There are certain people I never want to see. Ever. And there are certain times I never want to see them. Policemen (who ride behind me on the interstate or knock at my front door). An EMT (when his ambulance is parked on my cul de sac).
The fireman (when his fire engine is wailing in the direction of my house). I would include angels among that group (but I might offend some friends who have claimed to see them), so I will say the postman. Because angels and postmen are both messengers. Over the years people have told me about their personal interactions with angels. They always describe a sense of calm, a giddy excitement, or an innate understanding that the angel meant them well. I admire that. Unlike postmen angels historically appear unannounced (which I find unnerving). Postmen are routine. For the most part. Historically, it seems that angels scare the crap out of people. The only way I can describe the responses of people in the Bible like the prophets who encountered messengers (or "The" messenger) unannounced is that they were literally scared to death. There is always this bending over, this shrinking, this cowering, this falling down, this hiding the face. I have never heard of the prophets jumping up and down, trying to grab for the angel out of sheer joy, or talking the angel's ear off.No, these people never seem to be concerned that the angel invaded their personal space: in their bedroom at night when no one else is around, for example. I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to differentiate between an angel and a home intruder. I might jump at it only to be blasted backwards onto my head.
But getting back to the mailman, I have wondered why I secretly despise them, some times more than others. I've listed a few reasons:1. Postmen are friendly because they are obligated to be friendly. What a facetious complaint, I know, but it is an awkward thing to interact with people who feel compulsion to do so. There was a postman who frequented our house between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 1:00 p.m. each day. I soon learned why he had such a wide time differential. It was because he talked to anybody who was available. Neighborhood friendliness to him meant that you deserved a long conversation that only ended when you excused yourself from his interrogative style of converse. He always asked questions at the end of paragraphs instead of ending the talk.Over a period of five years I learned that he was divorced, had a special needs child who died in the bathtub, and was being monitored for his bad habit of striking up long conversations with residents like myself who happened to be out whenever he sauntered by. One time he spoke with me for at least 45 minutes. When I learned of his probation, I tried to avoid him or limit our chats. However, he never could kick the habit and was soon terminated.2. Postmen know about our business and keep us in suspense about what they know. We interpret their silence one day, their smile the next, and their avoiding us altogether yet the next day as some kind of thermostat measuring what we can expect to find in the mailbox. It is as if they know what is in our box (without having opened our mail), and further still they despise us for it.3. Postmen carry bad as well as good news (these days probably more bad than good). Unfortunately, it isn't that postman's fault even though I directly attribute the bad news in my mailbox to the man delivering it. I remember the first foreclosure notice I received back in 2008. I never saw the postman that day. It just ended up in my mailbox. I think the postman came early that day. Surely, mailmen are experts at categorizing the mail they carry. I always receive two notices before I pay my water bill. I know my postman knows that because the logo on the first notice is blue while the logo on the second one is red. I'm sure they even have their ways of knowing the differences between good and bad personal letters.And isn't that an egoistic thought? That the postal worker sees MY bad mail at the beginning of the day and connives how to evade ME by rerouting his route, and timing it just right so that he slips by my house when I'm in the bathroom or backyard? That the postal worker can telepathically work around me? The omniscience to which we attribute the postal worker, I think, is the hatred we sometimes reserve for God Himself.4. Postal workers make us sign for things without knowing what we are signing. I taught history & literature for several years and am familiar with accounts and stories of people who signed their own death warrants without knowing it or who accepted and passed onto their executioner the contents of their own demise. When a postal worker comes to my door and asks for me to sign for a letter or package, I want to see the package or letter, shake it around a bit (if it's a package), put it up to the light (if it's a letter), and consult with him about the contents ("What do you think is in it?") before I put my signature to it.
Of course, deliberating beyond an acceptable few seconds is not only impossible but also rude, because the mailman has three thousand more houses to drop by before he goes home for the evening. And what is so odd is that the little bit of innate respect we reserve for our postman morphs into a momentary but sinister hatred for being needed by three thousand more people instead of only by you.Below is some of my mail. I thought one day that I would photograph every bit of mail that I get for one day. 
AT & T. Look below at all of the unnecessary paper.
The IRS gave my company a new tax ID. That's what this paper is.
Unnecessary paper again.
All that was left was the return envelope and the sheet inside.
This is a coupon I thought my kids might like.
I'm not changing my bank...
...so this is trashed.
My mortgage company sends me love letters...
Look at all of this love...
But I'm already in love, so it's trashed.
Oh, this is that AT & T bill...
Trashed.
My electric company...
Though the mail is varied, they all have one thing in common. An angel of a mailman delivered them. Thank your mailman today (but feel free to go on hating him tomorrow).
