GOLETA, CALIFORNIA, is known as the Goodland — avocado and citrus groves, lush farms, Pacific beaches — but I only know it as the Postal Badlands. It’s 1981, I’m thirty-one, and I hate my job.
My head pounds as I walk in. The mail processing plant overwhelms me. It’s larger than a baseball field, noisier than a 747, and smells of rancid oil. Row upon row of manual sorting cases: letters, express mail, magazines, parcels, priority mail, live chicks for zoo food, junk mail. In the automated areas, clerks feed unsorted mail into the mouth of machines the size of semis. The machines spit out sorted trays of mail from the rear end. Cast-off equipment is everywhere.
I’m a mini-cog in a maxi-machine. Hundreds of clerks process mail over the course of four shifts each day. Hundreds of thousands of pieces of mail every twenty-four hours. During Christmas season the volume approaches half a million pieces a day. Amazing what people will do for money. Without a mortgage snapping at my ass, I would’ve been long gone.
This is not what I expected to be doing when I graduated with my double BA in Music and Film from UCSB. I’m pretty sure I voluntarily entered Dante’s Inferno by taking this job. Abandon all hope ye who enter here.
Whenever I can’t make a human connection during my shift, I feel condemned. Spotting a possible interaction, I walk halfway down the outgoing mail aisle.
“We need to speed up the letter sorting,” I say as I lean around the new girl, Theresa. She turns and squints at me. We know each other from a couple of parties at her friend Sophie’s house. As a 204B — an acting postal supervisor — my job is to help the employees work faster. “So I’m gonna teach you the random distribution method.”
I take a fistful of letters from Theresa’s tray and jam them into the slot labeled: California — Other. The unsorted letters are now crumpled, squashed, and bent, sticking out at all angles from the holding slot. I’ve easily ruined ten pieces of mail. Theresa turns to me wide-eyed and erupts in a peal of laughter. Her friend Sophie leans around from her case to see what the fun is. When she spots what I’ve done, she starts laughing too. I smile along.
My friend Ink turned me on to Charles Bukowski, whose novel Post Office is a very bad influence. Bukowski is so absurdly cynical about how the PO operates that I can’t help doing random acts of disturbance just to see if anyone’s paying attention.
“I hope this technique helps you plow through that tray of mail.” Clerks are expected to throw two to three trays of mail — about 1,500 letters — per hour, a shit ton of work.
Theresa’s cute. I smile at her, thinking how badly my last relationship ended. She swore we’d be together till the hubcaps fell off. When she watched her previous boyfriend get a fractured face and crunched nuts in a bar fight, she dumped me and took him back. What was she doing in a bar with him anyway?
Bukowski once wrote, “She knew what she wanted and it wasn’t me.” So true.
I’ve been walking for hours every night since, wondering how I’ll find a new girl.
Now this Theresa looks real good in denim, sneakers, and curly hair sparkling like Christmas tinsel. And she smells of jasmine, wouldn’t mind her as a girlfriend.
As I wonder if she’s single, I hear, “Paddy!” It’s Al, the shift foreman. Chunky body, widow’s peak, and florid face, he looks like Al Capone. He’s only missing the fedora. Al and I tolerate each other. I’m a classically trained musician and Al can’t read music, but he sure wants to learn blues guitar, always asking me to give him lessons. I follow Al to his office.
“We got a problem,” he says before I even close the door. The place stinks: old clothes, dust bunnies, used lunch bags. Al doesn’t sit; that’s bad. “Hef says your numbers are screwy.”
Hef is Al’s boss, Hugh Halpern, the plant superintendent, who’s a skirt-chasing hound dog. I’m sure his nickname comes from Hugh Hefner, the Playboy magazine lothario.
Supervising at the PO is not the same as other companies. Incompetence is rewarded; politeness is not. They only promote from within. No current supervisor has gone to college, taken management classes or even a course on How to Make Friends and Influence People. They all feel fear works best for getting the most work out of the slaves. For every 150 employees hired, barely four last a year.
“What’s Hef talking about, my numbers?”
“I told you the accounting department divides the number of clerk hours into the amount of mail processed on every shift, giving us productivity reports on each supervisor.”
My mind flashes back through the last month. I think I’ve done pretty well. I can’t figure out where he’s going with this. “So?”
