Beware Of Cat_ And Other Encounters Of A Letter Carrier Part 9

That seemed to mollify her. She nodded at me, and then aimed a grimace of determination at her brother. "You better catch the ball, Jackson."

I held my hand out in front of them in the time-honored tradition of diagramming a pa.s.s play on the palm of my hand. "You know what a b.u.t.tonhook is?" I asked him.

He shook his head. His eyes were glued to my hand. I could see his excitement as his tongue flicked over his lips while he rocked from foot to foot. "How about a fly pattern?"

Another shake of the head. Again the darting tongue and pacing in place.

"Okay, then this is how it works. Your sister hikes the ball to me. You run as fast as you can for five steps. Count them as you go. On the fifth step turn around and yell for me to throw the ball."

I drew all this with an index finger on my palm. The children watched my finger move, as if hypnotized by the sequence of wriggles and waggles.

"I'll fake a pa.s.s to you," I continued, "then you take off down the street as fast as you can run." My finger drew a straight line off the end of my fingertips. "Just run, Jackson, for all you're worth. The next time you look back, I'll be launching a long bomb to you. Got it? It's called a b.u.t.tonhook and fly. It'll work, Jackson, if you sell the fake."

He nodded, but when we broke huddle he started out the wrong way down the street. He turned around when his sister called him. Holding the ball and laughing, she said, "Where are you going?"

A drop of doubt entered my thoughts then, but I decided he was just concentrating too hard on the route he had to run.

"Come on, little boy," his uncle taunted. Jackson ignored the remark and took his place next to his sister. I had a notion he was doing some growing up right there in the middle of the street. The other children lined up at the curb to watch the play, while the older women sat forward on their porch chairs, leaning on the railing to see what the mailman was up to. Jackson snuck a peek at the house to be sure they were watching.

"Hike!" I called, and the ball sailed high over my head.

I backtracked enough to grab it, but by the time I looked up, Jackson's sister was already yelling, "Throw the ball!" As I stepped forward into my fake pa.s.s, Jackson shouted, "Throw it!" His uncle charged forward to block the pa.s.s. On his final lunge he bellowed at his nephew to intimidate him, but by then it was too late. Jackson turned on his heel and flew down the street. My bomb floated high and deep, spiraling between the branches of overhanging boulevard trees. The uncle gave chase and quickly closed the gap. I held my breath while Jackson ran all out. When he caught the ball and safely tucked it away, a chorus of cheers erupted from the front yard. His mother and grandmother jumped off the porch, high-fiving each other while screaming like we'd just won the Super Bowl.

Jackson tried to act nonchalant about it, but it was impossible for him to keep the huge grin off his face. Trotting back to us, he modestly looked down at the street or off to the side, secretly stealing a glance at his mother. The joy on his face made the sixty seconds I had spent in the street well worth the time. After that, whenever I encountered the family in the front yard, Jackson and I exchanged conspiratorial nods and grins.

AS THE YEARS Pa.s.sED I watched Jackson grow into a handsome young man, through the awkward voice-changing and acne years. He was small for his age, but very fast, and it was hard to miss the glint of self-awareness and intelligence in his pitch-black eyes. I watched Jackson grow into a handsome young man, through the awkward voice-changing and acne years. He was small for his age, but very fast, and it was hard to miss the glint of self-awareness and intelligence in his pitch-black eyes.

His uncle came and went a few more times before finally moving out for good. I had a few short conversations with Jackson over the years, mostly to ask him about school, and to encourage him to work hard at it. I don't believe my urgings were necessary, however, as his mother and grandmother kept a pretty tight rein on the kids.

He played baseball for the high school team. I asked him about it one time when I came upon him in his baseball uniform playing catch with his sister. "We're not very good," was his comment on the team.

"Oh, come on, I bet you're better than that."

"No, really, we always lose."

His sister interjected, "His stupid coach won't let him play."

"Shut up," Jackson ordered.

"Well, it's true," she persisted. "And it's not fair. You lose every game anyway, what difference does it make? He should let you play."

Jackson ignored her. I was stuck for something to say. My thoughts were torn between the warmth of his sister's loyalty, and the cold shadow of an injustice that I could only guess at. Was he on the bench because of his size? Was it a racial thing? It certainly couldn't be poor academics, not with the way his mother rode herd on him.

"Do you make it to all the practices?" I asked.

Jackson nodded, but again it was his sister who replied. "Oh, yeah, he goes to practice. I should know, too, because I go to all of them with him."

"That's only because Jeremy is there," Jackson said, rolling his eyes at his sister.

