Part 4 (1/2)

”Not that I can see.”

”Okay. We're thirty seconds out. Can you cover her? Keep her warm?”

It was at least eighty-five degrees outside. Sweat trickled off my brow into my eyes, but I a.s.sumed that shock was the real worry here. The woman's hands were ice cold. ”Anybody got a blanket?” I called to the crowd.

Within seconds we were deluged with blankets, beach towels, and sweaters.

Her eyes opened again as I covered her. A glint of light appeared, and I thought she actually looked at me. ”You're going to be okay,” I lied. ”Help is just seconds away.”

Then her eyes rolled back to a ghostly white stare. This time she really seemed gone. Squeezing her hands as hard as I could, I pleaded, ”Please, don't go away! Not after all this. Don't you dare die on me!”

A paramedic nudged me out of the way. Her lifeless hands flopped to the street as I let them go. I staggered through the crowd. That final vision haunted me for days.

One morning a few days later I overheard a fellow carrier describing how a car had hit a ”dear old patron” on his route. I knew it had to be the same woman. Through him, I learned that she survived, although doctors had to put her in a coma for two weeks to protect her brain. Months later she was home, telling her letter carrier all about her injuries-and her revised tour plans. Within a year, the seventy-year-old woman completed her long-delayed journey to Norway. I've never seen her again, although I probably wouldn't recognize her if I did. That first meeting was enough for me.

FOR A WEEK OR SO around Christmas I augment my uniform with a Santa Claus hat and beard. The little kids have a blast with that, and most of their parents enjoy it, too. One year I wore a full Santa outfit on Christmas Eve Day. Fortunately, it was cold enough to warrant the extra layer of clothing. around Christmas I augment my uniform with a Santa Claus hat and beard. The little kids have a blast with that, and most of their parents enjoy it, too. One year I wore a full Santa outfit on Christmas Eve Day. Fortunately, it was cold enough to warrant the extra layer of clothing.

Santa Claus seems to bring out the child in all of us, and many adults get into the spirit of it, too. They greet me with a ”Good morning, Santa!” whether they have children at home or not. The Santa hat and beard brings smiles to their faces and a bit of cheer to the neighborhood. But the little children are the ones who really make it great. They stand at the door, excitement pulsing through them, too shy to actually say anything. It's even better, should I happen to have a package for them.

”Thank you, Santa,” they say timidly, eyes full of wonder.

Then I have to tell them, ”I'm not really Santa Claus, you know. I'm just his helper. But the next time I see him, I'll tell him what a great kid you are.”

The excitement bubbles over then, and words tumble out of even the shyest ones, joyful at meeting Santa's helper. I have to admit, though, it's twice as much fun for me.

ONE SUMMER DAY the rumble of an approaching Harley-Davidson broke through my midday musings as I delivered mail. A full-dressed police motorcycle was leading a funeral procession. Warning lights flashed on either side of the winds.h.i.+eld, with another one rotating from a post extending off the rear fender. The uniformed officer raced into the intersection to secure it for the long line of cars that followed. the rumble of an approaching Harley-Davidson broke through my midday musings as I delivered mail. A full-dressed police motorcycle was leading a funeral procession. Warning lights flashed on either side of the winds.h.i.+eld, with another one rotating from a post extending off the rear fender. The uniformed officer raced into the intersection to secure it for the long line of cars that followed.

Whenever I see motorcycle cops I'm compelled to watch them pa.s.s, perhaps because they seem like a throwback to a less complicated era in history and law enforcement. Or, more likely, it's simply because there aren't that many of them around anymore. With flas.h.i.+ng lights and deep-throated engines, polished chrome and glistening paint, starched uniforms, a heavy bra.s.s badge, and law enforcement insignia on the shoulders, you have the cla.s.sic picture of police power and prestige.

The motorcycle sped into the intersection, stopping at an angle to face crossing traffic. A knee-high boot stepped out to support the bike. Dark aviator-style sungla.s.ses peered out from beneath a short black visor on the helmet. An Adam's apple bobbed as a gloved hand rose to halt oncoming traffic. Only one vehicle approached, driven by a young man I recognized from my route.

Still a teenager, Darryl had been driving for only a couple of years. He used the old family car to attend a nearby two-year college. Slouched low in the seat, his head barely rising above the dashboard, he held the steering wheel in one hand while heavy ba.s.s notes reverberated from his stereo.

I had known Darryl throughout his entire school career. When he was in high school, his parents and I worried a little about some of his friends. They were a tough bunch, and it seemed for a while as though Darryl might take a wrong turn. But, as his father and I commented in a recent conversation, it appeared the worst was over. Darryl still liked to dress down, and the old family car looked like a junker under his care, but he went to school every day, and his father told me he thought Darryl was showing an interest in a career in business.

I followed the young man's line of sight back to the motorcycle cop, who was preparing to motor off to secure another intersection. Just then, Darryl pulled away from the stop sign. He turned in front of the cop, trying to get ahead of the procession. Why he waited so long, I don't know, but darting out ahead of the motorcycle was a bad idea.

Not seeing him right away, the police officer started off, then dodged toward the curb to avoid sideswiping Darryl's car. The next instant he shot forward, and I've never seen a cop so angry.