“So your numbers are off the charts. No one’s ever had numbers as good as yours.”
Shit. “That’s good, right? Remember when I started training? I asked to see the SOPs, and you didn’t even know what an SOP was? I explained how the Army works and then I wrote out a Standard Operating Procedure for my shift. I use that checklist every night I’m supervising. No one else — not even you — uses it. No wonder my numbers are better. I’m organized.”
“Don’t give me that SOP crap. Tell me why your numbers are so much higher than everyone else.”
So, Al’s been ordered to verify my work. I’m thinking as fast as I can, knowing I gotta tough it out. I start making shit up to see if it flies. My stomach feels like mush.
“I ask clerks where they want to work, and I put them where they’re happy. I let them work next to their friends. I tell them, if they get through their allotted amount of mail early, they can take a longer break. They work faster ’cause I take care of them.” I don’t say a word about my random distribution method, which sends the mail wherever the hell, just get it out the door as fast as you can.
“Bullshit. This morning we got an all-purpose container back from Oxnard. It was sent down as California — Other last night, and none of the mail was sorted. When it came back this morning, Tour Two had to re-sort thirty-two goddamn trays.”
I’d sent it out last night to Oxnard unsorted from Tour Three, my 3:30-to-midnight shift. I didn’t want any overtime to show up in my statistics, and I didn’t think anyone would catch it. I’ve been doing this for weeks, earning kudos from Al. Until today. Now I’ve got a problem.
“Do you think Ink could’ve made a mistake?” Ink, my tiny, tattooed buddy from UCSB, works the docks, loading the trucks. “He could’ve grabbed an incoming container and accidentally sent it back out on the truck to Oxnard.”
Al glares. “You lying to me?”
I don’t move a muscle.
He points a finger at me. “This better not happen again.”
I skated on that one, hope Ink doesn’t pay for it. But Al will be watching. Now I’ll have to think of something else to keep my stats up. As I turn to leave, he says, “I’m not through. You’re getting a promotion of sorts. Hef likes you; he wants you to cycle through the shifts and write an SOP for each of the other supervisor positions.”
No good deed goes unpunished.
I wonder if I can refuse. “When would this start?”
“Two weeks. Hef’s looking for you to be the first promoted supervisor from your group.”
Christ, I don’t need the scrutiny, but I do need the money. “Let me get back to you.”
What I really want is to find a way out of the post office, not become more valuable to them.
I circle back to Sophie and ask if Theresa’s single. Sophie says she’s been seeing Monk, a supervisor on the midnight shift, and she’s thinking about switching shifts and moving in with him. Sophie thinks Theresa’s making a mistake. She says, “That Monk is always on the prowl.”
However, I’ve also been eyeing Becca, a cute dishwater-blonde from the 7:30 shift. I need a girlfriend. I’m not much good on my own. So maybe I can start my new assignment there.
***
Two months later I’m on a date with quiet Becca at a Return to Forever concert. I asked her out three times before she finally agreed. My heart’s pumping, but she seems naïve about making out. It’s taken me twenty minutes to get hold of her hand. Fortunately, the jazz-fusion tunes are intense — the sounds bounce off the Arlington Theater’s fake-Spanish interior. I love Stanley Clarke’s thundering bass and Chick Corea’s blistering keyboard work.
At the break I ask if she wants a drink, she smiles yes, and I kiss her on the lips. She leans back, way back, staring at me, then up at the twinkling starlight constellations in the ceiling.
“Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” I say.
“I wouldn’t have gone out with you if I thought that.” She’s a sweet kid, even if she’s dressed like a schoolteacher with her lace collar. She gives off a vibe, like I’m moving too fast.
In the lobby we run into Theresa of the curly tinsel hair and her lounge lizard boyfriend, Monk. My heart stops. “Hey, Paddy,” Monk says. “How’s that 7:30 shift working out?” He’s fingering the gold chains around his neck. I ignore him.
Theresa glows. She grins at me like we’ve got some kind of secret. “Hey.” She obviously has light-years more experience dealing with guys than Becca.
“You still working on that random distribution method?” I ask her.
She laughs, pokes me in the chest. “You know midnight shift only does incoming mail. No California — Other allowed. But I miss you making me laugh.”
Monk looks at me. “Something going on between you and my girlfriend?” I wish.
