Read Online Beware of Cat by Vincent Wyckoff - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vincent Wyckoff
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recklessly. Down the length of the parking lot they flew like a small flock of birds, too much in the moment to notice me.
At the far end they banked into wide turns before racing back. A firm grip and a mighty jerk on the handlebars created the most airtime from two speed bumps. Exhilaration pushed them ever faster and higher. On this, the first day after the last day of the school year, three months of summer vacation must have felt like an eternity of freedom.
From the open door of my postal jeep I watched them careen across the parking lot yet again. At the far end, one of the boys dismounted and grabbed an old board from beside a mound of sand the street department had dumped after the spring street sweeping. He leaned the board against the curb to create a ramp leading out of the parking lot. No sooner was it in place than one of his comrades zoomed in at full speed, launched himself off the ramp, and hurtled himself high up on the pile of sand. They took turns to see who could soar the farthest. It was a fast-paced circus act in which none of the horseplay is scripted, and all the stunts are impromptu.
One of the boys dropped his bike at the side of the sand pile and scampered over to the corner of the parking lot where the park department had placed an outdoor toilet. Instead of going inside, however, he knelt down to reach underneath the enclosed unit. In the meantime, the other two boys left their bikes and took seats against the mound of sand. Jostling and elbowing each other, they squirmed impatiently, flinging handfuls of sand, until their friend returned. He had extracted a magazine from its hiding place under the toilet, and now he took a seat between his two companions.
My postal jeep was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Positioned directly in front of where the boys sat, with my door wide open, I was totally exposed to their view. Even so, I was sure they hadn’t noticed me. I felt a little self-conscious at the thought that I might be spying on them, but at the same time I didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing their pre-adolescent escapades. So, in the end, I simply watched as they became quietly engrossed in turning the pages of the magazine.
For a few minutes the park became utterly still. It was like plunging into a vacuum. But it wasn’t long before I heard a snicker, then a snort. Soon a grimy finger pointed at a picture and all three boys burst out laughing.
Within moments the magazine was safely stashed back under the toilet. Once again the boys mounted their bikes. The few quiet moments were quickly forgotten as they charged across the parking lot with renewed energy and shouts of delight. They flew past me and continued out of the parking lot, skittering away like leaves blown by the wind.
The Power of the Uniform
Wearing the same outfit to work every day sure makes it easier to get dressed so early in the morning. Even though all letter carriers wear the same uniforms, making us easy to identify on the street, there are subtle differences. For instance, my feet seldom get cold, so all winter I get by with simple rubber galoshes against the snow, while many carriers plod around in heavy felt-lined boots. Because we handle thin pieces of paper all day, mittens are too clumsy, but you’ll find about as many styles of gloves in use as there are carriers. I have a partially amputated finger on my left hand that is impossible to keep warm. To get me through the winter, my ingenious wife slit open the seam between two fingers on my glove, sewed them together, and now my short finger rides along in warmth beside my index finger.
Some letter carriers get by with baseball caps all winter, while others use the USPS -issued fake-fur hats with the warm earflaps. We have competitions each spring to see who will be the first to wear shorts out on the route. But all these minor differences aside, the blue letter-carrier uniforms are easily recognized moving through the neighborhood.
ONE
At the far end they banked into wide turns before racing back. A firm grip and a mighty jerk on the handlebars created the most airtime from two speed bumps. Exhilaration pushed them ever faster and higher. On this, the first day after the last day of the school year, three months of summer vacation must have felt like an eternity of freedom.
From the open door of my postal jeep I watched them careen across the parking lot yet again. At the far end, one of the boys dismounted and grabbed an old board from beside a mound of sand the street department had dumped after the spring street sweeping. He leaned the board against the curb to create a ramp leading out of the parking lot. No sooner was it in place than one of his comrades zoomed in at full speed, launched himself off the ramp, and hurtled himself high up on the pile of sand. They took turns to see who could soar the farthest. It was a fast-paced circus act in which none of the horseplay is scripted, and all the stunts are impromptu.
One of the boys dropped his bike at the side of the sand pile and scampered over to the corner of the parking lot where the park department had placed an outdoor toilet. Instead of going inside, however, he knelt down to reach underneath the enclosed unit. In the meantime, the other two boys left their bikes and took seats against the mound of sand. Jostling and elbowing each other, they squirmed impatiently, flinging handfuls of sand, until their friend returned. He had extracted a magazine from its hiding place under the toilet, and now he took a seat between his two companions.
My postal jeep was the only vehicle in the parking lot. Positioned directly in front of where the boys sat, with my door wide open, I was totally exposed to their view. Even so, I was sure they hadn’t noticed me. I felt a little self-conscious at the thought that I might be spying on them, but at the same time I didn’t dare move for fear of disturbing their pre-adolescent escapades. So, in the end, I simply watched as they became quietly engrossed in turning the pages of the magazine.
For a few minutes the park became utterly still. It was like plunging into a vacuum. But it wasn’t long before I heard a snicker, then a snort. Soon a grimy finger pointed at a picture and all three boys burst out laughing.
Within moments the magazine was safely stashed back under the toilet. Once again the boys mounted their bikes. The few quiet moments were quickly forgotten as they charged across the parking lot with renewed energy and shouts of delight. They flew past me and continued out of the parking lot, skittering away like leaves blown by the wind.
The Power of the Uniform
Wearing the same outfit to work every day sure makes it easier to get dressed so early in the morning. Even though all letter carriers wear the same uniforms, making us easy to identify on the street, there are subtle differences. For instance, my feet seldom get cold, so all winter I get by with simple rubber galoshes against the snow, while many carriers plod around in heavy felt-lined boots. Because we handle thin pieces of paper all day, mittens are too clumsy, but you’ll find about as many styles of gloves in use as there are carriers. I have a partially amputated finger on my left hand that is impossible to keep warm. To get me through the winter, my ingenious wife slit open the seam between two fingers on my glove, sewed them together, and now my short finger rides along in warmth beside my index finger.
Some letter carriers get by with baseball caps all winter, while others use the USPS -issued fake-fur hats with the warm earflaps. We have competitions each spring to see who will be the first to wear shorts out on the route. But all these minor differences aside, the blue letter-carrier uniforms are easily recognized moving through the neighborhood.
ONE
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