"Shut up!" she yelled, throwing the ball at him.

"Practices are important," I said in my best adult fas.h.i.+on. The notion of being a mentor came back to me. "That's where you learn. Even if you're not playing, practice hard. Use the time to develop your own skills. Especially in batting practice. Learn all you can. If you work hard at it, the coach is bound to notice you. The playing time will come if you keep working at it."

The baseball fields where Jackson's team practiced and played their home games that summer were near the neighborhood. Sometimes in the evening, when I was out riding my bicycle, I swung by to see if the team was out there. When they practiced, I stopped for a few minutes to watch, but when they played games, I usually hung around for a couple innings. It brought back memories of when our own children were young and my wife and I lugged lawn chairs around to all the ballparks in South Minneapolis to watch their games.

I never saw Jackson in a game. Instead, he would put on a catcher's mitt and warm up the pitcher, or keep the infielders loose by playing catch with them on the sidelines. He was the only player on the team that didn't get playing time-at least, for the several innings that I witnessed, he never played.

The impressive thing about it, however, was that his whole family came out for every game. I even saw his uncle there one night. They took up most of a row in the short stand of bleachers. The younger children ran around playing in the park with friends while the older ones cheered on the team. I found their devotion to be amazing considering that what Jackson had told me was true: the team never won a game. The outcome usually wasn't even close.

When the players came in from the field to sit on the bench, Jackson often walked up and down the line high-fiving each kid. Even though he never played, he showed more team spirit than anyone else. I noticed his mother and grandmother laughing and cheering enthusiastically for the team's few good plays. Was I the only one having a problem with this?

Late in the season Jackson met me in his yard. "Are you coming to my game tonight? It's the last one of the season."

It's nearly impossible to say no to a kid who extends an invitation like that. Especially when it's a child I've watched grow up, one who is usually very quiet and una.s.suming. "Of course I'll be there," I replied. "Are you playing tonight?"

"I don't know," he said softly, looking at the toe of his shoe. "Coach doesn't announce the line-up until game time."

I looked up at the sunny, clear sky. It was hard to tell if he was lying about the line-up out of a false sense of optimism, or simply protecting his coach to avoid controversy. In either case, it would be a nice evening for a bike ride. "I'll be there," I promised.

The first two innings were completed by the time I arrived. The team was already several runs down, and Jackson sat on the bench. I locked up my bike and joined his family in the bleachers. For three more innings I watched the team fall further behind. Jackson continued his spirited efforts on the bench, however, cheering and encouraging his losing teammates. It was the last game of the season, with no doubt as to the outcome. Come on coach, I ranted silently. Get everyone in the game!

As much as I disapprove of meddling adults at sporting events, I had finally seen enough. If I truly wanted to be a mentor, then my actions would have to speak louder than my words. In the sixth inning, when Jackson's team took the field, I quietly walked down to take a seat on the bench near the coach. Jackson was rounding up bats from the previous half-inning, lining them up by weight behind the backstop. The coach gave me a short once-over, then called out some adjustments to his outfielders.

I got right to the point. "How come you don't play Jackson?"

When he groaned, I thought it was directed at me, but he may have been reacting to another pitch lined into the outfield by an opposing batter. When things quieted down again, he said, "Everybody gets playing time." He didn't bother to look at me.

"For all the innings I've seen this summer, the kid hasn't taken one ground ball. Not even one at bat." I said this while watching Jackson behind the backstop shouting encouragement to his pitcher, but when the coach looked at me, I turned to meet his gaze.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Jackson's mailman."

He snickered. "The mailman." Scanning the field again, he added, "Now I've heard everything. Like I said, Mr. Mailman, everyone gets playing time."

"Just saying it doesn't make it so," I retorted, standing up in front of him to block his view. "Here's another thing, Mr. Coach," I added with sarcasm. "I've watched him play ball and work out all summer. He's never missed a practice or a game. h.e.l.l, his whole family never misses a game. I've been coming down here after work to watch him play, and I have to say, your line-up choices really disappoint me."

The real disappointment I felt was in myself. A confrontation with the coach hadn't been on my agenda. As I walked away, I nodded at Jackson and he smiled, happy to see me there. Returning to the bleachers, I decided to wait out the remainder of the game. Maybe I would dream up some words of wisdom for Jackson when it was all over.

When the half-inning was completed, his sister pointed, shouting, "Look, Mom, Jackson's putting on a batting helmet!"

I couldn't believe it. Now he grabbed a bat, too, and stood in the on-deck circle taking practice swings. With no trace of teenage inhibition, he paused to grin and wave at us.