I introduce Becca and she shyly waves. We split up. Becca and I get drinks and go back to the concert holding hands. She rebuffs my further attempts to kiss her. The concert ends with an incredible rendition of “Majestic Dance.” Al Di Meola burns up the frets. I’d trade my left nut to play guitar like that.
Then she won’t go home with me. I sigh audibly. We end up parking and talking. As I’m telling her I’m looking for someone who wants a family, she takes my hand and kisses me. She says she’d like a loving family too. I go to bed feeling better about my life, but still lonely.
Next day we’re having dinner tacos in Becca’s car, and I try to kiss her. She shies away and says, “There’s something I have to tell you.” Here it comes, the bad news.
“I’m in a relationship.”
My jaw clenches. “Why the hell’d you go out with me if you already had a boyfriend?”
“It’s not like that, and I didn’t know how to tell you at work. I had to know if you were a good guy, if I could trust you.”
I moan. My brain’s racing. I don’t know where she’s going with this. I just know nothing ever works out for me. Shit. “Who is it?”
“Her name’s Naomi.”
“You’re dating a girl?”
“I’m a lesbian.”
Dead silence.
“You’re my supervisor and you’re not supposed to date clerks. But I don’t want any problems with you, and I needed to know you were an okay guy before I told you. Work will be way better for me if everyone knows we’ve dated and they think I’m straight.”
I’m quiet for a while, trying to add this all up, as the taco in my stomach turns bitter. I really like kissing her, but now her reluctance and uncertainty make more sense. “When did you know you liked girls?” Like I’m a freaking psychologist. Why did I say that?
“Since forever… are you okay with this?” She talks like she’s in a trance, staring into a netherworld. “We lived on a farm in Iowa, I wasn’t accepted, and I escaped as soon as I could. When I got here Naomi took me in and helped me.” She shivers as she says it.
My heart goes out to her. What the hell do I say? I take her hand. Just because she has love and I don’t doesn’t mean this is a problem. And I have no choice. I have to accept her, especially since she accepts me. “It’s okay, your secret is safe with me. If anyone asks why we’re not dating, I’ll just say I’m not your type and leave it at that.” I kiss the back of her hand, as if she’s my sister.
We get out of the car under a streetlamp, and I wish I could protect her. As we hug, our night-shadows become one. Then she walks away.
Life sucks.
***
Three weeks later I’m coming back from my midnight dinner break when I see Theresa clocking in. She turns and spots me, looks around to see if anybody is watching, and walks toward me. Nothing else is in my vision, just this glittery bolt of lightning smiling at me. She lifts her blouse and shows me her belly button. No girl’s ever greeted me this directly before. I raise my eyebrows and grin.
“Hey,” I say. “How’s your love life?” I’d heard she broke up with Monk.
“I don’t have one. I’m over guys. All I want is a good German shepherd.”
Wow. “You can’t give up just because one supervisor didn’t work out. You never know, some other supervisor might be perfect.” Smiling, I point to my chest.
She narrows her eyes at me. “I won’t be dating anyone for a while.”
“Well, could we just grab dinner then, or go out for coffee?” This could be it.
She thinks about it. “Sure, we can do that.” She takes a blank routing slip from one of the mail cases, writes her phone number on it, and hands it to me. “Call me. I gotta go to work.” Her jasmine smell follows her down the aisle. It sparks of madness.
My lucky day. As I watch her go, I get goose bumps on my arms.
When I call the next day, I find out Theresa lives with her mom. And Mom’s guarding the gates, the drawbridge pulled up, telling me that Theresa sleeps in the afternoon to get ready for her midnight shift. She says I can call around 8 p.m. if I want to talk to her.
While I’m waiting to call back, the doorbell rings; it’s the same real estate guy I told to get lost last week. I open the door. “Look, dude, don’t come around anymore unless you got a buyer for my house. I told you, I’m not selling unless the money’s good.” I close the door.
Later, when I get Theresa on the phone, she says, “Midnight shift sucks big time. It’s impossible to have a normal life. It feels like I’m living a nightmare with a bunch of depressed zombies.”
This is going to be harder than I thought. “Tell me about it. Monday and Tuesday are my only nights off. I have zero social life.”
She says, “My Wednesday and Thursday nights off are just as empty.”
So we both work weekends. “Maybe I can make dinner on a Monday or Tuesday night before you go to work?” I’m trying to make it as easy as possible for her.
