The sun was shining brightly as I walked up the walk, and the warm breeze congratulated me for my good fortune. I was glad to be alive. Glad to be walking around in the great outdoors. . . and getting paid for it! The pressure and frantic activity of the office were left behind and I was free from any concern. My hands and feet and eyes and part of my brain were performing my task effortlessly while the rest of me was miles away, lost in thoughts and dreams. That was what I liked about my job, it freed my mind to think grand thoughts even in the midst of a rather mundane activity. Unlike the factory worker, the department store manager, or even the wealthy doctor, my work environment was capped by the wide blue sky and filled with the songs of busy birds, the shouts and laughter of children, and the crunch and scrape of shoe leather on sidewalk or road shoulder.

Not two months previously, I was content to push a broom and gather the garbage and sweep up the messes of little children. Mopping floors and vacuuming the teachers’ lounge of my old elementary school, I was temporarily satisfied with life. Seventeen years old, soon to graduate from high school and looking forward to attending one of the state universities in the fall of 1973, I was making a comfortable three dollars and twenty-five cents an hour and not working all that hard. As a custodial engineer, I was qualified and occupied and that seemed to be enough. Enough that is, until events took a different turn and changed the course of my life forever.

At the time, my father was working for the Post Office and after a distinguished career as a mailman, he had just switched jobs and was starting training as a V.O.M.A. (some sort of vehicle maintenance clerk). He mentioned to me that there were openings for letter carriers and clerks and suggested I check it out. After some initial misgivings (who wants to work where his father works?) I decided to look into it. Besides, the Post Office was offering a whopping four dollars and twenty-two cents an hour! And with visions of college dancing in my head, I determined to investigate such a tempting opportunity.

To enter the Post Office, prospective employees were required to take a civil service examination given at certain times of the year at a specified place. Having filled out the application, I awaited the notice of date and location where I would take the test. When I received it, I also received a sample of the test with which I was instructed to familiarize myself. More curious than frightened, I looked it over and figured that it would not be terribly difficult to master. Indeed, getting to the test would prove to be more taxing.

The day of the test finally arrived and nervous as I could be, I set out. The location was the courthouse of a small suburban town barely seven miles from my house, a place I had driven by numerous times since securing my driver’s license. But this morning was a little strange. As I circled the one-way block, passing the courthouse, I almost turned around and went home. On my third or fourth circuit, steeling myself, I built up enough courage to say to myself, “next time around, I’m going to pull up and go in there and take that test.” And after two more trips around the block, I did just that.

Time was running out and the test was due to start on the hour, so I had to hurry. The test was being given in the basement of the old building in one of the recruiting rooms for the armed services. The outside entrance was nestled at the bottom of a curving flight of stone steps, camouflaged by stately bushes and flowering vines. I almost missed the entryway, but had the luck to spot another prospect navigating his way, date notification and bright yellow sample test clutched tightly in his hand. I hobbled after him and entered the room just a minute or so before the hour and looked for a seat.

I could say that I nearly got off on the wrong foot with the Post Office, but that would be trite. Nearly all eyes were fixed on me as I made my way to an unoccupied seat and settled in. I probably would have gotten there without much fanfare if it hadn’t been for the crutches. The examiners exchanged what I liked to think were sympathetic smiles and checked their watches. The test was nearly ready to begin.

The crutches didn’t bother me at all, and I knew I would not be needing them much longer, but they seemed to cause quite a stir among the other prospects. With their smug smiles and hushed snickering, the others seemed to relax. At least they would have a better chance of making the Post Office than a cripple! Letter carriers had to walk after all, didn’t they?

Such a response did nothing to settle me though. The butterflies I always felt before taking any kind of test were becoming more agitated and I only wished the test would commence. Cursing myself for spraining my ankle playing basketball a couple of days previously, I gathered my crutches under my desk and waited.

The test itself was simple. All that is required of a person desiring a Postal career is a sharp and quick memory and the ability to stay calm during a simple test. The specialized test I took was called a “Clerk-Carrier” test, designed to explore competency in the areas needed for those job classifications. By contrast, for example, the “Mail Handler” test is quite different as the skills required to dump sacks of mail are considerably less cerebral and more physical, demanding above all else a sense of coordination and common sense.

