Dan McGinley

Day 158: Monday, March 15, 2010:  You’re not fat, you’re pleasantly universal.

It’s been an exciting (yawn) couple of weeks learning safety and mail delivery basics from the post office, and now it’s time to show up and start learning from the real deal.  In a twist of weird timing, tonight Andy Rooney did a piece on how vital the post office is, and the lost art of letter writing.  He hates e-mails, but this comes from a man who hates anything post 1919.  Sometimes I don’t blame him, and I really needed a pep talk to start this new gig.  Pardon my crybaby attitude.

I’m going to report from the battlefield, and hopefully this writing outlet will help me cope.  I’ve been talking to myself even more than usual, distracted and unfocused as I envision confrontations and verbal smack-downs with the guy I’ve been warned about, and then a drill instructor voice says, “Go in there and do your thing; the hell with anyone starting a pissing contest or mind game.  You have a beautiful family and good friends, so use it as a solid platform of security, and stay the course.  You’ve also been through the wringer a few times, so chill ‘em like a villian and lead by example.  Or follow directions closely.  Or at least pack a decent lunch.”

Then I cry and run in circles like a mad chicken. 

My friend said humor is the key to enlightenment in my little head, so I should try to step outside anything tense and shine a light of laughter or abstract perception.  She also said that if I keep getting really worked-up , then maybe it will be like nothing after all, because I expect things to be so bad.

Whoa.  I hope so.

Stay tuned.       

Day 157: Sunday, March 14, 2010:  Godzilla’s here; the army wants you to just “get in his way” for awhile.

My apologies to anyone looking for a fresh post for today . . . I’m very late, and will work on a good one for tomorrow.  It was sometime early this morning when I fell asleep, tired of writing and working on the house.  I’ll blame daylight savings . . .  

Day 156: Saturday, March 13, 2010:  Your dinner bell is in a church tower.

I’m screwed on so many levels:

The postal academy warned me that there was a HUGE problem in our town’s office, after my carrier already warned me, and now the time for reckoning has finally arrived.

I’m gonna cut some fucking heads, and it won’t be pretty.

I stopped by my future place of employment to hand in mileage sheets for paid training, where they said a social war was presently taking place, and nobody was talking to each other, and some guy was driving every newby out of there with pure hatred and crap, to find out that the spiteful prick was going to be my mentor, as I was taking over his Saturday route.

So here we go.

The postmaster introduced me to the office like they do when you’re a new kid in school — everybody staring and giving little raised hands — and then he led me to the back corner and introduced me to the guy who hates life, and sure enough, the motherfucker refused to speak and just stared at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.  He never offered his hand, smiled, or even spoke a word.

It made Clint Eastwood’s squint look like a goddamn pants party.

So I took his tiny little hand and shook the shit out of it, announcing that it was a GREAT pleasure to meet, and walked away with the giggling postmaster.

Stay tuned.  I don’t take any shit these days, but I do write plenty of notes.  How badly do I need this job?  How long will I last before calling him out like McMurphy in “Cuckoo’s Nest”?  We’ll soon find out, in some very interesting stories.

We’ve all had enough, and I really don’t mind walking point.  It seems that people are running scams everywhere we turn these days, just short of smashing through our front doors to pull it off.  I spent an hour on the phone tonight negotiating with cable people, who have happily ripped us off for years but will now quickly present a “special deal” because I finally called to ask some questions. 

Yesterday I got this fat package from Saint Joseph’s Indian School in South Dakota, full of notepads, address labels, and a beautiful dream catcher, not to mention a very touching note “written” by a Lakota child, explaining abusive and alcoholic parents beating them up ten ways to Sunday.  If I couldn’t give eight dollars, they would gladly take five to cover “hand-crafted” trinkets.

My daughter is working on a nice Irish American craft to send back, with a touching note about caring parents who could really use five bucks for a six pack of beer, to help forget about their next brutal job adventure that may last about . . . oh . . . ten fucking minutes.

It’s a Christian school, and we all know what takes place when men wear robes and try to impose manifest destiny.

Since I’m a Theravadin Buddhist, my daughter’s craft could say one of our many quotes, like “The greatest worth is self-mastery,” or “Don’t try to guilt strangers into sending money they don’t have.”  Instead of a dream catcher, we could send a fat little Buddha, so they could rub its tummy and contemplate the possibility of other super heroes who don’t hang hell over their heads. 

Stay tuned; I’m setting my present attitude to “rock and roll”. 

Day 155: Friday, March 12, 2010: Your brother is much smaller than you, and still considered humungous.

The following is from my very first post here, because I’m drawing a complete blank tonight.  I’m burned-out from this crazy ass postal academy, and getting all kinds of bad vibes about the situation I’m about to enter.  Very, very bad vibes.  All-out warnings, actually, of a war among employees and now I’m like, the tenth newby up to bat.

