The Mailmen Aren't The Same

Working on the Miracle Mile is a treat, really. Aside from fighting the buses for space in narrow lanes, and the overabundance of taco trucks, and oddly high-security office buildings, and far less colorful homeless people than I'm used to, the mailmen aren't the same.
   For one, their trucks are different, bigger than they are here in Pasadena, where they have the little junior-minivan kind of mail trucks. And the mailmen scrupulously lock their trucks in the Miracle Mile. In Pasadena they just close the back and make sure the keys aren't in the ignition. Down on the Miracle Mile the mailmen don't make eye contact, and - maybe I'm reading a little too much into it here - they're a little more unkempt, a little more slouchy. I noticed untucked shirts, unlaced shoes, five o'clock shadow that had gone past midnight. Almost like they're trying to match the neighborhood.
   And when I was buying lotto tickets in the liquor store the other day, the mailman lingered just a little bit too long, eyeing the product lustily. I'm not saying he was drinking on the job, but I'm not saying he wasn't either. He just seemed to like the bourbon section a bit much. I prefer my mail carriers as sober as possible, cuts down on the copies of Cosmo I have to return to their rightful owners.