But the “Clerk-Carrier” test is a mental feat. Anxiety is a sure killer for this simple test as there is a time limit on each of the two parts. Preparation for the test consumed most of the two hours we spent at the examination, for the test itself took a mere six or seven minutes all told.

The first part of the test dealt with visual recognition of the difference between similar addresses. In the course of a workday a letter carrier and especially a clerk will encounter scores of similar addresses. His job is to differentiate between them to insure proper delivery. For example, one address might read 1234 Anderson Road and another 1324 Andersen Drive. The numbers are different, one is a road, the other a drive, and the spelling of the road name is different: Andersen or Anderson. What makes the test tough is that the time allowed to examine each pair of addresses is miniscule.

If I was to finish this first section (and they purposely design the test so no one finishes) I would have to examine each pair, determine the difference or lack thereof, and enter a little black circle on the answer sheet signifying “alike” or “different” at an average rate of one pair every two or three seconds. The test lists line after line (some one hundred) of these similar addresses and by the time the allotted time was up I was ready to jump out the window. I thought I was seeing double and was quite surprised and disappointed that I hadn’t been able to finish. The examiners just smiled and began with a new set of instructions.

Part two had been giving me fits all along as I had studied the sample test and I was anything but confident of this section of the test. Again, the skill being tested for was recognition, but this time it involved memory. Five columns a, b, c, d, and e each contained five addresses or portions of addresses. We were given twenty minutes or so to study them, memorizing their locations in the appropriate columns. During this twenty minutes the examiners kept interrupting us with the test instructions. After about five minutes of trying to memorize some of the locations, they would stop us and make us take a sample test to see how well we were doing.

Well, we weren’t. And this was where the strain began to show. Some of the applicants were openly hostile, others were melancholic, and one was contemplating suicide. At least it seemed that way to me, the way he kept pounding his head with his fists. I guess he was having trouble. So was I. But a plan was beginning to form that I felt increasingly good about. I knew I was never going to excel using their method of study, so I turned deaf ears on their instructions and started working out my own system.

I was and still am a football fan, and a moderately knowledgeable one. What I saw before me, the five columns a, b, c, d, and e each containing five addresses like 6400 – 6899 Black Ave and River Drive South and 200 – 499 Billings and Cotton Place East became linemen from NFL teams. (This was at the time of the switch from the traditional four-man line to the five-man line with only two linebackers.) There was defensive end 400 – 899 Creek Rd., left tackle South Freemont Ave., noseguard 1234 Andersen Rd., right tackle Mammoth Dr. and defensive end 100 – 600 Broadway. Of course, I shortened the names to make them easier to recall (and quicker too). And remembering the position they played was a key as well, because although 1234 Andersen was a noseguard (column c), 1324 Anderson was a defensive end (column e). I think the memory work was made easier that way because I saw whole groups of five instead of individual names and addresses. I improvised further, allowing two of the five groups to become offensive linemen which could be matched (in my mind) against the defensive “players” and thereby distinguish the differences even further, creating a clearer mind picture than I otherwise could have. I actually enjoyed that part of the test. Whether my method was going to work or not, I didn’t know. But it sure made the test more interesting.

The second part was also geared so that no one was supposed to be able to finish it, and the examiners kept telling us that we should concentrate on getting the ones we did manage to answer correct as we would be penalized for incorrect answers. But of course, I wasn’t listening. I went ahead with my system and not only finished the second part, but went back and was able to check over about a third of it before the time was up.

After the test was over I remember some of the reactions of the applicants were quite negative, some complaining about the *#?$* government’s idiotic tests, while others compared notes like “400 – 699 Baker was in column d, right?” And “Oh no! I marked that one ‘b’ every time I saw it”. I was careful not to say anything about defensive ends or noseguards, I wasn’t sure if anyone would understand. Besides, I felt superior to everybody because I had beaten the government at its own game. “Can’t finish”, huh? I sure showed them! Now it would be a matter of time (and waiting) ’til I found out if the system worked. Things were looking up. After all, I could still be a janitor.

I left the test feeling somewhat relieved and vowed to put it out of my mind. I wasn’t going to worry over my performance–I’d done the best I could. Actually, I was in high spirits and nearly forgot about the veteran preference offered to former servicemen granting them five extra points on their final test grades. I remembered there were some vets there, but still felt confident about my test score. I got into my car, negotiated the one-way block, and headed home.

