Beware of Cat (15 page)

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. Hell, 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 crashing 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 shining 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 snatched 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, raccoons, 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 flustered 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, rushing 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 harass 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.

Returning to the station one day, I found my supervisor on the phone with a neighborhood resident. She reported that stray dogs were harassing her letter carrier, and he appeared to require assistance. 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 brass 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.

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 Saturday, though, chained out by his doghouse. He watched me pass 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 Lecter–like 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 Saturday.