The Mailman

Bill, the postal supervisor, came into the sorting room where the carriers were unloading their bins into portable cases.  “Hey, Pete, you seen Jack?”

"Nah, boss, I ain’t seen ‘im.”

“Maybe he’s out loading up his truck,” one of the other carriers suggested.

“He may be.”  Bill turned and went about his morning routine, temporarily forgetting about needing to speak with the mailman.  After everyone had gone off to service his or her routes, Bill decided to step outside the building for a smoke break.  He took an initial draw off his cigarette and, while he deeply inhaled, his gaze swept the post office grounds.  The sweep stopped on the one lone truck still occupying a space in the overnight parking lot. 

A frown creased his forehead.  Whose truck?  He moved across the lot until he was close enough to read the identifying number. Jack's vehicle!  Had the man overslept? Had he been in accident on the way to work? 

Bill crossed back through the lot, stubbed his half-finished cigarette out in the ashtray and entered the building.  Consulting the listing of carriers’ addresses and phone numbers, he picked up the phone and punched in the numbers.  It rang and rang, but there was no answer.  He hung up.  If Jack had been delayed by an accident or whatever, he would've called . . . unless it was serious enough to put him in the hospital.  He picked up the phone again and punched in the number of the Police Department’s Central Dispatch.

“Yes,” he said when the line was answered.  “Can you tell me if you’ve had any major accidents reported this morning.”

“Just a moment.”  Bill listened to the clicking of a keyboard for a few moments, before the person continued.  “No, sir.  The only things we’ve had have been a few fender-benders.”

“Okay.  Thanks.”  Bill hung up the receiver, his frown deepening.  He went to the postmaster’s office and tapped on the open door.  “Jack Allen didn’t show up for work this morning.  I tried calling his house.  No answer and the cops haven’t had any bad accidents.”

“That’s odd.  He hardly ever misses work.  I don’t even remember the last time he took a sick day, do you?”

Bill shook his head.  “In all of the twenty-odd years I’ve known him, you could probably count them on one hand.  That’s why I was wondering if I should go by his house and check on him.”

The postmaster nodded.  “Why don’t you do that?  If the guy’s sick . . . he doesn’t have any family.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in a little while.”

Bill drove to the tree-lined neighborhood where Maple Street was located and slowly inched along as he searched for the house number.  Finding it to be a small apartment building, he noted the Office sign and followed the driveway to a small parking lot in the rear. 

Still seated behind the wheel, Bill surveyed the area.  Nice neighborhood.  Exiting the car, he walked through the bricked breezeway and toward the doorway bearing the Management Office signage.  Inside, he was greeted by a man who looked to be in his mid-fifties.

“Can I help you?”  The man inquired.

“Yeah, are you the manager?”

“Manager, superintendent, wherever duty calls.”

“I’m looking for Jack Allen.  I understand he lives here.”

“Yes, I know Jack, a nice guy.  He’s been our postman here for about twenty years now.”

Bill nodded.  “I know.  He didn’t show up for work this morning, so I came by to check on him.  You seen him around?”

“Haven’t seen him today.”  A look of concern flitted across his face.  “Just a minute and I’ll get my keys.”

The manager disappeared into a rear room and came back with a ring of keys.  “He’s up on the second floor.  Come on, I’ll show you.”

Bill followed the man up the stairs and down a hallway until he stopped before the entrance to one of the apartments and knocked on the door.

“Jack?  It’s the super.”  He waited for a few seconds before knocking more loudly.  “Jack?  Jack?  Are you okay?”

Bill strained to hear even the slightest sound from beyond the closed door, but could hear nothing.

The manager jiggled the doorknob and then began sorting through his keys.  Finding the appropriate one, he inserted it in the lock and opened the door.

“Hello?” he called, slowly entering the doorway.  “Is anyone here?”

Bill followed the superintendent across the neat living room, peering into the tidy kitchen as he passed and finding that nothing appeared out of place.  For a guy living alone, he sure is awfully neat.  Bill stood in the middle of the bedroom and surveyed the made bed.  From an adjoining doorway the manager let out a gasp.  “Oh my God!”

Bill rushed up behind him and peered over his shoulder.  Jack, in his underwear, was lying across the bathroom floor.  By the ghostly white of his skin, Bill was sure that he was dead.  “What the . . .”

“Better call 911,” the super said, rushing past Bill into the bedroom and reaching for the bedside phone.

“Wait!  Better not use that one.”  Bill said, pulling his cell out of his pocket and crossing the room to hand it to the other man.  “The cops may not want us touching anything.”

“I suppose you’re right.”  He took the phone and placed the call.  He gave the dispatcher the address and told him what they had found.  When he had finished the call, he passed the phone back to Bill.  “They said they’d be here in a few minutes.”

Bill nodded and filled the time shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other.  Surely no one would want to hurt Jack.  He always minds his own business.  In fact he pretty much stays to himself.  Besides, I didn't see any blood.  There would have to be blood, if he'd been attacked, wouldn't there?  Blood everywhere.  At least that's what they have on all the TV shows.  Still, they really shouldn't bother anything, even walking around could destroy evidence, if there was any.

A knock at the door announced the arrival of a team of police and EMTs.  While the medical technicians were still checking out Jack, the policemen came out into the bedroom and began combing over the apartment.

The super watched them with a worried frown.  “Is Jack dead?” he asked. 

The cop shrugged.  “We won’t know for sure until the EMTs do their job.”

“Well, do you think someone did something to him?” he persisted.