Summer was drawing near and my test results did nothing to dampen the joyous spirit. Out of a possible score of one hundred, I managed a ninety-six point three composite score and my father assured me that I was as good as hired. In spite of veteran preference, I would still be high on the register which consisted of all the test scores of all the applicants arranged in descending order. New employees were selected and interviewed on the basis of their scores, starting with the highest. Nearly two months to the day after I took the test I was scheduled for an interview. School was out and my career as janitor was nearly over when I was interviewed. Afterwards, it was.

I gave my notice and prepared to report for work at the government postal installation in a town nearby. After completing the physical examination, I was ready to be initiated into the government service as a postal letter carrier, a swift courier eager to keep his appointed rounds. College was still in the back of my mind and softball season was just starting.

Now, as an official letter carrier, walking in the bright sunshine, contemplating my good fortune, I committed the cardinal sin of letter carriers everywhere– I let my awareness slip. As I turned into the driveway and started up the walk, a dark shaggy shape hurtled into my peripheral vision from around the corner of the house, followed by an identical blur, both headed my way.

Though I was “fingering” the mail, searching for the letters to be delivered to this particular address from the hand bundle I was carrying, my trained instincts took over. Even before I had adjusted my visual perception and locked in on the two onrushing projectiles, my body was reacting with the speed and precision of a well-oiled machine.   Changing my step in mid-air, I turned to face the frontal assault and adopted a slightly forward canted stance, feet spread apart, balanced on the balls of my feet ready to pivot and turn as the attack progressed. My knees bent smoothly with a fluid motion as I crouched and as my left shoulder was dipping slightly, the mail bag slipped down from my shoulder, the shoulder strap slapping into the palm of my hand. Brandishing my shield in this manner, my right hand searched hurriedly through the bag for the mace dog repellant. It came up empty and I cursed myself for failing to check my equipment before I delivered that relay.

The dogs were almost woolly in appearance, black, curly-haired dogs of some unknown breed and apart from the sharp barking and the sunlight glinting on those flashing white teeth, one may indeed have mistaken them for their docile animal cousins shepherds are so fond of.

As they approached me I could see that they did not work well together, that they had not been trained well as attack dogs. Instead of circling me and attacking from two opposite directions, alternately feinting and biting as good attack dogs would do, these buffoons both launched themselves at me from the front the one slightly ahead of the other. And as I said, I was operating at maximum efficiency, and the mail bag shot out once, twice, each time making solid contact. If I had been carrying catalogs the effect could not have been better. Each time the bag encountered the face of a dog, it did so with the force of a vicious kick and I beat off their initial onslaught. One dog went rolling, and whimpering as he did. The other regained his balance and started toward me again. Only this time he kept his distance, growling fiercely.   I suppose he was not yet ready to test that surprisingly hard mail bag again, a new experience quite unlike the soft, yielding, and delicious flesh he had probably grown accustomed to over the years.

I was about to advance on him, taking the fight to him and fix him with another good blow when I heard a horrible shriek. The dog heard it too and turned tail and ran back towards the house, his companion following ashamedly. I relaxed and turned to see their master and his wife approaching me, looking somewhat worried.

“Are you O.K.?” they asked me, looking me over. I saw the gleam in their eyes and imagined that they would have been pleased to spot a small rivulet of crimson dripping down my trousers. But I didn’t let on that I knew.

“I’m sorry,” the man said, “they never bite anybody. They’re good dogs. You must have done something to provoke them.”

Sure. I was attempting to deliver their mail and didn’t realize that would threaten their canines. I couldn’t think of anything to say, their ridiculous defensive attitude thoroughly surprising me.   I initially thought they would fuss over me, apologizing, and maybe even offer me a cool glass of lemonade. You know, sort of bribing me to forget the whole thing like a good postal patron would do.   I realized they must have moved in from out of town and were ignorant of local customs, so I mumbled something about keeping their dogs tied up or in the house and after threatening not to deliver their mail any more until they complied, I handed them their mail and went on my way.

As I walked away, my back was taut, feeling those accusing eyes boring into me and the thought of sending those dogs after me boiling in their minds. They were probably thinking of either getting new dogs or training these better. But I had already reached the next house and put the incident out of my mind. I was still alive, still unscathed, and still getting paid four dollars and twenty-two cents an hour.