that there were at least two kids inside that were obviously too small to be seen under the height of the seats. I smiled then, understanding they were fighting with each other, my heartbeat slowly returning to its normal, out-of-shape rate of probably 70 beats a minute. It's just a coupla kids trying to work things out, I thought, and I remembered Jeff and I fighting over our space when we were young. Then the door on the driver's side swung open. A boy, no more than four years old, jumped from the car and raced across the street, completely oblivious to anything coming down the street. My every muscle tensed, and I ran forward, looking around fervently, listening for the soft hiss of tires on hot concrete. Luckily, there were none. The boy ran all the way to the opposite side of the street. There he squatted like only a kid can, looking like a kangaroo with his knees sticking straight up in the air and the rest of his body stooping to the ground. He picked up a toy, something that had fallen from the window of their car. Maybe thrown by his sister. How would I know? He looked so alone out there, so tiny all the way across the two lanes. If someone had been coming, there would not have been anywhere for them to go. Since there were no cars, I stopped running. I had taken only a few strides but those few had carried me out to no-mans land with the boy, that place where the child knew I was looking at him but was too far away to do anything at all. He paused, knowing he had made a mistake. I didn't know what to do. This wasn't my place. The mother wasn't around, and I stood there, staring down into the car, close enough to see the second kid (obviously his sister) was maybe two. The boy looked both ways coming back to the car. He got in and slammed the door shut, then shoved his sister, who started to yell at him, but stopped when she realized I was still there. Dealing with other people's children in a situation like that is very disquieting for me. I felt a lot like I feel when I walk into a woman's clothing store with Lisa--you know, like everyone else knows I don't belong here and they don't want me here but they're not going to do anything to make me leave, and they couldn't even if they wanted to. The manuscripts seemed really heavy in my arms. They tugged at me and squirmed in my sweaty grip as if reminding me I had other things to do. The kids looked up at me with big watery eyes, then glanced away quickly. Of course, they were now as embarrassed as I was. I could probably have left right then. But I realized that leaving was not something I felt comfortable doing. Instead I just retreated a little, far enough that I wasn't intruding on their personal space, close enough that they knew I could still see them. And I waited. The kids stayed quiet, and I just stood there watching them, feeling the building's grainy afternoon heat against my back. Their mother came out eventually. As she got in the car, I walked quietly away. I paid for my postage inside the air conditioned building. The guy behind the counter stamped my manuscripts, and dropped them into the bin for pickup. When I came out of the building, the car was gone. And I walked, empty-handed, back into my office building to finish out the day.   Have a good weekend, okay?  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"A man's village is his peace of mind." Anwar al-Sadat |
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