Part 4 (2/2)

He snorted. ”Yeah, right. Do you know how expensive all that equipment is? They have me over a barrel. I could never afford to go it alone.”

But I knew he was thinking about it, and probably had been since long before I mentioned it, because one day he just up and quit his job. He posted his name and phone number at all the truck stops and wayside rest areas within range. At home and in his pickup truck, he installed CB radios to take calls at all hours of the day.

He started small, working out of his truck. The next year he added a big trailer for hauling more tools, parts, and tires. Salvaged truck parts began appearing on his porch. Most of these he was able to recondition and use in repairs. Business kept building.

One morning he came home as I was delivering his mail. His coveralls were filthy, covered with grease and torn at the knees. He looked exhausted, but when I greeted him a broad smile blossomed across his face.

”Been out all night,” he said.

”Are you sorry you took the plunge?”

”No way. These over-the-roaders will pay anything to keep their rigs running. They're all on tight schedules, and when they need help, they usually need it right now.”

He laughed while inspecting his blackened hands. ”If I can scrub some of this grunge off, I hope to do some paperwork, then maybe get a nap.”

One day I noticed a school bus parked in front of his house. Perched on a ladder, Michael operated a power grinder, sanding off the orange paint. ”You work on school buses, too?” I asked.

”Nope. This baby is mine.” Climbing down from the ladder, he added, ”Come look in the back door.”

The rear b.u.mper had been extended, and onto it had been bolted a huge steel vise. When he opened the back door, I saw that all the pa.s.senger seats had been removed.

”This is my new shop on wheels. I can haul all my tools and plenty of spare parts. I'm converting some of the wiring to run power tools. What do you think of it?”

”Amazing,” was all I could say.

The handfuls of mail he received every day told me that checks were coming in from trucking companies all over the country. He always left his outgoing mail for me to take: hand-addressed envelopes to firms far and wide. Business was steady and continuing to grow.

After a while, a wife was added to the picture, and more recently a son. I always smile to see the old bus b.u.mping through the neighborhood. One thing that hasn't changed, however, is the dirty coveralls.

”I buy them at the second-hand store,” he explained one time. ”They're impossible to clean, so I wear them until they're shot, then I throw them away. They only cost a couple of bucks, so it's cheaper than trying to clean them.”

His wife does the books now, so he's getting more sleep. She even learned CB lingo to take calls. A large addition has been added to the back of the house, and a two-and-a-half stall garage has replaced the old dilapidated one-car structure. His little enterprise is a great success story.

Late on a cold winter night I stopped at a neighborhood convenience store to gas up before going home. Inside the store, I was surprised when a transient warming himself at the coffee machine turned out to be my friend the mechanic.

”Got another call?” I asked.

”Yeah. I've been running all day.” From his grime-darkened face flashed the smooth white grin. ”It never fails. On the coldest nights the calls back up.” He toasted me with a twenty-four-ounce cup of coffee. ”This should get me through.”

”Maybe you need to hire an apprentice, or take on a partner,” I said.

”Been thinking about that,” he said, heading toward the cas.h.i.+er.

He wore black coveralls, which hid most of the dirt, but I could see how they bagged out at the knees. One of the back pockets was torn and hung down his leg like a piece of shedding skin. I thought they must be nearing retirement to the trashcan. A wool stocking cap stretched down low over his forehead, and fingerless gloves revealed his grimy fingernails and hands. The leather on his steel-toed boots was worn off in front, exposing the steel plates underneath.

He shuffled up to the cas.h.i.+er, placed the coffee on the counter, and began digging inside the coveralls for his wallet. The woman looked him up and down, then glanced outside at the icy crystals blowing past the window. Her expression softened when she again looked at my friend, and she reached out to pat his hand gently. ”It's okay,” she said softly. ”You don't have to pay.”

Not Quite Lost and Found

One warm summer day, a large, unfamiliar dog suddenly appeared at my side. I was startled, but he didn't act aggressive or nervous. He simply walked up at an angle from the street and fell into stride beside me. He wore a collar and tags, but I had two fists full of mail, so I continued on my way, intending to look at his ID ID when my hands were free. when my hands were free.

When I stopped to put mail in a slot, he paused and waited beside me. If I took more than a few seconds, he quietly sat down and surveyed the neighborhood around us. He seemed to pay no particular attention to anything, either by sniffing or ”marking.” He was simply out for a walk, and apparently he had decided to share it with me for a while.

In a way it was flattering, the way he waited for me. With the neighborhood under his constant surveillance, I had my own canine bodyguard. He stood tall and slender, with the gray and white markings of a husky. There was an athletic elegance in his movement, a confidence in his light-footed stride, leaving no doubt that he was quite capable of taking care of himself.