The other team had a new pitcher, a big kid who threw hard. He struck out the batter before Jackson on three pitches. I watched the coach sit back wearily and shake his head as Jackson stepped into the batter's box. Digging his cleats in, rocking from foot to foot and licking his lips just as he'd done in our football huddle, I saw the signs of concentration on Jack's face.

"Come on," I whispered. "Take a pitch or two, get your timing down. This guy is really throwing heat." His mother and sisters screamed and cheered, yelling loud enough for people to turn and look at us.

Jackson ignored my silent pleas and swung wild at the first pitch. He crushed the ball with a line shot that cleared the first baseman's head before the kid could even react. The ball sliced off into the right-field corner. Jackson shot out of the batter's box like a track star off the blocks, and our row in the bleachers lunged to our feet. "Run, Jackson, run!" his grandmother screamed in my ear.

He had a good view of the ball as he rounded first base. As fast as he was, it seemed like he accelerated on his way to second. Unfortunately, because he'd hit it so hard, the ball careened around the corner of the outfield very quickly. It ricocheted up to the right fielder before Jackson reached second base. I could see he had no intention of slowing down, even though the right fielder made a strong, accurate throw to the infield. Jackson cruised around second at top speed, ignoring the third-base coach's sign to hold up. I found myself jumping in place on the bleachers like everyone else, the excitement carrying us away. "Stop, Jackson!" I yelled. "Hold up!"

His batting helmet had long since blown away. I could see his tongue sticking out in concentration as he flew toward third base. He was so incredibly fast; all his movements were smooth and fluid. He seemed completely at ease, as if this element of great speed was a natural part of him, like the color of his eyes, or the tone of his voice.

He launched himself toward third base, diving head first as the ball arrived from the outfield. The umpire ran onto the field to get a clear view of the play. As the dust settled the umpire's arms flew out at his sides, and he yelled, "Safe!"

The bleachers erupted. The opposing coach got up to argue, but the umpire dramatically re-enacted his call. Flinging his arms straight out at his sides while directing his theatrics personally at the opposing coach, he sang out, "The runner is safe!"

We all laughed and cheered some more. When Jackson's grandmother jumped up to high-five me, I had to catch her to prevent her from cras.h.i.+ng through the bleachers. Jackson stood on third base, his modesty once again in charge as he brushed himself off. A teammate ran his batting helmet over to him. Putting it on, he snuck a quick peek up at the bleachers. Just like the old days in his front yard, the familiar nod and grin came my way. Then his eyes moved down the row to find his mother. The grin broke out into an unabashed smile, and he waved at us, his black eyes s.h.i.+ning with pride and joy.

Animal Kingdom

Coming across a certified letter requiring a signature, I climbed the steps to the house and rang the doorbell. From a thick bundle of letters I extracted the form that needed signing while searching my pockets for a pen. A young couple lived here, new on my route.

When the door opened, I greeted the young lady of the house. I held up the letter and said, "Here's a certified letter for you. It needs your signature. Looks like it's from the mortgage company."

She stepped outside. I smiled at her, admiring her friendly face, and then recoiled in horror. A huge albino python lay draped across her shoulders. It spanned from one outstretched hand, up her arm, through a wide loop around her neck, and down her other arm. It had to be eight feet long or more.

She laughed at my startled reaction. Introducing me to the snake, she stepped forward and asked, "Want to pet him?"

"No, thanks." I backpedaled down a step or two. I noticed the head of the snake weaving farther off her arm, aiming closer to my face.

"He's not poisonous or anything," she said. "He's really friendly."

From the lower step I handed the letter and pen up to her. The snake's face was even with mine, and much too close.

"I love this hot weather," she said. "When it's warm like this, I let the snakes out to exercise in the yard."

Snakes? As she spoke, the beady red eyes bobbed ever closer. Inching farther off her arm, the head performed a mesmerizing slow-motion dance. She handed the form back to me and asked, "Come on, are you sure you don't want to pet him?"

I shook my head. "I'm really not too fond of snakes."

Holding my breath, I looked the snake straight in the eyes, then reached out and s.n.a.t.c.hed the form out of her hand. Back down on the sidewalk, I finally managed to breathe again. Not a day goes by without my searching that yard for runaway snakes.

