The mail must go through

Every afternoon, about 5 p.m., a profusely-lit small black box-van goes up the road in front of our house.
It’s powered by a matching black Ford F350 truck-chassis, which mounts the box.
The truck is glittering with shiny chrome, and has so many running-lights, way more than required, it could be confused with outdoor Christmas decorations, were the lights not moving and not all yellow.
It’s traveling to our local post-office, to pick up the day’s mail.
Linda worked at that nearby post-office yesterday (Friday, October 2, 2009) morning per schedule.
Someone else was scheduled to work the afternoon.
Our phone rang about 5:15 p.m.
It’s some postmaster-in-charge (a “POOM,” Post-office operations manager). He wants to speak to Linda.
No mail to pick up at Linda’s post-office. —In fact, the post-office was locked.
The trucker gets there at maybe 5:05-5:10.
It’s hard to imagine a fill-in done by even 5:15.
Can we take the undelivered mail up to the Rochester-area central processing facility in deepest, darkest Henrietta?
Scene One: Manager-in-charge at Central-Processing-Facility: “Undelivered mail. Who do I call? Linda, the PMR fill-in? She’s pretty conscientious too.”
So Linda it is.
“Central-Processing-Facility?” she says.
“Well, I guess I can do it,” I say.
Scene Two: Pack dog into Bathtub; drive up to Post Office. Linda unlocks door, and disappears inside for almost a half-hour.
Finally I ring the doorbell, in case Linda is incapacitated inside.
Scene Three: “Looks like no one was here this afternoon.
I had to empty the mail-slots, scan everything, balance, and do the deposit.”
Scene Four: Shove the undelivered mail into the gaping back door of the Bathtub.
Keep dog from escaping.
Begin the long voyage to the Central-Processing-Facility.
The Central-Processing-Facility is also the Henrietta Post-Office.
I navigate its public parking-area, since those were directions I was given; but no loading docks, and a dead-end. —So back out.
Scene Five: Continue down road to an adjacent entrance; “where the trucks are........”
It’s protected by a security booth, but no one is in it, so into the vast yard I go. (It’s getting dark.)
Surrounded by huge semis, honking backup beepers, and blinking four-ways, I stop in the center of the lot, trying to not block anyone.
My wife calls someone on her cellphone.
Scene Six: “Dock 58,” we’re told. “Look for the steps.”
All the docks have tiny winking red and green lights. Green is “back up,” and red is “halt, in the name of the law!”
Dock 58 is occupied by a large white truck, and no steps in sight.
Finally we see steps about five docks over; my wife ascends them, and is told they are waiting for us.
Scene Seven: “Put your mail on this ramp here” — Dock 55.
I put the mail on the ramp.
“Who are you?”
“Just the chauffeur,” I say. “Think of me as Bruce Willis; the savior of the Universe.”
“I got a good one,” my wife says, after we return home.
“Sure,” I think; if it were just wanting to protect her from driving into some dreadful unknown.
She’s “automotively challenged.” If she’d tried to do it, she probably would have got lost.
But to my humble mind, more is at play here.
A Post-Office supervisor, who’s head would have rolled if some mail hadn’t gone delivered, avoids a dressing-down because he got some non postal employee to cover his butt.
Beyond that, I think there is such a thing as caring about what you do.
The reason they all loved me at Transit — passengers too — is I CARED about what I was doing.
“Woops; here comes Blondie. She’s at least a hundred yards away, but I see her running for my bus. I ain’t blowin’ by, as if I didn’t see her.”
Which is why I always told my passengers when I was going to be away. “You’ll have a different driver next week. He may show up before I do; and he won’t be lookin’ for ya. Be warned!”
If it had been me, I woulda verified that work-schedule. That Post-Office isn’t going unmanned because it ain’t my responsibility.
Unfortunately, it is.

• “Linda” is my wife of almost 42 years. Like me she’s retired, but she works part-time at the local post-office. (“PMR” is Postmaster Relief.)
• “Deepest, darkest Henrietta” is a rather effusive and obnoxious suburb south of Rochester.
• The “Bathtub” is our much-loved 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service, the transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY. (“Blondie” was a regular blond-haired passenger; in her late 30s.)