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This is a true story.

Mostly

It was another lousy day on my new job as a truck driver for the U.S. Postal Service. Six months had passed, but I still felt as awkward as I had on my first day. I trudged through the open spaces of the processing plant towards the small, dim dungeon that served as the office of the Motor Vehicle Service. I hadn’t yet grown accustomed to the blank stares and grimaces made by many of the jaded elders when I committed the faux pas of saying “good morning.” This was not a happy place.

A sign on the wall proclaimed “The beatings will continue until morale improves.” It was obviously a failed policy, or yet another example of malfeasance or incompetence on the part of supervision. I was sure, however, that management would in short order create and then memorize a form number for the procedure, so as to document the number of times the beatings occurred. Of course, this extra burden would require the need for yet more management personnel, but one can never have too much paperwork or too many supervisors. They would anxiously await reports to see if the beatings were being administered according to plan and on schedule. Supervision would consult graph charts to see how the number and intensity of the their thrashings compared with other postal facilities in our region.

Mandatory would be the setting of an unattainable goal for the greatest number of beating victims, so as to motivate the workforce into competing against those other, enemy installations. Volunteers would be sought and coerced into being the first in line to be given their beating here locally. Better that than risk being sent off 50 miles or more to some unknown postal gulag, where we were told, the beatings were much more severe.

I was stuck in a job I hated, in a place I loathed, and I was looking for some inspiration to carry me through that trying time. Before the day was through, I would discover someone who would inspire me to action and give me hope of standing tall in the face of adversity – someone, however, who would ultimately betray me and my dreams like a modern day Judas.

I was loading cages into the truck when some printing on the side of a box caught my eye. The text read: Live crickets – handle with care. Fascinated that people actually mailed living things, I took the box out for closer inspection. It was a rectangular cardboard box with a cutout in the middle that was covered by a black screen. This allowed one to inspect the contents and presumably let the crickets see out. Sure enough, there they were, busily going about their business in their cubic-foot cardboard mansion, doing just whatever it is that crickets do.

A graphic was printed on the side of the cutout, showing an upright, smiling cricket. Text next to the picture introduced the fellow as Snookums. Dressed in a tuxedo, appearing well fed and comfortable, he was the personification of happiness and contentment.

Memories of Chester in A Cricket in Times Square played through my head. It made me feel good that I had a hand in helping deliver joy and happiness to smiling, laughing kids, who would be waiting anxiously by the door every time the mailman arrived. They’d gather round to see if today was the day they’d have the chance to become foster parents to their pet cricket. They’d play with and care for their new “children,” giving food and shelter while getting companionship and love in return.

The feeling that something was terribly wrong broke this pleasant reverie. Something wasn’t as innocuous as I had supposed. Some horrible secret was being hidden and was to be found within the confines of this small cardboard community. I turned the box over and read the inscription.

Live Bait

I took a moment for my mind to comprehend the implication of those words. Then as my conscience grappled with their true meaning, the horror that I now had a hand in perpetuating began to sink in. These were not happy little creatures, looking forward to a new life in the arms of a child. Rather, they were sacrificial insects who’s only purpose was to be used as bait. They were prisoners to be impaled on fishhooks or eaten alive by caged iguanas. This wasn’t the happy little cricket cruise. It was Auschwitz in miniature.

I had given up all hope for humanity. My thoughts of benevolent enterprise vanished, replaced with guilt and sorrow. Instead of elated, I was now feeling guilty and terribly depressed. I had almost set the box back in the APC when I caught movement at the edge of the container. It came not from behind the tiny prison bars but from outside the box.

Snookums had escaped!

I glanced quickly around hoping against all odds that no Postal Inspectors were rushing to apprehend Snookums, the perpetrator of what I was sure must be some breach of Postal regulation. Luckily, none were in sight, probably off somewhere on the catwalk listening in on the conversation of sparrows. No doubt they were seeking evidence of conspiracy on the part of the birds, whom they reasoned must be making plans to steal crackers out of the vending machines.

Inspired, I began to devise a plan, one that would not only free Snookums and his charges from their journey of death, but would also release me from the bondage of this dreadful employer. I would first gather up all the cases of crickets I could find on the dock and load them in the truck. Quickly, I would find a secluded location - say, downtown Youngstown - and release all of the captives into the air. There, their fearless leader Snookums would guide them to freedom. I imagined multitudes of crickets flying out of the truck, filling the air in such numbers they eclipsed the sun and made day turn to night.

People would gather and point into the air, staring with mouths agape. They would see the liberated insects and cheer in awe at the sight of such inspiring courage. “Hurry! Fly away! Fly away to your freedom,” they would yell, not wanting to see the dark forces of the Postal Inspection Service descend upon the revolutionaries and repel this display of democracy.