BECAUSE I SPEND SO many hours outside every day, I get to see the whole gamut of wildlife that Mother Nature has to offer in the city. I've spotted pheasants, racc.o.o.ns, and even a skunk. For a while, a yearling doe resided in the backyards of a block on my route. I enjoyed watching the homeowners adopt and protect that deer. When their small gardens matured, they live-trapped squirrels and rabbits and hauled them away, but they let the young deer eat all she wanted. Neighbors sat outside on lawn chairs, exchanging gossip while taking pictures of the deer as she grazed her way through their yards. With the coming of fall and the mating season, the doe suddenly disappeared. We all missed her, agreeing that her presence had made for an interesting summer. many hours outside every day, I get to see the whole gamut of wildlife that Mother Nature has to offer in the city. I've spotted pheasants, racc.o.o.ns, and even a skunk. For a while, a yearling doe resided in the backyards of a block on my route. I enjoyed watching the homeowners adopt and protect that deer. When their small gardens matured, they live-trapped squirrels and rabbits and hauled them away, but they let the young deer eat all she wanted. Neighbors sat outside on lawn chairs, exchanging gossip while taking pictures of the deer as she grazed her way through their yards. With the coming of fall and the mating season, the doe suddenly disappeared. We all missed her, agreeing that her presence had made for an interesting summer.

With the resurgence of the wild turkey population in the Midwest, I've seen a couple of the big birds pecking through the neighborhood. For as smart and wary as they're alleged to be, they never show any concern over my presence.

There was another bird, however, that caused quite a ruckus several years ago. Big Ray, a letter carrier I worked with early in my career, stood six foot five, a gentle giant, but he somehow made an enemy out of a nesting robin on his route. He took to wearing a wide-brimmed bush hat to protect his head.

Big Ray's foe became quite a joke around the station. Even though it fl.u.s.tered him greatly, we teased Big Ray without mercy when he confided how this little bird attacked him with such ferocity.

I drove over to his route one day to see for myself. Sure enough, on the designated block, Big Ray donned the silly-looking hat. He walked cautiously, creeping through the yards like a soldier on patrol in Vietnam. He scanned the trees for the first sign of an ambush.

A tiny dark object suddenly hurled itself from the cover of a leafy branch. It zoomed within inches of Big Ray's head. He ducked into a crouch, rus.h.i.+ng forward to the safety of an overhanging garage roof. Time and again the little kamikaze swooped in, and each time Big Ray ducked, flinging an arm up to protect his face.

From the safety of my jeep, I watched the big man pleading with that little bird to leave him alone. After a while, Ray sprinted ahead to the next house and then double-timed it to the cover of another garage roof. In this way he eventually escaped the bird's territory. For three weeks Big Ray endured the wrath of that robin, running the daily gauntlet, and providing laughs for the rest of us.

EVEN IN THE URBAN SETTING of my mail route, it's possible to witness the day-to-day struggles of wildlife. Crows sometimes gang up, dozens of them, to hara.s.s an owl, chasing the raptor from tree to tree. Their racket can be heard for blocks around. of my mail route, it's possible to witness the day-to-day struggles of wildlife. Crows sometimes gang up, dozens of them, to hara.s.s an owl, chasing the raptor from tree to tree. Their racket can be heard for blocks around.

I stood on a patron's front stoop one day watching as a great horned owl attempted to elude his tireless pursuers. "Makes you feel kind of sorry for the poor guy," I commented.

Pulling his pipe from his mouth, exhaling a cloud of smoke, the elderly resident replied, "Well, I'll feel sorry for him for a while." Squinting at me through the smoke, he added, "But come sundown, the tables will be turned. Then it's payback time."

Hawks aren't nearly as rare as they used to be, and I saw a kestrel several times one summer. A letter carrier on a neighboring route saw the bird, too. Perched on a low branch, often right out in the open, it seemed the bird paid no attention to me at all. With his short forehead, intense eyes, and sleek profile, he was quite dapper. One day I watched as he suddenly darted off the branch, swooped between two houses, and lit into a backyard compost pile. When he returned, he clutched a mouse firmly in his talons.

THERE'S ALWAYS PLENTY of wildlife around if one takes the time to look for it. Even so, the most bizarre occurrences, as well as the most frightening situations for letter carriers, involve man's so-called best friend. of wildlife around if one takes the time to look for it. Even so, the most bizarre occurrences, as well as the most frightening situations for letter carriers, involve man's so-called best friend.

Returning to the station one day, I found my supervisor on the phone with a neighborhood resident. She reported that stray dogs were hara.s.sing her letter carrier, and he appeared to require a.s.sistance. The carrier was a veteran named Mike, and even though we didn't think he really needed help, the supervisor sent me out to check on him.

This will be great fodder for some teasing, I thought. I was still grinning when I turned the corner and saw Mike's jeep parked down the block. He stood on the roof, a pair of rottweilers circling his jeep like sharks around a sinking boat.

