Throwing Letters.
A short story about music.
“Without music, life would be a mistake.” Friedrich Nietzsche
Lutz didn’t want to argue with Bobo anymore — not because he was losing the argument — but because Bobo was the most thickheaded individual he’d ever met. What difference did it make who was the greatest R&B singer? Sure, Otis Redding was great. He died so young, though. How do you compare his catalogue with, say, Little Richard’s Tutti Frutti, Ready Teddy, Good Golly Miss Molly?
He thought he’d settled the argument months ago. Now Bobo was at it again.
“Dammit, Bo,” Lutz said, “Just sort your mail, for chrissake.”
All around them were postal workers of varying ages, old men, young men, each one watching the hands on the big wall-mounted clock.
They were throwing letters, coming up on their first break. All around them were postal workers of varying ages, old men, young men, each one watching the hands on the big wall-mounted clock.
“I started listening to them again,” Bobo was saying. “I think Carr’s better.”
“We’ve been through this, Bo,” Lutz replied.
“You ever hear Carr do, Forgetting You?”
“I turned you on to Carr, for chrissake.”
Lutz’s hip was aching like a bitch. He swore he’d never work inside again, then his hip got worse and he had to apply for reassignment. Maybe that’s what made him short-tempered. Everyone thought Lutz looked like Jake the Snake with those gunslinger eyes, always pissed off. Ever since Lutz moved inside, those eyes were getting worse.
“Carr’s got more bottom” Bobo went on. “More ache.”
“More ache, for chrissake?” Lutz replied
His head was thumping like an African beat. He imagined slugging Bobo — not that he ever would. Bobo came from a boxing family. They named Bobo after Carl Olson. Bobo could have become a half decent welterweight, if his uncle hadn’t bought him a guitar when he was sixteen. Bobo embarrassed the shit out of his family shaking like Elvis. By the time his band, The Mighty Rockets, disbanded, Bobo was too old to pick up boxing again. All he had left was his chipped sixty-four Fender Strat.
The man was good in his day, sure, but so was Fredrick Knight and William Bell.
Now, here he was, making Lutz wish he’d never brought music up — especially James Carr. The man was good in his day, sure, but so was Fredrick Knight and William Bell. Why the hell did Bobo have to keep on about one singer?
Back when he got re-assigned, Lutz promised himself he’d do his work, clock out, and go home. Then Bobo showed up with that stupid iPod. “You know what Stax is?” he’d asked, and Lutz said, of course he knew. Bobo handed him his earphones. So Lutz listened and, hell, he knew all that stuff. So what? Why make it a daily subject of discussion?
The east end was divided into Walks, as in Walk 1, Walk 2, Walk 3, Walk 4. There were maps attached to the corner of each cubicle, a yellow line showing the area, then a red line indicating the drop off for each mail carrier. Each cubicle had three sides of slots. The trolley came, sorters grabbed their marked baskets from the trolley, and started throwing. There were six rows of cubicles running the length of the building.
One of the forklift drivers, Clifford, a black guy with a pork pie hat, he’d worked in one of the big distribution centres in Chicago before asking to be reassigned. “Happy is the man who can live without the noise of progress,” he used to say. He claimed he was a musician at one time, too, making the charts with Daisy Lou, What You Tryin’ To Do?
“Songs playin’ in my brain,” he kept telling Bobo, tapping his bald, shiny head, then stuffing his porkpie back on like some sort of top.
They hadn’t even invented the term one hit wonder back then, but that’s what Clifford was. Now he drove number 6 forklift, talking about Chicago, and what he was gonna do if he ever got back there. “Songs playin’ in my brain,” he kept telling Bobo, tapping his bald, shiny head, then stuffing his porkpie back on like some sort of top.
The shift ended and Lutz sat back. His hair was matted across his forehead. He got up to go for a smoke outside. Bobo followed. Clifford was already out there, sitting on his haunches, a handmade between his second and third fingers.
“Hey, Cliff,” Bobo said. “Who’s better, Carr and Redding?”
“That’s tough,” Clifford said, brushing ashes off his sleeve.
“Singing only. Redding wins on presentation.”
“I’ll tell you what Otis would say. He’d say it was Carr.”
“There,” Bobo said to Lutz. “You gonna argue with Otis Redding?”
“I was including presentation,” Lutz said.
“I’m just talking quality of the voice,” Bobo said.
“Then it’s Carr,” Clifford shrugged.
Lutz walked around, getting the stiffness out of his legs.
“Redding and Floyd?” Bobo asked Clifford.
“For chrissake,” Lutz said. “You’re driving me crazy, Bobo.”
Lutz tossed his cigarette and opened the back door.
His seat clicked down on the battery leads, and he spun the forklift around, going full tilt around the blind corners, hooting his horn like a crazy man.
They went back to their counters. Clifford swung himself up on his forklift. His seat clicked down on the battery leads, and he spun the forklift around, going full tilt around the blind corners, hooting his horn like a crazy man.