“Let me think about it and I’ll call you.”
We only have three days each week when we’re both at work: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. We work different shifts, have different days off, she lives with Mom, and I have housemates. We sleep different hours. Christ, this may never get off the ground. I’m really gonna have to work at it.
She calls me two days later saying she thinks she can handle dinner the following Tuesday night. I can’t say yes fast enough. Her jasmine perfume will hopefully spark some madness at my house.
***
When Tuesday arrives I’m jumpy, forgetting at first to defrost the game hens. I’ve convinced my housemates to leave us alone. Having Theresa to myself will allow us to talk without any heckling from the peanut gallery. Miles Davis plays “Kind of Blue” on my stereo.
Aromas of sage, onion, and parsley fill the air as I set the table. Then, while I’m sautéing the green beans, the scent of night-blooming jasmine wafts in from outside, reminding me of Theresa’s perfume. A smile crosses my face. My blood pressure lowers about five points.
First thing Theresa says when she walks in: “Where is everybody?”
I hesitate, wondering what she’ll think. “I asked them to leave us alone during dinner.”
“You asked them to leave?” She looks skeptical of my motives.
“They would just interrupt us.” I pull the game hens out of the oven.
“Really?” She stares at me, then inhales. “Smells good. You cooked all this?”
“Yep.” My food prep distracts her as I cut the game hens in half.
“That’s impressive.” Now she smiles, watching me dish up the food.
We sit and I take a deep breath. Relax. “So what do you do for fun?”
“Photography and painting, mostly watercolors.”
Cool, except I know nothing about painting. “What subject matter?”
She talks as I sniff my pinot noir, hanging on her words. “Lots of different things. I love the colors and shapes of Mexico: the blue water beaches, the Guadalupe church in Puerto Vallarta, the red clouds over the Sierra Madres. Mostly I paint scenes I’ve photographed.”
“You must travel a lot.” She’s so alive, brightening up the house. I need her in my life.
“I love it. Sophie and I went to Europe for three months and had the time of our lives in Greece. The following year we went back for a month to Paros. What a beautiful island.” She chews, nods. “This rice smells like Greece.”
In her conversation I search for patterns, clues to whether we’re compatible. Can I live with someone like this, a non-musician, but still an artist? She seems more grounded than I am, earthier. I like that. I might have more book knowledge, but she seems to have more emotional sense. We eat our food, talk, drink some wine, and gaze at each other.
“You’re a good listener,” she says.
“I try.” What do I say? She’s not remotely as fragile as Becca. I have to ask. “How did your breakup with Monk go?”
“What an asshole. He says he’s religious; that’s why he’s called Monk. But he sure didn’t behave like a spiritual person. I’d been staying at his house, and he wanted to make it permanent, but he didn’t want to get married. That’s BS. When Sophie told me he was seeing another girl behind my back, I just left him. He acted like I’d stolen his favorite toy, screamed at me to get my toothbrush out of his bathroom. Fortunately, he switched shifts, so I don’t have to see him anymore.” She shakes her head like he’s a bad dream.
Pay attention to her words, Paddy.
Relief runs through my brain. Monk’s history. I can be the future. “No wonder you said you weren’t dating guys anymore.”
“Why’d you stop dating Becca?”
I hesitate; I don’t want to tell her the truth.
She says, “Monk told me she’s a lesbian. He saw her out with a girl and caught them kissing each other. He couldn’t understand why you were dating her. He says if he ever supervises her, he’s going to make sure everyone knows she’s gay.”
“That’s fucked up. I was flabbergasted that she went out with me when she was already in a relationship. Being gay has got to be a difficult life.”
“My dad was bisexual.”
A long pause goes by. My head feels like it’s been whacked with the serving spoon. “Wow, I did not expect you to say that. I’ve got so many questions going through my head. How do you feel about him? When did you find out? How do your parents get along?”
“He died a year ago. It was really hard.”
“Oh, Jesus.” My mind’s reeling. “I’m sorry… I’m always saying the wrong — thoughts come into my head — they run out of my mouth — I can’t stop them… please give me a break.”
“That’s okay, you didn’t know. This game hen is delicious.” She bites into a leg.
“Thanks. What did you think? Having a bisexual dad?”