I raced down the street, opened my window, and yelled at the dogs. They immediately turned on me. Creating the short diversion bought Mike enough time to scamper down off the roof and get in his jeep. With him safely inside, the dogs soon lost interest and wandered off.

Mike finished the route, and back at the station we gathered around to hear his story. He had seen the dogs coming for him from way down the block. He sprinted for the jeep, not sure if he could get there first. Fortunately, he won the race, but the dogs were so close he didn't have time to unlock the door. We laughed as he reenacted his attempts to jam the tiny bra.s.s key in the lock while two snarling, one-hundred-twenty pound carnivores closed in on him. At the last second he abandoned the effort and jumped up on the hood, the dogs lunging at his ankles. From there he climbed up on the roof to wait for the animals to leave or help to arrive.

MY SCARIEST ENCOUNTER was a run-in with a German shepherd named Timber. The young woman who owned him rented a small house on my route. I had plenty of warning about the dog, as almost every letter carrier in the station knew him. was a run-in with a German shepherd named Timber. The young woman who owned him rented a small house on my route. I had plenty of warning about the dog, as almost every letter carrier in the station knew him.

The fellow I inherited the route from told me all of Timber's habits. Basically, the dog would either be in the house, posing no threat, or outside on his chain, in which case I should avoid the yard at all costs. A doghouse sat near the front door, and I had to ensure that Timber wasn't sleeping out of sight before entering the yard.

Fortunately, his chain was quite heavy. I don't think a tractor could have broken it. Also, Timber wasn't outside very often. Because Laura, his owner, worked days, he generally stayed inside all week. Every now and then I saw him on a Sat.u.r.day, though, chained out by his doghouse. He watched me pa.s.s without so much as a bark. But a sinister intelligence glimmered in his eyes, and it gave me the creeps. He sat still as a statue, ears pointed straight out, sizing me up with a menacing, Hannibal Lecterlike stare.

I approached the yard that day looking for any sign of Timber. By now it was automatic, like putting on a seat belt. I gave a little whistle in case he was in the doghouse. I was so distracted that I didn't immediately notice Laura working in the front yard. She had just mowed the lawn and now sat out by the street pulling weeds in her small flower garden.

I walked up to her and handed her the mail. She was engaged in a friendly conversation with Pete, her next-door neighbor, who was working on his car in the driveway. I had never talked to her much, so I paused for a few minutes to chat. My fear of Timber was so ingrained, however, that I kept looking across the yard up to the house. His unknown whereabouts made me nervous, so I finally asked, "Where's Timber?"

"Oh, I keep him inside when I work out here. He gets so jealous and protective. He goes crazy if someone even walks by."

I caught a glimpse of him then, through the living room window. I relaxed, feeling I had survived yet another Sat.u.r.day.

"He's a great dog," the neighbor interjected. "I take him for walks to get him some exercise. He's about the smartest dog I've ever met."

Laura added, "Timber is so strong I can't handle him alone on a leash. Pete is working to control him with voice commands."

Pete talked about his experiences in training dogs. "I really don't think Timber would hurt you," he concluded.

I laughed. "If you only knew how many times I've heard that one."

He tried to explain, and while he talked, I noticed how Laura looked at him. They were both single. It occurred to me that Pete wasn't really doing anything to his car, just using it as a pretext to talk to his neighbor.

Out of habit I glanced at the house again. Detecting movement through the bank of living room windows, my senses jumped to high alert. Ears straining, I heard Timber's m.u.f.fled barks from inside. My heart began beating faster. I stepped aside, into the shade, to peer more intently through the windows at the other side of the yard. I could see the dog racing back and forth across the living room. Suddenly, he changed course and charged at the large, single-paned windows. When he leaped, he seemed to hang in mid air; then gla.s.s exploded, the screen flipped away, and Timber roared into the front yard.

Laura screamed, and I'm not too sure that I didn't do the same. The huge dog was on us in seconds. I've never used my dog spray, and I don't think it would have slowed Timber down anyway, but there wasn't time for that now. I ducked behind the woman, swinging my satchel off my shoulder to protect myself.

Timber came in low and fast, banking tight around Laura's legs. He almost knocked her down trying to get at me. Snarling, he lunged, and I whipped my mailbag between us just in time. He got a mouthful of the canvas bag and thrashed it from side to side while I desperately hung on to the shoulder strap. Mail flew everywhere. Timber's teeth punctured the satchel, and it became lodged in his mouth. I truly had a tiger by the tail.