I moved into my Torrance neighborhood close to 10 years ago and the first thing the mailman, Ken, did was give me an effusive greeting, introducing himself, and getting my name. With a compact build and immaculately dressed, Ken was energetic, friendly, dignified and professional.
His brisk, punctilious, and affable manner has made him a beloved figure in the neighborhood. Every Christmas he is inundated with cards and gifts. He drops thank-you notes in everyone’s mailbox.
When he’s on vacation or out ill, the whole neighborhood descends into collective dread because all of Ken’s substitute mail carriers, be they men or women, appear to be escapees from a mental institution.
They hobble hunch-backed in slow motion, their limbs covered in Ace bandages and Carpal Tunnel Syndrome braces. Their socks have no elastic, don’t match in color, and are often coated with dry mud. The men have shaggy facial hair suggestive of the homeless. And their feculent smell isn’t far off.
The passive-aggressive subs avert eye contact with other humans as if they know they are being judged for their sluggish, incompetent work. One woman with a prison pallor seems terrified when I say hello to her and recoils if I walk within a ten-foot radius from her personal space. She doesn’t acknowledge the homeowners but walks straight ahead like a parade float.
Then there’s pot-bellied Frank who in his mid forties and wearing a huge pirate earring appears to have a lifelong chip on his shoulder. Sometimes I see him, his food-stained postal shirt unbuttoned and untucked, mumbling to himself. I’d bet good money he still lives with his mother.
Often I’ll see Frank wandering around the neighborhood at 7 P.M. with a bag of mail, much of which is falling on the ground. He looks disoriented with his bloodshot eyes and seems to be searching a shirt pocket for a bottle of Prozac. The other subs will also be found wandering like zombies at the twilight hours when the mail should have been delivered hours ago.
I always tell Ken about the woeful subs and he cringes and then shrugs his shoulders since the situation is out of his hands.
Not only is Ken a great guy, his greatness stands out in stark contrast to the marginal human beings who deliver the mail in his absence.
Last week Ken told me he was going on a two-week vacation.
“You can’t do this to me, Ken,” I said.
“I have to. I’m tired. I’m worn out. If I don’t get my rest, I’ll have to take an early retirement.”
I took that as a threat.
The post about the scary dogs who ran up to me on the Palos Verdes Trail, warranting nothing more than a tepid apology from their irresponsible dog owner, elicited two opposite responses, rendering a philosophical dilemma: Should we be practical and defend ourselves by adapting to others' irresponsible behavior or in doing so are we enabling and encouraging that behavior?
A. Black and KE7CYT say we have to accommodate. As A. Black writes:
Many trained dogs will obey when commanded like this: First, show no fear and don't look it in the eye (that's too aggressive) but rather raise your hand with an open palm away from you so that your fingers are pointed to the sky and say sit! If the dog sits say good dog and you are done. You could also consider carrying dog biscuits to make a friend out of them.
KE7CYT adds: