I can’t believe it sometimes.

January 20, 2004

I can’t believe it sometimes. I attribute some of the blank and hostile expressions to my mumbling. Shouldn’t the fact that I am smiling take the edge off? I don’t plan it but the rendezvous has been pretty regular. If I leave my house with the dog, walk up the street and turn left just after I get the kids off to school I will meet him. He will be picking up the mail from the drop box on the corner and preparing to do Canada Post’s business down the next street. Not on my street. He’s not my letter carrier. He is “the other mailman”. Jane is my letter carrier. She flies through the yard in her hiking boots and shorts at just about the same time I am meeting him. If we are home she says hi to the dog (by name) and you can hear the doppler effect of her singing or whistling as she bounds out through the trees and onto the neighbour’s stoop. Dusty hair flying around her miniature yellow earphones. I don’t know what she listens to. She loves our dog. She makes me want her job. Some people can do that. She makes it seem like such a perfect existence. NHL player, wine taster, Solid Gold Dancer, letter carrier. I’m sure her life hasn’t been easy but she makes it looks like a dream come to life. I don’t know anything about her but its more fun just to know the part that makes my life better.
“The other mailman” is a different story. I want to know more because he has “issues”. This morning was my third or fourth concerned and stern look. I smile and say “hi” and the dog bounces up and down on her lead wagging her tail furiously. She, in fact, wags her whole body. She IS wagging. My kids call in “boinging”. That is the act of wagging and repeatedly bouncing vertically about three feet. She is on a leash and is at least fifteen feet away from him. He says nothing to me. He will not take his eyes off the dog until the dog has passed. His eyes are small and black and his gray receded hair and moustache seem slightly yellowed and almost glued on. He is tall and very thin and wears the standard blue with red pinstripes of the Postes Canada mountain equipment type fleece outerwear. Soiled. His face says it all. I have been attacked and I will not let it happen again. I sense zero job satisfaction. He has lost his sensitivity to context and is painting every day with the same brush. The brush is oily and dirty and smells of old turpentine. A fearful and poorly trained dog, a product of the suspect intelligence of its handlers, has torn a chunk out of this man at some time. Perhaps many dogs have followed in that dog’s footsteps after sensing that he is already emotionally injured. Now he cannot open himself to the unconditional love that 95% of this species has to offer him. He is undoubtedly armed with double barreled mace canisters and holds a rolled up newspaper in his heart.
Maybe “the other mailman” needs me to help him get back on the bike? I will win his confidence. I will intentionally walk the same route until I get him to smile back at me. The dog will eventually sit quietly at my side and I will engage him in pleasantries. I will not mumble. I will do my small part to help the romance of his day return to him.