Some might consider it a step backwards to have ended up a postman after working in the Process Department of a “prestigious” defence contractor. But I couldn’t really give a shit. There’s something honest about being a posty that resonates deeply within me and seems to be more constructive than engineering machinery for war.
Of course, for all I cared or understood, I could’ve been making parts for washing machines or vibrators and took no interest in any of the products whatsoever. Eight years of having no interest is a long time. Eight years of listening to corporate horseshit and dealing with malicious back-stabbing can turn a man bitter, and what better a way to purge the bile from one’s system than to be out in the open early morning air.
In some ways I guess I’m now a glorified paper boy, but what the hell does that matter when the job is more satisfying and the hourly rate more rewarding? Yeah, that’s right, who would’ve thought it? More cash per hour for delivering mail.
Every morning I get to see the sunrise, and every day I am finished before lunch. There’s no boss on my back, just a shit-load of mail, and even that gets lighter as I work the route back to the depot. All my afternoons are free which leaves me to either work on my own computer repair business or get liquored up at my local boozer.
No more meetings to decide when to have the next meeting and no more career climbing toe-dancers talking in buzzwords and sucking corporate cock in an effort to advance their way up the ladder of Because. There is no “because” in delivering the mail, it just is, and it is honest and refined and void of any criticism.
People generally love the mailman. Kids wave, old codgers smile, bored housewives swoon, and dogs turn into rabid beasts. It’s the uniform as far as I can figure. The sooner they stop weaving cat fur or dog food into the cloth the sooner this job will become perfect.
There are downfalls, of course. This country is rather prone to rain, but so goddamned what? It’s only fucking water for Christsakes, which 70% of the human body is made up of anyway.
Occasionally my feet hurt like buggery, but at least it’s not actual buggery or the kind of ass-reaming that one grew accustomed to in my last place of employment.
No, I have seen the light, and I’m never going back to that 9-5 horseshit. They can shove their Tomahawk missiles up their arse, because - as Kevin Costner showed in the film The Postman - even after the apocalypse, the mail must get through.
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