by Malfeasinator » Fri Dec 25, 2020 5:59 pm
I used to be mailman. For all of a couple glorious months, I got to see slices of life most people never get to see.
For one thing, I noticed nobody takes care of their mailboxes. I guess you don't think of it until you see it in the field. You open up a box and it's got spiders in it, bees, you name it. Or you go to touch the box itself and it's barely hanging on and got rotten wood on the stand or whatever.
But what makes delivering mail weird is that there are places where it's still old school, as they somehow get mail delivered on foot. In Florida. In the hot ass sun. In Florida.
One route was this trailer park for old folks, and according to one woman and her FitBit, the route takes around 4 hours and it's 12 miles. But it's not like a nice flat 12 miles. It's up and down some hills (in Florida? Where'd they get them, I don't know), and you have to carry around a satchel with enough mail for the loop where you parked, and some packages, and you still have to pick up outgoing mail, as well. You park a lot. You stop to drink water a lot. You get asked if you'd like some water a lot, and if you're smart, you say yes and thank you and gulp it down, because you never bring enough water.
The job is whatever. I'm not going to talk about that. What I am going to talk about is how tacky people are when they decorate their homes.
I mean these people are living here at least 6 months out of the year, and let's face it, that means there's at least 50/50 chance this is going to be the home they die in, and they just run out of ideas.
People put up these signs like "It's 5 o'clock somewhere!" Like "hey, look at me, I like to drink!" But it's like, you don't need to justify it to anybody. You're in a community full of people who have all retired. It is always 5:01 at your house, your neighbor's houses, and the whole community. You are forever off the clock, sir and/or madam. You live in a bubble separated from the rest of town, full of other people who can do whatever they want, whenever they want to do it. Get smashed whenever you feel like it, you've earned it. Play chicken with those golf carts you love to drive around. It's your time. Go crazy. Raise some hell while there's still some life in you.
Very few people in a place like that will actually make their home have some personality or pizzazz. Nautical theme? Yeah, that's never been done before. Oh, you like sand and seashells, because this is Florida? Oh, aren't you precious. Maybe some day some graffiti artists will retire and spice the place up a bit.
The other thing about working for the Post Office is the questions. Sure, you get the usual, "do you have change of address forms," and the like. But I also used to get questions I had no idea how to answer. "Hey, how do I get the stimulus check? Do I have to file taxes? I haven't filed taxes in 20 years." That was a real question, and I didn't want to burst the guy's bubble, but if he hadn't filed taxes in 20 years, then maybe the stimulus wasn't for him. I don't know, just my guess.
I mostly just felt sorry for them. I don't think most of them even know what video games are like. They need something to do to keep their mind sharp, and instead they seem to just hide in the dark and crank the A.C. way the fuck up for those blistering days in March. "How are you sunburned? It's not even Summer yet!" "It's Florida." Maybe they're just taking some practice naps. Who knows? The alternatives could be worse. Old people orgies might be happening.
The worst thing about that gig is that I couldn't help but notice when some of them were uh, I don't know, out of place. Like you'd see a granny, but somehow she'd have some perfect feature somewhere that belonged on a younger person, and it'd really stick out. I started playing this game in my head called "Franken-Hottie", where I tried to blend together the best bits of all the grandmas I'd seen to form a hypothetical "Super Senior", and gods help me, I did it. I actually did it, and it didn't take as long as I would have guessed.
So I guess working at the Post Office mainly taught me that I'm a pig and I'll probably always be one.