Martin the mailman's alarm clock doesn't go off. He's not entirely sure if there was some sort of mechanical malfunction or if he simply forgot to set it last night, but there'll be time for solving that little mystery later. Right now, it's 3:30AM, and if he doesn't hustle, he's going to be late for work. His route is supposed to start at 4:00AM.

The shift isn't exactly normal for a mail carrier, but the only times he finds himself regretting it are mornings like these. He throws on his shorts and shirt, praying that his cap is in the car. The fact that he arrives at the station on time is a miracle, even to him.

He finds his truck loaded with the mail, which is as well sorted as it was ever going be by such an early hour. He thanks Trish, one of only two other workers present this early in the morning, and leaves the lot to start his route.

He watches the sun rise off the highway about an hour and a half later and he begins to see a few people outside on the roads walking their dogs. He recognizes every single one of them.

"Hey there, Charlie. Good morning to you," he calls out as he passes a young man in a dark green sweater far too warm for the morning weather.

"And to you, sir!" the man says back with a wave.

"Sarah, you're looking positively sparkling in the morning dew," he says to a blonde woman in her forties, but too quietly to catch her attention. No, that's terrible. He tries again. "Sarah, lovely as always." Sarah smiles and nods at the compliment, then turns the corner at the end of the block.

Definitely better—Martin thinks—but with a little more confidence tomorrow.

 

Some people like to express their creativity by designing their own mailboxes. Neat. (Source)

He thinks that, but he probably won't be any more confident tomorrow. Martin thinks up little interactions like these almost every day, imagining what he might say and how the people along his route might react. In reality, he's almost never voiced his imagined interactions. Before he can, he always stops himself. It's feels too much like introducing himself to a friend he's had for years. It's just too weird.

He continues his drive in a happy silence, delivering to both the neighborhood hubs and door-to-door as appropriate. The hubs, he thinks, are the worst part of his job—they save time, but require him to just stand there with his bag for what usually feels like hours. 

If he'd wanted to stand and sort envelopes into tiny boxes, he'd have applied to be a sorter. He doesn't like to be still. For him, the job is all about movement.

He takes a thirty-minute lunch break before continuing to the southern section of his route. There are far more people out now, too many faces to have memorized. He looks at them and thinks about who they might be anyway, using whatever small cues are visually available to him: That one is wearing a UCLA shirt; she's got two kids with her; he's smoking that cigarette faster than he should be.

As he stops at the next house, he hears someone speaking behind him.

"Excuse me," the voice says. It sounds like it came from an older man.

 

This was almost as bad as the Davis' mailbox. (Source)

Martin freezes. This is a real voice, a real person. He slowly turns to face whoever has spoken. "Uh..." followed by a cough is all Martin manages—his habitual shyness is squeezing closed his vocal cords.

"Can you give me a change-of-address card?" the old man asks. Martin doesn't immediately answer. "Hello?" the man asks again. "I'm usually the one hard of hearing." The man taps at his large hearing aid.

Martin laughs and the spell is broken. He feels like he can speak, and so he does. "Um, yes!" he exclaims. "I've got one right back here in my truck. Just a moment please."

"Mighty fine day, today," the man says as Martin rifles through a box behind his seat. All postal carriers have these cards on hand, though he's personally never been asked for one in his eight years of service.

"Yes, very," Martin says back, finally landing his paw on one of the cards. "Here you are," he says nicely as he turns back toward the man. "So, when's the big move?"

"Oh, few days now," he says. "But not much of a move. Just moving there." He points at a small blue house across the street with a "sold" sign sticking out of the lawn. "Here, right now." He points his thumb behind him toward the house Martin just serviced.

"I run this route," Martin says. "Usually, I mean. Not just today, I mean."

The old man nods.

"So, I suppose I'll see you."

"I suppose I'll see you," the man echoes back at him, nodding a thank you for the card.

Martin smiles as he lightly presses the accelerator of his truck, coasting to the next house. He wonders why it's taken him so long to make a friend along the route before today.

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