Finding Pope at the Post Office

The woman’s silver hair sparkles in the watery light of an early November afternoon. It catches my eye before I notice anything else: the youthful face framed by her hair, the cups of coffee and take-out pastry bags she juggles. I watch her only because I’m waiting for my turn to post a package and buy a sheet of forever stamps.

She turns off the sidewalk and strides toward the front of the post office. “Hello,” she calls, the laugh lines around her eyes deepening. Idle curiosity and the chatty patron who monopolizes the lone clerk prompt me to peek around the edge of the door for a glimpse of the person she speaks to.

A man sits on the cement, his back leaning against the outer wall of the post office, his long legs stretched before him, blanket-swathed. A threadbare watch cap covers his head, crammed low to his eyebrows, as long, matted salt-and-pepper hair springs from underneath the back and sides. A grizzled beard spreads across his chest and obscures the bottom half of his face. He’s wrapped in a thick coat, possibly once gray, though now dirt and oil stains encrust it.

The line moves forward, and I motion the elderly man behind me to take my place.

“It’s pretty chilly today,” the woman says. “I thought you might want some hot coffee.” Without waiting for an answer, she sets the cup beside him. “And I have this extra croissant from the bakery. Would you like to have it? I can’t eat both of them.”

The man reaches hands blackened with dirt and takes the bag from her. “You have pretty hair,” he says.

“Oh, yeah? Thanks!” She holds out her cup and tips it toward him, offering him an unspoken cheers, then takes a sip.

“I noticed it when you walked by before.” He sets the small sack on his lap and folds his hands on top of it. “Made me think of my sister.”

The woman’s laugh tinkles through the air. “Well, that’s awfully nice.”

“I didn’t always live here,” he says, throwing me with the conversational u-turn.

“Oh, no?” She grasps her cup and pastry sack in one hand, exposing the top half of the croissant with the other.

“No. I grew up in Chico.”

“Oh! I know Chico. My daughter lives there.”

“My brother and sister live in Davis now. Professors. He teaches Economics.” He scratches his bulbous nose, then resettles his hands across his pastry bag. “My brother’s a genius.”

“You sound proud of them.”

“I haven’t seen them in….” He stops, then, “I haven’t seen them in a long, long time.”

“That’s hard, I’d think.” She chews a bite of croissant, studying him.

“I’m a disappointment.”

“Oh, gosh. Is that how you feel?”

He reaches up and scrubs at an eye. From my vantage, I can’t be sure, but I think he’s trying not to cry.

“I’m a disappointment to them. I was a disappointment to my dad.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“He wanted me to go to college. But I was stubborn and enlisted. Big mistake.”

“Tough time. Where were you? Iraq?”

That gets a laugh out of him, a big, unrestrained belly laugh. “Nam!” he says when he catches his breath. “I graduated high school in ‘69. Yep, Chico High class of 1969. We were named a California Distinguished School. Yep.” He sighs. “I was gonna go to college. But after I got home, I started drinking.” He pauses. “And other…stuff.”

The woman has finished her snack. Crumpled bag in hand, she stands looking down at the man. Her hair has fallen across her face, so I can’t see her expression. She says nothing, but the man is in his own world. “English was my favorite class,” he goes on. “‘Blest, who can unconcernedly find hours, days, and years slide soft away, in health of body, peace of mind, quiet by day….’” He trails off, gazing at the concrete on which he sits.

“That’s beautiful.”

He peers up at her. “Alexander Pope. He was twelve when he wrote that.”

“Wow!”

“Yeah. I like Pope. ‘Most souls, 'tis true, but peep out once an age, dull sullen pris'ners in the body's cage: dim lights of life, that burn a length of years useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchers.’”

“Thanks for sharing that,” she says. “Did you read those poems in high school? Chico High class of 1969?”

He tips his head and looks at her from the side of his eyes. “How did you know that?”

“Know what?”

“That.” He waves his hand.

“Chico High class of 1969?” she asks. He stares, not responding. She chuckles warmly. “You told me a couple minutes ago.”

“Oh. Right.” He nods and finally reaches for his coffee, though he holds it without drinking.

“It’s been lovely talking with you. I have to go. Someone’s waiting for me.”

“Work?” he asks with understanding.

“Right.”

“What do you do?”

She tosses her head, and her hair falls behind her back, revealing the smile on her face. “I listen to people.”

He laughs, another deep belly laugh. “Makes sense.”

She laughs with him. “Bye,” she holds her hand up. “Thanks again.”

“See you around, maybe,” he says, looking down at the cup in his hands.

She walks away, and I reclaim my place in line.