I remember thinking that perhaps this job could afford
some possibilities. Maybe not along the lines of
window washing, but there should be some opportunities.
I would later learn that pizza delivery was where it was
at.
Unfortunately, over more than thirty-eight years,
there’s not a lot to tell here. These few stories all
happened very early on in my career too. As you get
older the women make more of an effort to remain
covered in front of you.
These first couple of yarns don’t fit neatly into the
category of Naked Ladies but I had nowhere else to
put them.
It was very early in the morning and I was still a
substitute. I had a certified letter for an address on
Lake Road. I heard just a little bit of noise coming
from inside the house as I approached. Knocking on
the door the noise came to an abrupt end. No answer. I
knocked again. After a few seconds a sweating and
out of breath man came to the door with a blanket
wrapped around him. After apologizing for
disturbing him (them) I got my required signature and
departed. The door closed and I heard a great deal of
laughter from within.
I had another indecent incident with a certified on
Lincoln Road. Again, I was still a dumb sub and knocked
on the door. A gentleman easily three times my age came
to the door wearing nothing but some tighty-whities. Only
they weren’t very tight and it gets pretty disgusting
but I’ll spare you the gene-de-tail-lia.
These next two tidbits actually happened a year or
two apart and came while I was subbing on Charlie
Brown’s route. The first one was on a sweltering hot
day and I was delivering on Juneway. Doors and
windows are opened. I got up on the stoop and there
in the kitchen was a naked 300-lber. I felt for the
first time in my postal career that I was underpaid.
We spotted each other at precisely the same time and
both screamed. I fell off the stoop.
Fast-forward a summer or two and I’m at the house next
door. (Even as a young man I was never known for my
speed while delivering.) This house is set back though a
little further from the road. I’m walking up the walk to
the house and being so warm, again all the doors and
windows are opened. I hear the phone ringing inside
and a dripping wet woman comes running right past
the front door wearing only a towel... around her
hair. And finally, a looker. I saw her for all of three
quarters of a second.
Years and years later and I’m on my own route. I
think at the time it was the first or second park
point. Wintertime. It was cold out with less than a
covering of snow. I pull up to my park point and an
old lady who lives in the house right by the park
point is already outside. I can’t remember her name.
Gorris! That’s it! I swear it just came to me. I
thought of the address first and then the name
popped into my head. But I don’t remember her first
name.
Mrs. Gorris was very old and used a walker. She
had a three-legged dog, Lucky, and he was with her. I
don’t really know breeds but he was small, squat
and... well, at least a few pounds overweight.
“Hurricane! Hurricane! Hurry!”
I couldn’t have been but maybe thirty-five at the
time. Mrs. Gorris was... well... two and a half times
that and she is “running.” With her walker. And her
overweight, three-legged dog. And it’s a bit icy out.
And she’s telling me to hurry.
“Hurricane! Rita fell down. We have to help her!”
Rita lived across the street from Mrs. Gorris. They
were about the same age... give or take a decade or
so... and were very close friends.
I don’t know how Mrs. Gorris knew
that Rita had fallen but that will have to remain a
mystery. This was before cell phones. Maybe she
had been outside and heard Rita yelling from inside,
called 9-1-1 and returned home to retrieve lucky
Lucky. Maybe Rita had one of those at the time new-
fangled “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” gizmos
and alerted Mrs. Gorris.
We get to Rita’s door but I’m a little hesitant to
enter. Mrs. Gorris gets to the door and hollers in for
her friend.
“Rita... I’ve got Hurricane with me. He’s going to
help. Where are you?”
Me quickly to myself..."Please don't say I'm in the bathroom.
Please don't say I'm in the bathroom.
Please don't say I'm in the bathroom."
From inside the house we hear the voice of Rita call
out, “I’m... in the bathroom.”
This is not going to be pretty.
It couldn’t have been Mrs. Barry... at least a nine...
next door. No, not with my luck. I get Wrinkled
Rita.
We enter the house and Mrs. Gorris leads the way to
the bathroom.
There on the floor, in all her geriatric glory, is Rita.
More to ease my discomfort than hers I quickly grab
a towel and place it on her.
I ask and she replies that she is unhurt. She
appears to be alright. Lucid at least.
I know that help is on the way already. This is all in
hindsight, but perhaps I should have left her alone
and just sat there with her and Mrs. Gorris until the
paramedics arrived.
But Rita is insistent that she is fine but is very
uncomfortable. She’s kind of wedged between the
bathtub and the toilet and adds that she can’t breathe
because of her position. And she wants me to help
her up. She couldn't have weighed ninety pounds had she been
wearing lead underwear. Which... unfortunately... she was not.
I tell her I’ll help her up after she insists several
times that she is fine.
Now, it’s wintertime and I never wore gloves so I
tell her, “My hands are going to be cold.” And I
mean... they’re cold.
She says okay.
So with Mrs. Gorris and Lucky looking on, I
approach Rita and place my hands under her
armpits. The very second I touch her with my cold
hands she instantly becomes as stiff as a board and I
easily lift her up and place her on the toilet.
Now she can at least breathe again and in just a few
minutes she seems to be fine. I feel comfortable
enough that Rita’s comfortable enough and I can leave with
Mrs. Gorris staying behind and the paramedics
likely to arrive in just the next minute or two. I
certainly don’t have time to deal with them. Besides, maybe Mrs.
Barry next door needs some help in her bathroom.
The best shot I had was very near the end of my career.
In fact, it was probably the summer of 2016. This woman
was gorgeous and as such, hated me. Blonde with fake(?) boobs.
Tanned. She was always out tanning. Her back yard though
was far too shady so she would park her car angled in the
driveway to block the view from perverts who might otherwise
try to steal a glimpse. Can you believe some deviant would do such a thing?
One day I came upon her as she was
sunning and, as usual, she was topless. However, like a fool I was
fingering through the mail as I walked and the dog...
the main reason for the discord between us... began barking before
I came around the view-blocking car and alerted her to cover up before I
got a glorious eyeful.
This is just another reason why mailmen hate dogs.
While crossing through some backyards on Lake Road I
would often have to step over a young twenties girl who
was often sun bathing out there. And that was about it.
If something else comes to mind I'll let you know.
John... Very well written funny to read I could actually see it happening it's funny
Sorry to have painted such a frightening image in your mind's eye, John. Trust me, it wasn't pretty... ed.