“Fly away!” I would shout, standing on the back of the emptying truck. “Fly away to find happiness in the arms of all the children that will love and care for you as pets. Fly away to loving families or green fields where you will find happiness and freedom.”
I hoped that Snookums would be rewarded in the end. A caring young girl who would make him a matchbox bed where he could rest comfortably would take him in, a place he could grow old happily. His nocturnal melody still bringing joy to her years later, when he played his song for her at night.

Hours later, the Postal Inspectors would arrive after rushing to the scene of the crime—two blocks away. The delay was apparently caused by their inability to use handcuffs on the sparrows. Seems the saltine snatching birds did not adhere to the memo management posted earlier requiring employees to grow extra hands while on U.S. Postal property. The purpose of that edict was to eliminate any excuses that employees might use for not doing three jobs at once.

The Inspectors would find me, still on the back of the truck, tearing away the dreaded blue bird that clutched at my breast and fed at my soul. Constantly eating, consuming, it depleted one of motivation, creativity and common sense. The patch, which distorted both the image and meaning of our national symbol, stood not for freedom and independence, but rather mismanagement, incompetence and annual postage increases.

I would tear it away and, once emancipated from its oppressive grasp, toss it at the feet of the postal police. Distracted by the blasphemous act of destroying a shirt bought with my U.S.P.S. clothing allowance, my pursuers, never allowed to make any decisions on their own, would have to call a superior. A tele- conference would be held, a study sanctioned and a memo issued. Supervisors would notify their supervisors. Precious minutes would be wasted while MVS administrators frantically searched the ELM for all the policy transgressions I had committed while engaging in this unprecedented infraction of The Rules. Only then, when there was enough management involved that none of them could be accused of actually making a decision, when no possibility existed that anyone would have to take blame in case something went wrong, could they proceed with my capture.

Meanwhile, I would make my escape to a warmer climate, never again to return to the site of the insurrection. Through pleasant thoughts of minimum wage jobs with weekends off, and the feel hot desert sand beneath my feet, a terrible thought began to thread its way into the muddled pathway of my consciousness.

The dreaded dark epiphany came, of course, like any other sudden realization that the bases of one’s own beliefs are meaningless. Like finding out there is no Santa Claus, that Peter Pan was really a girl, or that your mother was lying when she told you as a child that you were smart and handsome. The truth finally emerges and presents itself. It stands there coldly, eyeing you with disgust. It challenges you to confess, to admit what you knew all along, that you were so blinded by your hopeful delusion that you managed to ignore the conspicuous, obvious truth. It was simple, really. A small detail that dispelled all my dreams of freedom and a Walter Mitty ending to my less than illustrious six-month stint as a mailman.

Crickets can’t fly

With that sudden dreadful revelation, the daydream ended. I was back in the truck at the closed dock. I realized that a crowd of mailhandlers had begun to gather and stare at me while I was off liberating crickets in my mind. Embarrassed, I quickly tossed the box back inside the cage. Taking one last look at it while strapping down the load, I realized that Snookums had crawled back inside his prison.

Was he trying to tell me something? Was it just a foolish notion to attempt to fight against this oppressive bureaucracy? Snookums had inspired in me the hope that even those without wings could still take flight, but in the end even he chose to crawl back inside the box. He’d go back to the inviting comfort of familiar boundaries rather than risking the chance of the unknown. So conditioned to follow policy and procedure, he was unable to question that which even he thought absurd. He’d delude himself into thinking that everything would work out as long as he never fought the system, never tried anything new. So dispirited by the futility of trying to make change, he now believed that the stigma of mediocrity was preferable to the risks of leadership.

Disgusting damn bugs, I spat. Pathetic…leaping pests. Noisy cockroaches. Jumping around the room, jumping here, jumping there… always just…jumping! I was revolted that I would ever place my hope in such vile common creatures. My vicarious dreams of freedom broken, I slammed the cargo door shut. I dropped Snookums and his crawling, pathetic brood off at their destination, untroubled further of their fate.

That evening, it was finally time to clock out and go home. Heading out the door, toward a few hours of unsupervised sanity, a smiling young carrier held the door open for me to exit. “Goodnight,” he said brightly. I stopped and stared blankly at the neophyte who dared to be so cheery within the confines of this dreary place.

The grimace was already forming on my face as I thought about everything that had happened that day. Would I allow this place to change me into another of those pitiful zombies that used to be men? Employees that exchanged their dignity and compassion, their humor and happiness, for something so mundane as a paycheck? Six months, I thought. Six months is all it takes for this place to win. All the time it needs to completely demoralize and rob a person of their enthusiasm and dedication. Would I give in to the inevitable, or was there the slightest hope I could fight against the system and emerge victorious, defeating that which had wronged so many for so long?

The carrier, still standing there, looked back at me. He was uncomfortable now, but still expectant, waiting for a response.

I closed my eyes and held my breath a moment. Slowly, the decision made, the catharsis complete, a smile - a huge smile, appeared on my face.

“Goodnight,” I said, savoring the emotion as I walked past him and out the door.

Jim Varner is a PTF- MVS driver for the P & DC in Youngstown, Ohio. Two years have passed without any success of escape.