“No tellin’, but we can’t take any chances.”  Then he began firing questions at Bill and the superintendent.  Did he have any enemies?  Was he involved with any criminal element?  What’d he do in his time off? 

Bill looked confused.  How the hell should I know all this stuff?  I may have known the man for twenty-odd years, but that doesn't mean I really knew him!  We worked together, for Christ's sake!

One cop, who was riffling through a chest of drawers, suddenly stopped and turned.  “What’d you say this guy’s name was?”

“Jack Allen,” Bill and the superintendent answered simultaneously.

“Then what’s all this?”  He pulled out a stack of mail and dropped it on the bed. 

Bill moved across the room and looked down at the envelopes spread out before him.  There were many different names, but none were addressed to Jack Allen.

“Was this guy running some kind of identity scam?” the cop asked.

Bill shook his head.  “I don’t think so.  All of these addresses are right in this neighborhood.  I’d have to check, but I think they’re all on his route.”

“But it’s a Federal offense to interfere with the U.S. mail.  What’s he doing with all this stuff?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea,” Bill answered.

The medical technicians came out of the bathroom.  “He’s a goner,” the lead man reported to the cops.  “Looks like it was natural causes, but the ME will have to confirm that.”

The policemen continued pulling out drawers.  One cop moved over to the closet.  “Holy shit!  The stuff’s everywhere!  Some of it dates back fifteen to eighteen years!” 

From the closet floor he pulled out box after box filled to the brim with mail.  There were catalogs, magazines and piles of letters.  He turned to Bill.  “What’re you guys going to do about this stuff?”

“I’m calling the postmaster right now,” Bill replied, looking up from his cell phone.  “It’ll be his call.  It looks like a lot of it is trash, but the first-class stuff we’ll have to try to deliver.  It seems pretty hopeless . . . finding those people after all this time.”


Twenty-three years earlier, Jack Allen, wearing his blue postal uniform and carrying the heavy leather bag over his shoulder had walked down Maple Street. 

Overhead, the leaves were turning their distinctive orange and red in the chilly autumn air, but Jack didn’t notice.  Just like he didn’t notice the faintly pleasant smell of burning leaves.

His gaze was fixed on the pavement in front of his feet, until an occasional barking dog demanded his attention.  Up each walkway, slip the letters into the slot of the mailbox and then go on to the next house.  It was a routine that he didn’t really have to think about.  His route was quiet and, best of all; he didn’t have to deal with a bunch of people making unreasonable demands.

A lady raking leaves in her front yard waved and called out, “Good morning.  Isn’t this weather absolutely gorgeous?”

“It is indeed,” Jack answered, forcing a smile.  He had been servicing this route for over two years now and this slight exchange was typical of his daily interaction. 

As he was nearing the end of his route Jack stepped onto the front porch and the front door of the house opened.  The man who exited had always been friendly.  Jack gave him an honest smile.  “Good morning.”

“Mornin’, Jack.”

“How’re you this morning?”

“Fine, fine.”  The man stood still as Jack sorted out his mail and slipped it into the slot of the mailbox.  Then he came hesitantly closer.  “Listen, Jack, I got a little problem here.”

“Oh?  What's that?”

“Well, the Mrs. and I have to take a little trip . . .”

“That’s great.  Does a body good to get away every once in a while.”

“Yeah, but I got a little problem.  See I’m worried about the mail while we’re gone.”

“Oh, that’s no problem.  Just put a note in your mailbox telling the Postmaster when you want the mail stopped and when you want delivery resumed.  The Post Office will take care of it.”

“Well, you see, Jack, that is my problem.  I don’t trust those people at the post office.  I don’t know how many times they’ve lost things and then denied that they’d ever seen ‘em.  But you, Jack, I trust you.  Couldn’t you just hold my mail while we’re gone?”

Jack was taken aback.  He knew his own distrust for the post office, but he never suspected that others shared his feelings.  He stared into space and his memory slid backward over the years.


He and Cindy had been a steady couple all through high school.  After graduation, his parents insisted that he go to college even though both he and Cindy would have preferred that he find a job and they get married.  Finally, the pressure had become too much and he had relented, but only after Cindy had promised to write to him every day.

It had been miserable.  Day after day he had waited for the mail and every day he was disappointed when no letter from Cindy arrived.  It took him a couple of weeks to scrape together enough money for the pay phone.

As soon as she answered, he blurted, “Why haven’t you written to me?  Every day I get nothing from you.  What is going on?”

“Gee, honey, I don’t know.  I’ve been wondering why I haven’t heard from you, too .  .  . except for that one short note right after you got there.  I’m always writing to you.  I don’t know why you aren’t getting anything.”

“But, if you’re writing, why aren’t I getting anything?”

“Gosh, baby, I don’t know.” 

“Are you actually mailing them?”

“Of course.”  There was a long pause.  “It must be the post office.  You know how they’re always screwing things up.”

“Every day?  That’s a lot of screw ups.”

“But what else could it be?”

Jack had believed her and, in the years that followed, had learned to be extremely distrusting of the post office’s service.  He had eventually gone to work there to find out what was going on.  I know just what this guy feels like.  How can I do anything else but try to help him out?

He turned back to the man and smiled.  “Okay, Mr. Jacobs, I know exactly how you feel.  I’ll hold your mail for you.  You just tell me when you’re taking off.”


Thus it had started.  If someone moved away and didn’t give a forwarding address, Jack would hold their mail and watch for the new address to come in.  There'll be no mail trashed on my route.  No sirreee!