“I didn’t care. As long as my parents fed me, Mom made my dresses, brushed my hair, Dad read to me before I went to bed. He walked me to school. I knew I was loved.”
Trying to get back on common ground, I describe my trip to Athens right before I left the Army, watching a Stravinsky ballet on top of the Acropolis, how otherworldly it was. My skin prickles thinking about it.
Theresa looks at me with questioning eyes. “No one I know talks about stuff like that.”
“Live theater is my favorite, after music of course. But Shakespeare and Tom Stoppard and Beckett and Tennessee Williams, I could go see their plays every week. It really works your brain having all those ideas bounce around on stage, especially if the actors are good.”
“My dad was an actor at the Lobero Theatre.”
Listening to her is medicine with honey. Just the look of her: tight blue jeans, red sweater, matching lipstick, auburn hair sparkling like the night she showed me her belly button. She’s definitely the cure for my cynicism. The heat off her skin jumps across the table. I want the whole length of her, the long legs, the thin arms, the brain that talks to me about secrets and relationships, about art and theater. There’s a whole world inside this woman.
We don’t speak for a bit. I dissect what’s been said and what hasn’t, trying to decide what to say. “When I told Becca about wanting a family and children, that I was tired of living with roommates and not having a partner, she said she wanted the same things. Then, when she said she was gay, she really threw me.”
She thinks. “My dad wanted a family, a home, children. With us he was able to have all that. And I loved him. At the time — the sixties — he had to hide that he liked men. I’m sure that’s why he married my mom.”
Dinner flies by. Listening to her is like being a leaf in the river. I fall in and let her voice carry me along, catching me in her whirlpool.
The last thing I do before she leaves is take her into my bedroom and show her my Army photos from Germany, Athens, and Amsterdam. Then I show her how I cleaned my room — by throwing everything into the closet.
She cracks up, saying she does the same thing. We don’t kiss when she leaves, but I can feel she’s thinking about it. We decide to do dinner again next Tuesday.
My mind spins like a giant Ferris wheel as I try to sleep. I’m starting to understand that everything leads to the next thing. And I want us to be the next big thing.
***
The Tuesday dinners with Theresa are going great, and I’ve finished the 7:30 shift Standard Operating Procedure. As I’m turning it in, I tell Hef I’m ready to move to the midnight shift to start on the next SOP. And I ask for Theresa’s same nights off — Wednesday and Thursday. He gives them to me. I’m dreading the hours, but happy we’ll have two days and nights off together each week. I finally have a relationship that’s working. I feel my luck turning.
A week later, Hef calls me into his office. I’m sure he wants more help from me, his wonder boy. He doesn’t know I’m still fudging my numbers so my productivity looks excellent no matter what shift I’m supervising.
When I walk in Al is there. Both of them ignore me; they’re talking smack. Hef says, “I had a new girlfriend last night. She’s way friskier than my wife.” They laugh. What scum. I hate men who take advantage of women.
Hef turns to me. “District Headquarters is asking questions about your numbers again. I told them this SOP thing is my idea. I’m gonna look like a fool if it doesn’t work. And neither the 3:30, nor the 7:30 shift, are now showing those same high numbers you were hitting. So what gives? You leave and the numbers drop. Al thinks you’re cheating, adding mail that isn’t there.” His eyes drill into me.
“Al’s making shit up.” So, Hef took responsibility for the increase in productivity.
“The fuck I am,” Al says.
Hef says, “Careful, we control your future. You want that promotion, don’t you?” Hef’s acting like he’s a Mafia boss, threatening me. The sweat’s dripping down my arm.
I say, “Maybe the other supervisors don’t work with the clerks as well as I do. Maybe those supervisors need to be watched closer. Why aren’t you two looking over their shoulders?”
“You don’t question us!” Al yelling at me reminds me of an Army sergeant.
I get this edgy, twitchy feeling, like I’m about to kick one of them in the head. I breathe deep to try to calm myself. “Maybe I should just quit being a training supervisor, go back to my clerk job.”
“That wouldn’t be smart,” Hef says. “We know you got this new girlfriend, Theresa what’s-her-name, on the midnight shift. You switch back to being a clerk, and we’ll make sure you never have time off together.”
My clerk job is noon to eight thirty, different days off. He’s right. Shit.
I stare out the side window. They think they have me cornered.
