Updated: Sep 14, 2019
I opened the door to see a tired old man in a post office uniform. His eyes were wide with bags under them.His pupils looked like windows into an endless abyss. It seemed as if his spirit had died long ago.
I never once saw him blink. His hair and beard were grey: it appeared to be more from exhaustion and stress than age.
“I can take that mail for you” I said.
He didn’t want me to.
He feared that I’d report him to the postmaster general. He told me he’s supposed to be the one to put the mail in the mailbox or else he’d get in trouble.
I said that I wouldn’t report him.
He replied: “You say that. But I don’t know you. You might not be a nice person.”
I understood why he said that. This man had been punching bag for people with superiority complexes. Some people love getting off on their power trips. How would he know I was different than any other asshole he meets on a regular basis?
He asked me if I owned the place next door. He said that the neighbors didn’t have a mailbox and it was getting him in trouble with the landlord and with his boss.
I told him “no I’m just renting. I definitely don’t own two places..”
”Not yet,” he said spitefully, “not yet” and walked away.