Post Office. Chapter I: 8
There was another German Shepherd. It was hot summer and he came BOUNDING out of a back yard and then LEAPED through the air. His teeth snapped, just missing my jugular vein.
“OH JESUS!” I hollered, “OH JESUS CHRIST! MURDER! MURDER! HELP! MURDER!”
The beast turned and leaped again. I socked his head good in mid-air with the mail sack, letters and magazines flying out. He was ready to leap again when two guys, the owners, came out and grabbed him. Then, as he watched and growled, I reached down and picked up the letters and magazines that I would have to re-route on the front porch of the next house.
“You sons of bitches are crazy,” I told the two guys, “that dog’s a killer. Get rid of him or keep him off the street!”
I would have fought them both but there was that dog growl– ing and lunging between them. I went over to the next porch and re-routed my mail on hands and knees.
As usual, I didn’t have time for lunch, but I was still forty minutes late getting in.
The Stone looked at his watch. "You’re 40 minutes late.”
“You never arrived,” I told him.
“That’s a write-up.” “Sure it is, Stone.”
He already had the proper form in the typer and was at it. As I sat casing up the mail and doing the go-backs he walked up and threw the form in front of me. I was tired of reading his write-ups and knew from my trip downtown that any protest was useless. Without looking I threw it into the wastebasket.
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