***
All night long I wrestle with my brain. Nothing those two assholes said is acceptable. Sure, maybe I shouldn’t be fudging the numbers, trying to add a little chaos to their perfectly run machine, but they only care that it might make them look bad.
The next morning my mind is a muddle. I’m making tea, watching the sun move across the kitchen tiles, thinking I never want to go back to the post office. But how do I do that? My hand trembles as I pour the hot water into the teacup.
Then the doorbell rings; it’s the freaking real estate agent again. As I’m closing the door in his face, he holds his hand up.
“I found somebody to buy your house.” He’s wearing a plaid jacket and a comb-over.
An actual offer, who would’ve thought? A whisper in my ear says, “If you quit the post office, you’re gonna need some money.” I really want to quit.
“The buyer will rent it back to you until you decide when you want to move.”
My mind works overtime. This could be it. “How much?” What am I saying?
He’s calculating — a minute goes by. “A hundred twenty thousand.”
Think.
“I owe eighty-five on the mortgage.” The Realtor percentage is 6 percent, which means he’d get seven thousand for basically doing nothing. “I’d need to clear thirty thousand.” My yearly salary at the PO. The Realtor scratches his chin.
“You’d probably get twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven after closing costs.”
Not interested. I start shutting the door.
“I can probably guarantee you twenty-eight.”
I’m still closing the door as I’m mulling it over.
“Twenty-nine.”
The door slams in his face, and I hear him yell, “Okay, thirty.”
I re-open the door. “Get the contract written up and I’ll sign it.” Can’t believe I said that.
We spend the next half-hour with him inspecting the house, taking some pictures, and writing out a sales proposal that guarantees me the thirty thousand. I can hardly breathe as I sign it, my hand shaking. What the hell am I doing? This’ll really impress Theresa. Yeah, babe, just sold my house so I can quit my job. Let’s get married! She’ll probably never talk to me again.
***
When I walk into the plant that night, Al is in Hef’s office. Good, both assholes in one room. My stomach’s in turmoil.
Hef looks up as I walk in. “Well, did you think it over?”
Al says, “You don’t have much choice.”
“Of course I do. I quit supervising. I’m going back to being a clerk. Don’t threaten me.”
They stare at each other. Finally, Hef breaks the silence. “We can’t stop you if you want to step down. But I don’t think you’d want to do anything rash. Think about your future and your girlfriend. Step down for a while, think things through, and we’ll talk in a couple weeks.”
“Fine.”
I turn around and walk out of the building, blowing out a series of short breaths, trying to gain control of my fears. What did I just do? But I feel lighter, like I lost ten pounds.
The next day I go in at noon to my regular parcel job, as if I never was a supervisor.
***
The escrow of my house only takes a week, and suddenly I have $30,000 in the bank. Two weeks later, I take a small amount of that money for a down payment and buy a cheaper house four blocks away with my friend, Ink. He gets the master bedroom downstairs, I have a double room over the garage, and we rent out the other three bedrooms, which pays most of the mortgage. My financial life has totally changed in less than a month. I’ve got money in the bank.
And I’m in love with Theresa, but she’s definitely confused by how fast I move — selling one house, buying another, and quitting supervision — all in the six weeks since we started dating. Though my first instinct was correct — she’s more emotionally grounded than I am — she also values stability more than I do. And she’s wary of me going off the deep end because I hate the post office so much.
Theresa comes over at eight in the morning after work to celebrate my new house. I’ve got champagne on ice. I’m gonna ask her to move in.
But when she arrives she’s crying, totally distraught.
Wrapping her in my arms, I hug her tightly and ask, “What’s going on?”
Her pupils are huge. “Becca committed suicide.”
I’m stunned, feeling like I can’t breathe. I’d just seen Becca two days before. “Why the hell…? What happened?”
I hold Theresa tighter and my heart fills. In a strange moment I feel like she’s fading into a shadow and if I don’t hang onto her tight enough, she’ll disappear.
“Asshole Monk confronted her last night in front of the other clerks. He outed her. He outed her!” She breathes hard, pushes herself away from me, and stares into the distance.
“He yelled, ‘Hey, carpet muncher, how’s your girlfriend doing?’ All I know is Becca ran out of the building crying because the clerks were laughing at her.” She cries harder. “She just drove away.” She gulps and catches her breath. “The gravediggers at the Santa Barbara Cemetery found her this morning… There was a bottle of sleeping pills… She was lying against a gravestone on the cliff, facing the ocean. It must’ve been horrible for her.”