Bobo got his iPod out of the drawer and put in the earphones.
A tinny noise travelled across to Lutz.
If anything drove him crazy, it was Bobo’s iPod. Some of the sorters had small radios. That wasn’t so bad. With Bobo’s iPod, all you heard was this tinny sound. It drove Lutz up the wall trying to figure out what song Bobo was playing.
Lutz’s own tastes ran the same as Bobo’s, except British blues. Bobo hated it, except Eric Clapton. He made a point of injecting blues into all his music. And let’s not forget America’s own Duane Allman. He played a shitload of blues, especially at Muscle Shoals where he got Wilson Pickett to record “Hey Jude.”
Still, if all Lutz got was that tinny shit, it didn’t matter what Bobo was playing. They weren’t even supposed to wear earphones, but Bobo had that long black hair, and his collar up, and nobody gave him citations because Bobo’s temper was just as bad as Lutz’s. Maybe that’s why they were side by side. Either they’d calm each other down or kill each other. In the end, it didn’t matter — or it didn’t for Bobo.
Bobo hit that concrete floor, head bouncing, legs still moving like he was riding a bike.
Coming around a blind corner one day, Clifford clipped Bobo. If Bobo hadn’t been wearing those stupid earphones, he would’ve heard Clifford’s horn. Clipping may not sound like much, but we’re talking two tons of metal going fast. Bobo hit that concrete floor, head bouncing, legs still moving like he was riding a bike.
Two of the supers came running down the aisle. One of them was on the phone. “Yeah, we got a casualty,” he yelled. “Man’s seeing three countries and four planets.”
They took Bobo away in an ambulance, Clifford asking to go along. The supers said he had to finish his shift. “Go to the hospital when you’re done,” one of them said.
Clifford threw his porkpie on the floor. “I gotta go now!” he yelled. He was ready to take on both supers. “You drive that fuckin’ forklift!” he said to them.
An hour later, they had him in the office, saying he was lucky they didn’t fire him. Clifford came out of there, hat squished on his head. He told Lutz he was leaving, anyway. “I gotta see Bobo,” he kept saying. “I ran the man down.”
“They won’t let you in to see him,” Lutz said. “You’re not family.”
As Clifford said later, “That family’s got more broken noses than cavities.”
Clifford paced back and forth, twisting that porkpie in his hands. Lutz was right, of course. When Clifford finally got to the hospital, all of Bobo’s family was there. The uncles were ready to tear Clifford apart. As Clifford said later, “That family’s got more broken noses than cavities.” Then word came down that Bobo was conscious.
He had a concussion and three broken ribs.
Bobo was out for two weeks, coming back against doctor’s orders. The supers had him throwing for one of the upscale neighborhoods. It was light duty. The rest of us would keep asking Bobo if he felt okay. He’d just nod and take his pain medication.
Something was different about Bobo, though. His interest in music changed dramatically. Instead of Carr or Redding, he was listening to Springsteen. He kept playing “Prove It All Night” over and over again. Nobody could stop him.
Lutz finally pulled Bobo’s earphones off at one point.
“You’re throwing all over the place,” he said.
“Sorry,” Bobo replied, but kept playing that song and dropping streets altogether.
Complaints kept coming in from Markdale and Stafford. “You’re screwing with doctors and lawyers, Bobo,” the soups said. “That’s who lives out there. If they don’t get their journals and stuff, they’ll go over our heads. Smarten up.”
Going out on their break, Clifford kept asking Bobo if he shouldn’t go home.
“Go put your feet up,” Clifford said. “You got every right.”
Clifford said to Lutz later, “They ain’t gonna keep him around acting goofy like that. Man needs time off.”
Bobo wouldn’t do it. He’d turn on “Prove It All Night,” and listen while Clifford and Lutz just stared at him. Clifford said to Lutz later, “They ain’t gonna keep him around acting goofy like that. Man needs time off.”
Sometimes Clifford followed Bobo home, just to make sure he didn’t wander out on an expressway or something. “I had to take three buses back,” Clifford said.
Clifford didn’t have a car — neither did Lutz or Bobo. In Bobo’s case, he spent all his money on music. His only possession worth anything was his chipped sixty-four Strat.
Anyway, Bobo started feeling better. He was even throwing letters in the right slots. He still kept thinking he was about to be fired. The accident wouldn’t have happened if he wasn’t wearing his earphones. He kept waiting to be called upstairs.
Except nobody upstairs said anything to Bobo, and he didn’t say anything to them. They gave him a couple of mild citations for mouthing off. That was nothing new. Bobo usually tossed them out , saying he was thinking of leaving the post office, anyway.
“And do what?” Lutz asked.
“I’m getting back into music,” Bobo said.
They were on the loading dock when he said it, him, Lutz and Clifford.
“That’s what I should be doin’,” Clifford said.
“Maybe I should go to Chicago,” Bobo said.
“Maybe we both should,” Clifford replied.
