Vincent didn't spend much time socializing with his peers. Their constant complaining about work conditions created so much negativity it made him physically ill. Headaches. Stomach pain. He avoided their little circles in the parking lot or huddled around a delivery vehicle.
Of course, there were some points that were true but Vincent imagined every vocation had a negative aspect or two. What his colleagues spent zero time discussing were the benefits!
Vincent became a letter carrier at a young age. He never had any desire to leave the town he grew up in or all the familiar places where he felt most comfortable. His closest friends didn't stay. They off to college or the military and left him all alone.
He thought about their lives as he delivered the mail or drove his around town. Nearly every street, business or ball field held memories. Especially the baseball field but not for any athletic achievements.
The 1st base dugout was and still is a special place for Vincent. Yes, he played baseball there as a youth. He also drank alcohol there as a teenager. A stolen bottle of rum from a friend's house. He and his three closest buddies passed the bottle around until they all got sick. Of course the boy that stole the bottle was caught by his parents and the missing bottle discovered. But that didn't stop them from doing it again and again.
Their stomachs got stronger and their circle got bigger. Girls. Vincent lost his virginity in that dugout. Many times over he and his friends hosted parties that never got raided, never crashed by unwelcome guests.
He thought fondly of those days as he sat in the dugout this morning. He sifted through the mail belonging to people wanted to know more about. Mrs. Young on Crescent Street. Ms Wilson on High Meadow Drive. Mrs. Witteford on Ridge Road. He regularly came here and went through their mail learning all about their lives, their attachments, their desires.
Then he would drive by their homes, peer in their windows and deliver the mail. Sometimes at night he would go back out with his binoculars and night-vision equipment. He would watch and take it all in.
He slipped open a letter for Mrs. Young. "What do we have here?" he asked himself.
"I told you, fellas," announced a deep voice. "A tiger don't change his stripes."
Three men stood in the rain at the top of the dugout steps. Vincent's mouth moved but no sounds escaped. The opened mail lay in his lap. The husbands, Mr. Young and Mr. Witteford stood on either side of Ms. Wilson's father.
Mr. Wilson spoke in a tight voice, controlling a seething anger. "What are we waiting for?"
The other two men didn't respond. All three descended the steps.
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