Heat flashes through my body as I pace back and forth. Monk did what he said he was going to do — ruin Becca’s life. And now I’m gonna ruin his life. She died because Monk thinks he can behave any way he wants. He’s gonna learn there are consequences.
Theresa and I don’t celebrate anything. We talk until 10 a.m. and she finally says, “I’m going home. Everything’s too weird for me. I can’t think straight. Maybe if we hadn’t dated, Monk wouldn’t’ve been so pissed off and taken it out on Becca. Maybe she’d still be alive. She didn’t deserve to die.”
My thoughts of revenge struggle in my throat. “I hope she’s in a better place, somewhere she’s not tormented. But Monk needs to pay for what happened.”
“If you go after a supervisor, they’ll make you pay. They’ll make me pay.”
“Something needs to be done.” As I try to hug her, she puts her arms out, stopping me.
“I gotta go,” she says. And she does, taking my heart with her.
***
During the next two days — my weekend off — Becca’s pleas haunt me. She just wanted a normal life. I remember our first kiss at the concert, when she was so shocked, she stared at the fake stars in the ceiling. She trusted me. Was her death my fault? What was going through her head as she waited to die on that sandstone cliff overlooking the sea? My ears ring so loud, banging at my brain, demanding I do something. Monk has to be taught he can’t hurt girls.
Theresa and I talk when we should both be sleeping. Hearing her so upset only makes me more upset. At work on Monday, I can’t wait until Monk shows up. I spot him walking in at 7:30 p.m. with a grin on his face, like everything worked out fine in his religious world. The sinner was put in her place.
When I clock out at eight, I go to my locker, open it… Two other guys are in the room talking… One shouts, “Can you believe that Becca? Christ, I almost dated her myself.” It’s hard to put things in order in my head… The weak lightbulb sprays the walls and lockers in grayish-blue ghost-light… I inhale deeply, open the pool cue case I brought in earlier, and remove the bottom half of the pool cue — the part with the metal tip… Voices echo off the walls. The other guy says, “Monk humiliating you isn’t worth killing yourself.” That almost stops me… Instead I tap the pool cue along my right leg and go looking for Monk.
As I’m walking up one aisle and down the other, no one’s paying me any attention. Then I spot Monk through an opening between two mail sorting cases and come up behind him as he’s talking with a male clerk. I hear him say, “You think there’s a lesbian hell?” They both laugh.
My anger explodes. The first blow hits his lower backbone. He goes down screaming and rolls on his back. I don’t want to kill him. But he’s gonna remember this for the rest of his life. My second blow slams his shinbone. I’m gulping air.
“Jesus Christ!” He tries to get up and block me with his arms. Good luck. My third swat goes right through his hands. His fingers now look like pretzels.
I’m grabbed from behind, my arms yanked up, and Al snatches the pool cue out of my hand. Hef comes running up, shouting.
***
The district manager tells Monk not to file charges against me. He doesn’t want the bad publicity about Becca’s suicide. Instead, he moves Monk to the Oxnard processing plant forty miles south and gives him a promotion to keep him quiet. Monk has splints on both hands and walks with a limp, but they say none of it is permanent — none of it — except Becca’s death.
But now I’m fired, sitting in my big, new bedroom, wondering what the hell I’m gonna do with the rest of my life.
Theresa hesitantly talks to me when I catch her in the postal parking lot one night. She says, “I like you a lot. But right now, I’m afraid of losing my job. Hef and Al won’t approve my leave requests; they always criticize my work and give me overtime when it’s not my turn. They’re terrifying me.”
And Theresa’s scaring me. “I don’t want to lose you,” I say.
Later, I write a poem about needing her laughter in my life and send it to her.
***
I’m wondering how to stop Hef and Al from harassing Theresa when I get to Becca’s memorial service. It’s at the Santa Barbara Cemetery, the same place where she died. Who thought that was a good idea? I wonder if Theresa will be here.
I bought one of those ten-dollar throwaway cameras, thinking I can take some pictures of the service. My armpits are soaked.
After I park in the lot, I head to the chapel, but it’s locked, no one around. There’s a sign for the office, so I head over there. On the way I see Al with his back to me by some palm trees. Something’s not right and I go around the office building and come up the other side.