Even worse, Bobo was bringing his Strat into work, playing it on his breaks outside on the loading dock.
From that day on, Bobo started playing the blues. First it was Buddy Guy, then Albert King. If Lutz had to listen to “Born Under A Bad Sign” one more time, he was going to run Bobo over with a forklift himself. Even worse, Bobo was bringing his Strat into work, playing it on his breaks outside on the loading dock.
One of the other sorters — this guy, Bernie — he was out smoking, too. Bernie had been in the music business. He’d even had a studio until he went bankrupt. “Tricky business,” he used to say, smoking his cigarette down to the filter. He was practically bald except for this long tuft of curly hair at the back. The first time he saw Bobo on the docks with his guitar, he said, “You ever do any research on that thing?”
Well, no, Bobo hadn’t. His uncle got it from a pawnshop.
“You should check it out,” Bernie said. “Might be worth big money.”
He even copied out the serial number, saying he knew a guy.
Well, this guy, it turned out, knew everything there was to know about Fender Strats. So much so, he came by one day to the loading dock to see the guitar for himself.
He was sitting in his car when Bobo, Lutz and Clifford came out for their smoke. Bernie introduced them. The guy’s name was Art, or Mr. Hawaiian because he wore Hawaiian shirts all the time and little round sunglasses. He was driving an old Jag.
“What year’s your car?” Bobo asked.
“Sixty-nine,” Art said.
Bobo kept looking at the old Jag. It’d certainly seen better days.
“That’s what I need,” Bobo said to Clifford. “Imagine arriving in Chicago with that.”
“Sure would turn a few heads,” Clifford agreed.
Art was staring at Bobo’s Fender Strat.
“I’d like to make you an offer on that thing,” he said.
“Can’t do it,” Bobo said. “My uncle bought it for me.”
“You sure?” Art said. “Straight exchange. Strat for the Jag.”
Bobo walked around the car. He checked the engine, the serial numbers, the door panels. “I’d have to ask my uncle,” he said. “Can you come back tomorrow?”
“No problem,” Art said.
“I don’t know much about guitars, but I know cars. It’s pretty beat up, but a beauty.”
The next day, they were by the loading docks again, this time with Bobo’s uncle. He goes through the same process, checking the car out. The uncle said to Art. “I don’t know much about guitars, but I know cars. It’s pretty beat up, needs a lot of work. But it’s a beauty, I’ll tell you that.”
“We have a deal?” Art said.
“Do it,” Bobo’s uncle said to Bobo.
“What about my music?” Bobo said.
“Hell, Bobo, there’s lots of guitars,” his uncle said. “Take the car.”
Bobo handed the chipped Fender Strat over to Art. Art gave him the keys and title to the Jag. They shook hands.
A few weeks later, Bobo turned in his resignation at the post office. He drove off in his Jag, music blaring. Clifford put in his resignation, too. Nobody heard anything from them after that. Someone heard they’d both gone off to Chicago.
He’d introduced a number of artists in his day, even worked with Little Milton. One day, Lutz asked him about Bobo’s guitar, that chipped Fender Strat.
Lutz continued working, throwing letters, his hip still bothering him. He missed Bobo in some respects, but in others he didn’t. Strange thing was, Bernie was reassigned to Bobo’s counter. They talked music, only Bernie knew a lot more than Bobo and Clifford. He’d worked with a number of artists in his day, including Little Milton. One day, Lutz asked him about Bobo’s guitar, that chipped Fender Strat.
“Who trades a Jag for a Strat?” Lutz said.
“Guitar belonged to Buddy Guy,” Bernie said. “Got pawned and then sold. Art checked the serial numbers and sold it back to him last week. Buddy’s gonna have it hanging at his club. Art knows his business.”
“Bobo sure won’t be happy hearing that,” Lutz said.
“He did okay,” Bernie said. “So did I, for that matter.”
“You get a commission?” Lutz asked.
“Sure did,” Bernie winked. “Good one, too.”
He’s working in a crab shack down there, happy as a bee, although he could do without listening to Jimmy Buffett songs day in and day out.
Not long after that, Bernie put in his resignation, going back into recording. Nobody’s heard anything from him, either. Lutz eventually quit, too. His hip kept aching like a bitch. He figured he needed some place warm. That place turned out to be Florida. He’s working in a crab shack down there, happy as a bee, although he could do without listening to Jimmy Buffett songs day in and day out.
Anyway, that sort of thing happens all the time at the post office. People disappear. Not all of them, mind you. Some stick around for years. They’ll tell you it’s a pretty good place to work. Sometimes, though, it’s a pretty good place to leave, too. It takes a certain type to stay and a certain type to leave. That’s what Clifford used to say. He chose to leave. So did the others.
Robert Cormack is a novelist, short story writer, blogger and journalist. His work is now free here on Medium. His first novel “You Can Lead A Horse To Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive)” is available online through Simon & Schuster. I’ve even learned Walmart is selling “good, used copies.” His stories and articles are also available at robertcormack.net