This is gonna get heavy, but for now . . . enjoy this story from a twisted past: 

I’ve survived some pretty bad car accidents, but calling any one of them “funny” would’ve been quite a long stretch.

Until a dark and stormy Monday, about six years ago:

I was driving to work in a torrential downpour, crawling along the left lane of Interstate 84 near Manchester, Connecticut, trying to keep some distance between my little Dodge Shadow and a Ford Explorer up ahead, when a giant monster truck started crowding my rear bumper.

“Crowding” is a serious understatement.  I was able to identify individual insects plastered on the monster truck’s glinting chrome grill as it filled my rearview mirror, and I envisioned his front tires rolling over my quaint little commuter car like it was a tiny speed bump.

Despite this heightened level of awareness, I never realized that a huge steel bumper was now perfectly aligned with my cheesy tin trunk.  That would be a very special surprise!

When the Ford Explorer started pulling away, I quickly followed suit to distance myself from that hulking Transformer, but it was a big mistake.  Trying to get away from a tank full of testosterone was like throwing a ball for your pet dinosaur to chase, and I watched a mad mountain of truck closing fast, with a loud roar of prehistoric domination.

I finally broke away from the rearview mirror, turning to the scene ahead, which had suddenly become the scene right THERE, in the form of a Ford Explorer tailgate.

I had no time to think about any of that “gentle pedal pumping and look for an out” kind of advice that you see on safety demonstrations.  After several morning coffees and frazzled stop and go nerves; it was more like “Skidding!  @#%*!”  WOMP!  WOMP!

The first WOMP was my car getting hit from behind, and the second was my entire life being pushed into the Ford Explorer, so that the little car could emulate a metal accordion, with mostly percussion sounds.

We all pulled slowly into the expansive breakdown area between the left highway lane and commuter lane, everyone getting out in the pouring rain, to see if everyone else was alright.

The young monster truck guy was very apologetic, and it was amazing how the entire back of my car had exploded into pieces, while his iron telephone pole of a bumper didn’t even have a scratch.

I turned to address the Ford Explorer, and saw a small girl standing out in the pouring rain, on slick pavement, with no adult in sight.

“Child in the road!” I screamed, running and waving my arms to get her attention.  “Don’t move, honey!  I’m coming!  I’m coming to get you!”

I raced over and prepared to scoop her up, when the awful truth hit home:

She was a dwarf.

I almost pitched forward trying to stop in time, apologizing profusely for the mistake, and she calmly waved it all away, obviously used to dealing with such misconceptions.

When she returned to the Explorer for insurance information, I saw extended hand levers for the brake and accelerator pedals, with a booster seat so she could see over the dashboard.  It was a stirring education at the most unexpected and inopportune time.

The heavy rain never stopped, and our accident backed traffic up for miles.

I got to hear a full report from my office manager, who had been carpooling with some of the company’s top executives, coming to our satellite office for an important meeting.

One of them was the CEO.

“We were in traffic forever,” the manager said, nursing a coffee after their meeting.  “Everyone was cursing the holdup as we crawled along for miles and miles, until I saw this huge monster truck and YOU standing out there with some state police, and it all made perfect sense.”

I forced a laugh, trying to downplay the unfortunate event.  “It sure was wild out there!  I’m just glad the dwarf wasn’t injured.”

“Dwarf?” he asked, staring at me.  “A dwarf and a monster truck?”

“Maybe they prefer ‘little people’.”

“Was the dwarf driving the monster truck?” he asked, trying to make a joke.

“No,” I said, quite seriously, “but she easily could have.”

. . . and my car would probably still be intact.

Day 154: Thursday, March 11, 2010: Your birthday wish was for a bigger cake.

My little girl is very excited these days.

She’s gonna sleep over at a friend’s house further up in the hills, near a reclusive monastary where a massive deer herd hangs out, often numbering around thirty head.  There’s a big bobcat up there too, who crossed in front of my car twice.  He could easily chow on our Jack Russell. 

Her bags have been packed since Monday, and she still has a few days to go.  Sometimes I hate that she’s an only child out in a very backwoods area, but we work hard to keep her in social activities, like Girl Scouts, martial arts, soccer, or these sleepovers.  We do a lot together too, like hike or catch and release fish.  I teach her guitar and fun things like tarot cards, or sometimes we just shop for siblings to adopt, but only if they’re left in a car too long at the casino or supermarket.

But I digress.  It’s time to put her to bed soon, and I’ve got one more day left in the Rural Postal Academy.  Oh wait!  She just spotted “Myth Busters” on the telly, so maybe bedtime can wait a bit.  What a fun kid . . . maybe I’m more like a sibling than an immature dad.  I’d like to think so.

Day 153: Wedesday, March 10, 2010: Your birthday wish was for a bigger cake.

I started the postal academy today, and things are much better.

No, really.