With my hands finally free, I sat on the front steps of a corner house and whistled him closer. He came to me without a moment's hesitation. His tags told me that his name was Wolf, and he lived four or five blocks off my route.

Over the years I've brought many dogs home. Most of them lived on my route and knew me, so they were willing to jump into my jeep for a ride home. One black lab could open the gate to his yard if it wasn't secured with a pin through the latch. When I brought him home, he sat high atop the trays of mail, holding his thick Labrador bulk as steady as possible to avoid falling from his perch. He seemed to study our route, his big black head swiveling to inspect every object we pa.s.sed. I imagined him thinking, ”Well, duh! So this this is where I turned wrong and got lost!” is where I turned wrong and got lost!”

I sat on the front steps of the house petting Wolf. With his quiet disposition I got the distinct impression that he wasn't lost at all. He knew exactly where his house was, and he was visiting with me of his own volition. I had to decide if I should try to get him in my jeep for a ride home. The Postal Service wasn't paying me to rescue lost dogs, especially if it required leaving my route to do so.

On the other hand, the neighborhood wouldn't tolerate a dog running loose for too long. Animal Control would be notified, and I didn't want Wolf to have to endure that humiliation.

Just then the front door behind me opened and the lady of the house emerged. ”I see you have some company today,” she said.

I laughed. Jingling the dog tags, I said, ”His name is Wolf. I guess he decided to join me for a walk. I'm trying to decide if I dare drive him home.”

”Where does he live?”

I had talked to Jeanie many times, so I knew she had lost her own dog about a year earlier to old age and cancer. She was a kind person, with an abiding love of animals. An adult daughter had just moved back in with her.

”He lives just a few blocks away,” I said. ”Maybe half a mile at the most.”

Wolf suddenly stood up and climbed the steps. He gently nuzzled Jeanie, rubbing against her legs like a cat. She scratched his ears while looking at his tag. ”There's a phone number here. If you want, I'll call the owners to come over and get him. He can wait inside with me.”

Thanking her for her generosity, I got up to leave. She opened the door, and Wolf sauntered in like he owned the place. I walked away knowing that he would be safe and provided for.

The next day, Jeanie met me at the door. ”They sent a couple of their kids over to get him,” she informed me. ”Did you know there are five children in that household? I guess they leave the gate open all the time, especially when they're playing outside in the summer.”

She glanced up the block before returning her attention to me. ”I tell you what, though. That Wolf is the nicest dog. Made no fuss at all while he was here.” She lowered her voice, adding, ”I think he kind of liked the peace and quiet after those rambunctious children.” I left her standing on the stoop. There had been a hint of sadness in her voice, which I chalked up to the memory of her old dog.

A few days after my unscheduled meeting with Wolf, I encountered another surprise. At Jeanie's house, sitting in the suns.h.i.+ne on the front steps, was the big gray and white husky. He bowed his head to me, and gave one friendly wag of his tail. I sat down next to him and patted his head.

”What are you doing here?” I asked. He seemed very content, like he enjoyed the sun on his face and the warmth reflecting off the concrete steps. I reached behind me and rapped on the door.

Now it was my turn to say, ”Looks like you've got company, Jeanie.” A wonderful smile spread across her face when she saw Wolf. His tail wagged several times at the sight of her.

Ultimately, Wolf moved in full time. His family decided it was easier to visit him at Jeanie's rather than drag him home every couple of days. So, in the end, while I guess it wouldn't be accurate to say that Wolf had ever been truly lost, it certainly could be said that someone had found him.

GUS WAS AN OLD schnauzer mixed-breed who belonged to Karl, a retired letter carrier who lived on my route. Karl had been retired for more years than I had worked for the post office. Every now and then he came outside to discuss the latest changes in the job. One day while Karl and I stood at his door talking, Gus shot outside and hurled himself down the steps. He tore a direct line across the front yard into the street. I looked up at Karl, thinking maybe he should call out to him, but he just stood there, calmly watching his dog beat a straight-line path away from us. With no fences to impede his progress, Gus ran full speed through yards and alleys, never breaking course or his short-legged stride, until he was finally lost from sight. schnauzer mixed-breed who belonged to Karl, a retired letter carrier who lived on my route. Karl had been retired for more years than I had worked for the post office. Every now and then he came outside to discuss the latest changes in the job. One day while Karl and I stood at his door talking, Gus shot outside and hurled himself down the steps. He tore a direct line across the front yard into the street. I looked up at Karl, thinking maybe he should call out to him, but he just stood there, calmly watching his dog beat a straight-line path away from us. With no fences to impede his progress, Gus ran full speed through yards and alleys, never breaking course or his short-legged stride, until he was finally lost from sight.

”Geez, Karl, I'm really sorry,” I said, still stunned by the emphatic way in which Gus had made his escape.

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