The Postman

Excerpt from Chapter I

Spring. 1991.

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They say it's the winners who tell the story. I'm afraid I have to disagree. I am the loser, and I will give my testimony here.

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Fall. 1990.

It rains a lot today. The pounding of the rain on the roofs of the houses creates unbearable echoes in my ears. Time seems to stop. Gusts of wind cut my face, and the cold freezes my bones. My discomfort is soothed with a sip of bourbon aged in Kentucky oak barrels and a pipe of native herbs harvested in northern Colorado. Souvenirs from my last work trips. It's been a while since I started looking for an escape to face who I am and what I do. And to be honest, I don't blame myself for it. It's after 21:08, but November nights here start at 17:35, and the streets become deserted very early. Only stray dogs roam the neighborhood looking for shelter from the rain or spoiled food in trash cans. I'm standing in a forgotten city corner, wearing a hood over my head and a worn-out black overcoat. My traditional uniform is on cold nights like this. In front of me is a Catholic church, built sometime in the 17th century — a sacred place of prayer and faith. People come in there every day looking for answers, requests, or just gratitude. It would be nice if it were just that. A place to meet God. Something intimate, pure, and trustworthy. It would be good.