Stop laughing.

No, like, we have two other people in our class who are as desperate as me, and a lifer teaching us who is really cool, and reminds me exactly of my old high school science teacher, which immediately flashed the odor of formaldehyde up my nostrils like a packet of Peruvian marching powder back in the eighties, which spawmed another flashback that just compounded things even more, and here’s a picture of my friend’s musky:

The Alien Was Spawned in my Arm Pit!

He was bringing a perch up to the hole when this Musky CREATURE gulped the perch, and Ike brought in to the atmosphere with a six pound test line.  It measured 45 inches and he had to let it go because it was out of season.  This is a lake in Minnesota, and Ike (Ikola) was a childhood friend.  His dad is Williard Ikola, the winningest high school hockey coach in history, and an Olympic goalie from 1956, when they won the silver.  Cool, huh?  Like ice . . . .

Hope you liked my flashbacks!  Let’s open up a frog!

Day 152: Tuesday, March 9, 2010:  The vacuum blew again.  It can’t handle the food crumbs.

Yesterday, I took my daughter to see Jack Hanna’s “Into the Wild” at the Jorgenson Theater, even though his animal show shares the same title as a book and movie, whereas some poor college grad named McCandless starved to death in Alaska, trying to rough it.

Jack kind of missed that one. 

Anyway, Jack brought an Asian Palm Civet, which produces the most expensive coffee in the world at up to $100.00 a cup here in the U.S.  The civet eats coffee berries for the pulp and poops it out a day and a half later, in a convenient bean shape.  It’s digestive system does weird ensyme chemical stuff to the berries, and they have a chocolate flavor when processed.  I’ll stick with Swiss Miss, thanks.  Maybe I’ll set the Havahart trap with some coffee berries and see if a mouse does something similiar.  Perhaps the Chinese will buy it for a lot . . .

Or not. 

They thought of it first.   

If I drink cream and sugar it's ready-mixed!

Day 151: Monday, March 8, 2010:  None of these fat comments are insulting; you just nod in agreement. 

Jumping a lot of hoops lately, and falling into a Belichick state of mind:

Do my job (to get a job), jump those hoops to the best of my ability, and take one day at a time.  Never look ahead too far, and never dwell on yesterday, unless study questions were involved.

The federal government is hiring us as postal workers for a very low wage and no benefits, for an indefinate period of time.  The training is two weeks of intensive classroom and field testing, with defensive driving and real world situations on city streets, with stern instructors.

Yay.  I’m not nervous or intimidated, and will just do my best and be grateful for a shot at what appears to be the only ray of hope in this area for employment.  There are many veiled promises and other things at the USPS, but I could end up sacrificing a lot to stay afloat, and these situations are becoming common place now.  No benefits or decent pay, just be damn glad you have a job, and put up or shut up.  Kiss health benefits good-bye when COBRA runs out soon.  Your family is now in jeopardy, and we ask that you continue slaving away into the indefinate future.  Keep your kid off the damn playscape. 

I will absolutely not:

Kiss anyone’s butt.

Believe any promises of future employment or security.

Make any promises I can’t deliver.

Take sides or be bullied, intimidated, or messed with.

Stop looking for a better situation.

Writing my butt off.

So far so good.  I do look forward to a right-hand drive jeep-like vehicle, just because weird is fun.  Otherwise, one day at a time.

Day 150: Sunday, March 7, 2010:  You don’t shower; you use a power washer to purge the creases.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Day 149: Saturday, March 6, 2010:  Indians tried to tie you to a stake, but ran out of rope.

Another good Mac Story:

I remember him sitting in that porch chair like it was yesterday, with Boston traffic going by outside, telling me “The Dock Story”:

Shortly after World War I, a guy named McCree drowned while working the docks with Mac, so they wrapped the body and put it in a horse-drawn cart, after informing the police.  Their boss had been a foreign diplomat at one time, so they asked if he would tell McCree’s wife what happened, and he agreed, but they stopped at a bar first and bought each other liquid courage.

Eventually they drove the cart up to McCree’s house, and the former diplomat knocked hard on the door.

“Who the hell is it?” asked Mrs. McCree.

The diplomat asked, “Does the widow McCree live here?”

“I’m Mrs. McCree,” she said.  “But I’m no widow.”

He said, “The hell you’re not.  Wait till you see what we’re dragging up the stairs.”

Swear to God.  Mac would tell this story and laugh, then cry, then tell me the docks were full of tough, drunk characters.  The thing I remember most was his stand on the Vietnam war, and how he would personally “send our asses to Canada” if my brother and I were drafted.

“I know a lumber camp on the Saint John’s River,” he would tell me.  “It’s the best education you could ever have.”

God I miss you Mac.  I miss you so much.  I need to see Boston soon, and put another Red Sox hat on your grave.  They actually won another couple of World Series.  I swear.