”Pull over!” he screamed at the kid. He took but a second to overtake the car. Waving wildly, he motioned to the curb. ”Pull that car over. Now!” he bellowed.

Darryl went pale with fear. He sat up straight, both hands on the wheel, and diligently maneuvered to the side. The police officer leaped off the motorcycle to lambaste him at the driver's window.

”Are you crazy? What's wrong with you?” the cop demanded. ”Of all the stupid things to do-you could have killed me!”

Showing a little sense at last, Darryl kept his mouth shut.

Furious, the cop reached through the window, grabbed the kid by the s.h.i.+rt, and yanked him up face to face. Even from across the street I could hear every word.

”You stupid fool! I ought to haul your a.s.s in and lock you up!”

The funeral hea.r.s.e pa.s.sed them then, effectively interrupting the barrage of insults. Looking around, the officer realized he had to leave. Turning back to the kid, he said, ”You wait right here. Understand me? You sit right here until I get back. You move so much as an inch, I'll throw the book at you.”

With that, he remounted the motorcycle. Before racing off, he pointed a gloved finger at Darryl, and yelled, ”Not one inch!” Then he tore off, whipping up a cloud of sand and pebbles.

From my angle at the corner I watched the young man as the funeral procession pa.s.sed. He slowly slouched down again, probably out of embarra.s.sment this time. Even after the last car pa.s.sed he remained sitting there. I considered the situation, and realized he had quite the dilemma on his hands. The whole incident had happened so quickly. I never saw the police officer take note of the license plate, or even the make or model of Darryl's car. There hadn't been time. In all likelihood then, the cop had no way of ever tracking him down.

I also knew that a funeral procession heading this way meant burial at Fort Snelling National Cemetery. That was at least four or five miles away. By the time his escort duties were finished, the police officer could very well have forgotten the whole incident. Maybe his threat had simply been a bluff.

On the other hand . . .

I crossed the street to work my way back down the other side. After all that commotion, complete silence hung over the neighborhood. Even the car's radio was turned off. He never looked at me, didn't seem to even notice me pa.s.sing. I wondered if he was considering the two horns of his dilemma, or if he was just too scared to move. Either way, when I returned to my jeep at the end of the block, he was still parked there by the side of the road.

A couple of hours later, after finis.h.i.+ng my route, I detoured through the intersection on my way back to the post office. Darryl's car was still parked at the curb, the young man sitting in the shade on the lawn nearby. He had made his choice.

I talked to his parents a few days later. His father told me that he had spotted the car on his way home from work. This was late in the afternoon, several hours after the cop had left. Thinking his son had car trouble, he stopped to help. The kid confessed the whole story to him.

”He sat there all afternoon,” the father recounted with a grin. ”Five hours or more. When I said, 'Let's go home,' he shook his head, and said, 'No way.' I had to call the police to dispatch a squad car. A cop talked to him, gave him a lecture, then sent him home.”

”He didn't get a ticket or anything?”

”Nope. But he sure learned a lesson.”

Darryl went on to finish school, although the old family car didn't last that long. He's married now and manages a home improvement store in the suburbs. On a day shortly before last Christmas, I encountered Darryl and his wife at his folks' house. An infant lay curled in his arms when they greeted me at the door. Darryl grinned at the sight of my Santa hat and beard.

”I hoped you'd wear it,” he said. ”I remember as kids we'd always watch for you during Christmas break.”

Pulling off a glove, I reached out to tickle the baby's chin. A toothless smile grinned back at me. I guess you just never know the effect a uniform will have on a person.

The American Dream

Several years ago I met Michael, a young man who had purchased a small house on my route. The structure was in dire need of repairs. He set to work on it, and over time we discussed his progress with plumbing, electrical, and painting. He was single and handy, and I enjoyed his perplexity over curtains and flowerpots while admiring his prowess installing new doors and windows.

Minneapolis has thousands of wonderful early to mid-twentieth-century dwellings-solid bungalows and st.u.r.dy wooden frame structures built to withstand the capricious nature of our northern climate. It's fascinating to watch them being cared for and restored. This particular post-and-beam structure, built in 1906, went through a dramatic restoration after Michael moved in. A contractor was brought in to work on the major exterior components, while Michael continued his slow but steady progress with the living s.p.a.ces.

At the outset, the old house seemed to sag and slouch under the great weight of its years. That was understandable when I saw four old roofs torn off, as well as three layers of siding. At least one of the layers of siding contained high levels of asbestos, and the contractor showed me the heavy black plastic liner in the dumpster used to contain the carcinogenic fibers.

”Every night we close that bag off to seal in the asbestos,” he said, pointing at the dumpster. ”I'll be glad when we can finally get it out of here.”

”Me, too,” I thought.

Within a few short weeks a new roof was installed, as well as lightweight vinyl siding. The house now seemed to stand taller and straighter with all that weight removed. It looked lighter and healthier, like a person getting back into shape by dieting and working out.

As repairs progressed, Michael told me how dissatisfied he had become with his job. He was employed as a diesel mechanic in a local shop, and his boss called him out at all hours of the night to make emergency repairs on trucks pa.s.sing through the metro area. ”I know how much they're billing for my work,” he complained to me one time. ”But I still get the same old hourly wage.”

Knowing how hard he worked, I suggested, ”Why don't you start your own business?”