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  • armanmirhadi

Postman




One day I realized I needed some money, so I started looking for a job.

I was looking for a job where I would have to do little work and get lots of money.

I didn’t really find anything of that sort for me. So I was looking for a job where I could at least use headphones at work, so I could listen to music or a radio show. You know, not having the feeling I was completely wasting my time.

I remembered a friend working as a postman, so I signed up for that too. Decent money and I could use headphones.


On my first day, they gave me clothes. And those were good clothes too. The guy interviewing me for that job -and I think the only requirement was me being able to fill out the form with personal informations, which I nearly failed when I misspelled my last name, - anyways, that fucking guy looked exactly like the kind of guy that would give broke bums jobs with the postal service for the last thirty years. A skinny and tall, but shorter than me, grey-haired, old-looking baby face, with thin arms. A guy that would usually get eaten in normal life’s jungle, but got some confidence from a stable job, with some authority. He was fairly nice though. And the clothes they gave me, I gotta say, they were good. They were warm and comfortable and looked decent too!

Well, I almost thought it might be a good time.

But I was wrong all right.


I got there and they gave me a small yellow bus. My job was to fill it with an unstoppable amount of magazines and letters, commercial pieces, packages - small enough to make ‘em count as letters and all that kinda stuff.

In the back, that was where I had to stack the packages.

On some days there were eighty, ninety packages. That was a damn good day, as it meant I could take my sweet time in the morning with sorting the post and loading the car. It meant I could take some time for a coffee and a cigarette, while eating a sandwich outside, where all of them yellow busses were lined up like prisoners in front of an execution squad. Ready to be opened and loaded up from behind. With walls of brown packages and parcels.

Having little packages also meant I had that time before driving off to take a shit, and god did I love to have that time to take a proper shit! Usually, I didn’t. But usually, I still drank coffee to keep me fast and smoked a cigarette or two, to keep me focused. So usually which means damn near every day, I REALLY liked to be able to take that shit. But usually, I couldn’t.

It was a real problem, because they don’t give you a toilet out on the street.

One day I had north of one hundred and ninety packages. Big ones too! My car was full, loaded up to the roof. Heavy in every corner, while I prayed for nothing to fall over. For the bit of structure, I put in to hold, so that I could find the right package for the right house again.

Which I never did, because I never packed right, because frankly, I just didn’t care.


Then after a bit more than a month and my first paycheck, I realized it was worth taking longer out there. As long as every one of those shopping-addicted freaks, that gave up real stores when they realized they could get their girlfriend a birthday gift the day before while taking a shit, would still get their stupid TV or laptop or whatever I fantasized to be in those brown boxes, they wouldn’t fire me, I thought.

So it took me long, a long time. Every day.

And I made more money. And I felt a bit better about myself.


Anyways, one day I was out there with all them packages and I couldn’t find anything.

After thirty minutes, I was already two hours late. It took me at least five minutes for just one house. I was angry. And tired. And I drank coffee and smoked and I didn’t even smile when I saw them addicts and I thought I just wouldn’t get home that day. Not even if half my packages magically disappeared, which I considered at one point in time. I drank more coffee, probably around a liter, and smoked six cigarettes in a row, until my throat was stinky and itchy, and when I finally found the package for Nr. sixty-three, the small white one, my stomach performed a backflip and landed on its head. Something gave free and I farted deep and long and stinky and when it was over I felt shit, a bit of shit in my pants.

That day it was cold. The kinda dry cold, that made the skin on your knuckles shrink up, and sometimes they would bleed.

Breathing air was hurting my lung and snort was constantly rolling out my wet nose. A disgusting day it was.

And I was so angry! When I felt shit in my pants I truly did feel like a loser. But mostly, I felt blinding, raging anger and I wanted to bash in all of those stupidly brown fucking packages.

Then a thought struck me: I might just take a breath, work hard, finish the shift, get home, change, shower, and then forget all about it. I took one step and felt shit, wet on my ass.

Horrible!

My face contoured in an expression of astonished pain. Surprise. Surprised at what kind of loser I was.

For a second I remembered going to elementary school, not knowing anything.

I remembered the postman showing up, just in time for me to come back from school.

I thought he was a loser for not getting a better job. I see them, little kids, coming back from school every day now. I see them looking at me, but I am not looking back.

I would always stand up straight and act busy and act like I knew where my packages were.

While I was standing there, with shit in my pants and anger cooking down my brain. Punching a big brown package for Nr. twenty-two that I should have delivered at the beginning of the day, but couldn’t find. It was buried under a wall of others, for the thirty-first, the twenty-sixth, seventy-sixth, seventy-third and eighty-eighth.

I realized that kids knew some things better than the adults who drive to work everyday to feed them.

Then I found the package for Nr. twenty-eight and rang at Mrs. Hubert’s door.


I didn’t really like Mrs. Hubert. Or did I?

Well, she was Irish. I could hear it. I can tell an Irish accent from a Scottish and a Scottish from a Wale and I recognize a proper Londoner and one from stinky Birmingham, but I’ve never actually been to England. It’s just that at night after three, drunk in the bars when you start smelling more puke than pint, most of the bastards that were around at the places I was getting drunk at, were Scottish, Irish, or British. And they were bastards let me tell you. But that might be a story for later on.

Mrs. Hubert, yes. Mrs. Hubert was a bit Irish, I would say, and a bit of a cunt too for my understanding. Yeah, she definitely had some good part cunt in her. I think most ladies that get older and ain’t pretty become pretty big cunts.

Maybe those that used to be pretty especially.

Maybe older ladies are just cunts in general. Anyways.

Mrs. Hubert wasn’t necessarily my favorite, but she was decent.

She was quick at the door, she didn’t have much to say, never gave me any returns or some other shit, but most importantly she did save me that day and I promise to never forget.


I really didn’t want to ask. But I felt my wet ass and I knew I had only seconds until she’d smell it, so I brought it over with:

“Mrs. Hubert, here is your package and I’ve also got two letters, I know it’s strange but I had an accident and I really need to use a toilet…”

She just looked at me, her eyebrows slowly wandering upwards, sinking on the edges of her face down, looking like the titanic running full water frontside, sinking down. Hanging up in the air on the other.

So I continued asking that old Irish cunt:

“I know it’s a bit strange, but could I use your toilet mam?”

No answer came, then:


“Ehm. Yes. Of course.”, she answered silently and every word turned quieter. I knew she didn’t like it, but I could also see that she didn’t want to be seen as a lady who wouldn’t help a man in need. Especially a postman just before Christmas. And everybody knows how much work a postman has, just before Christmas.

Besides, that was a nice neighborhood, with decent people! And decent people keep their stinky facade up, acting all decent. Even if it’s just the dirty postman.

So: “Thank you, mam!”

And I ran into the house past her, realizing I didn’t know where the bathroom was. Somehow I grabbed the right door instinctively. And there I was, finally inside!

And it was warm and nice and I could see my face in the mirror and I looked tired and red.

I sat down and started shitting. I realized then and truly thought, just a minute longer out there and I would have emptied out all over those brown packages.

Dark brown, black already.

Stinky brown. Soft and more fluid than anything. Then after I was done, five minutes later, I didn’t care that I lost so much time. And I didn’t care I kinda destroyed Mrs. Hubert’s toilet and that it was stinking badly.


I was just happy that I found some time, to finally take a shit.


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