Mailman

Another one from the Smithsonian. A mail route.

Have I mentioned that while we were in Saudi during Gulf War I, D was the unit mail-man? One of a team of admin folks, but he certainly did most of the shifts sorting and handing out mail. I would, on my 24 off (after the hospital set-up was done), spend the day with him, helping sort, doing the crossword in the Army Times, getting to know each other, surreptitiously holding hands, or slyly hugging his shoulder with my chin from behind. One of those intimacies that can be quickly withdrawn from without being definitely PDA, on duty, in uniform. Not like we were trying to fool anyone, nor did we, just kept it all circumspect, and deniable.

For all that D had no polished people skills, and could be rather clixby*, he also knew everyones name in the unit of over 400, and would stay of his own volition to give people their mail, when the busses back from the site were late. With mild ill-grace, sure, but not because he was made to by his boss, the aforementioned, mild mannered, Mark. (That's Sergeant Mark to you.) Mark, in return, gave him a day off when D's dad sent him The Secret Pilgrim, so that he could spend the day reading. Everyone called D, the Mailman, and came to rely on him.

That was the year of the musical greeting card, christmas cards in particular. Those got to us, eventually, for months, still playing tinny carols, much to the annoyance of D and the whole admin section. Especially when the recipient delayed picking up their mail further.

Whenever we get mail, one of us will ask, "Did we win?" He started that. Sometimes we do. Like, when the Fortean Times arrives.


*Clixby, from The Meaning of Liff by Douglas Adams, Politely rude. Briskly vague.