As I’m walking, my blood boils. I see Monk with Hef and Al. What an asshole Monk is, coming to Becca’s memorial. He’s missing some brain parts. They can’t see me, so I quick snap a few photos when I realize they’re sharing a joint, the skunky smell filling the air. I sidle up closer behind a bougainvillea and get the perfect shots: Al handing the joint to Hef. Hef puffing away while the other two laugh. I shoot a couple more photos for backup and head to my car, then to the one-hour photo store.
Sophie is hosting a celebration of Becca’s life at her house after the memorial. When I arrive ninety minutes later, I ask if Theresa is there. Sophie says, “Nope.” Then I ask if any of the supervisors showed up. Sophie points me to her patio outside and says, “Only Hef.”
When I get outside Hef is smoking a cigarette. He says, “What’re you doing here?”
“It’s a free country. Becca was my friend.”
“You’re lucky you’re not in jail.” He smirks at me.
“And you’re lucky you still have a job.” I hand over the blowup I had printed of the three of them smoking pot at the cemetery. Any illegal activity — even something as small as smoking pot — if the district manager sees it, they’ll all be fired.
Hef freezes. Then his eyes pop back and forth from the picture to my eyes.
I’m bracing myself to get punched. “And don’t worry; I put a few of these in hiding, so you can keep this one to remind you — I’ve got you by the balls.”
A bunch of long seconds go by; he swallows a lot. “You can fry my career if you want, but I’ll do my best to ruin you and your girlfriend. How do you want to play this?”
Every decision comes down to making the right choice. Think. I’m pacing, staring at the ground. “If you ever make another move against Theresa, you’ll never work at a post office again. This photo will be mailed to the district managers, the inspectors, the police, TV, newspapers, everybody.” I’m feeling dizzy. Breathe. “If she’s sick, she gets time off. She wants vacation, she gets it. If she applies for a different job, she gets it. Treat her just like anyone else. No, correct that. Treat her better than anyone else — and then I’ll leave you alone.”
He blows out the smoke from his cigarette, and says, “Fuck you. Fine, I’ll leave her alone.” There are splinters in his voice.
Afterward, I call Theresa and tell her that I just blackmailed Hef — she won’t be bothered anymore. She’s quiet for a minute. “Thank you, and thanks for your beautiful poem. You’re currently the best thing in my life.”
“I hope that’s true. Christ, we never see each other.” And she’s the best thing in my life.
“I’m gonna change that. I don’t want to lose you either.”
That night as I fall asleep, I realize how lucky I am. Even though I’m basically the antihero in my own movie — fudging numbers, thrashing Monk, blackmailing Hef — I lucked out with Theresa. She accepts I have a moral code; I just don’t follow the rules of society. Hopefully I’ve found my family. God, I hate being lonely.
***
Three months later Theresa is a different person. Living together for two months now, we still have the champagne in the fridge that we didn’t drink. And I can see her belly button any time I want.
Watching the new MTV channel gave me an idea. I took some of my house money and bought enough music equipment to open an eight-track recording studio. My new job is learning how to make money producing bands in the two-car garage downstairs, and waiting for Theresa to come home.
Yesterday Theresa said, “I accept Becca’s suicide. And I don’t want my sadness around her death to ruin our relationship. I’m happy here with you.”
Becca’s dying reminds me so much of my friend Michael’s suicide when I was in the Army. I never want to experience another suicide.
I answered, “Hopefully Becca’s at peace.”
Theresa nodded. “We’re so lucky to have each other.”
***
I’m transformed — a huge weight has been lifted. As I wait for Theresa, the early evening purples outside.
Tonight I’m asking her to marry me, and I hope we can finally drink that champagne.
Because I’m pretty sure the answer is going to be yes.
Then I’ll be settled in my random life: less cynicism, less chaos, more hope, and a good partner. Now my whole house smells of jasmine.
— RUSSELL DOHERTY
Russ Doherty, originally from Chicago, has attended various writers’ conferences, learning from or playing guitar with Greg Iles, George Saunders, and Joshua Mohr. He has a double BA from the University of California Santa Barbara in Screenwriting and Music, loving the intersection of sound and scene. He walks for miles every day by his home in Santa Barbara, talking to the characters in his head. Russ did not like working at the Post Office.