he was in the park because he liked the park.
There was no need to mention Ivory Face. Why should he? He didn’t know her. He had never spoken to her. As he piloted his taxi through the streets he knew so well, he remembered Hoppie teaching him. For a whole year, every day, while he was getting $50 a week and living alone in the Battery shack, Hoppie drove him through every street and alley in New York City that Paul had to know if he got the job of mailman.
He should be with Ivory Face right now. He knew that she was lonely, had followed her a few times, saw where she worked, never saw her with anybody until that stranger, and now even he was gone…
In the first year under Hoppie’s tutelage Paul learned landmarks he could spot blocks away, even at night.
Nights when he wasn’t working, he tried to write poems, read books his mother had given him, studied words in the dictionary.
Hoppie taught him how to back up fast without lights in a dark alley, how to avoid blind dead ends, how to escape from a pirate by driving behind 24-sheet billboards on empty lots through camouflaged rubble.
Paul learned how to lose a pirate on wheels in the snow, the rain, on the waterfront, on roofs, in the subway, in elevators, markets, theatres, bus depots, train stations, airports, in churches, in a crowd, a rally, at ballgames and how to use streets under construction.
He learned how to use a gun to protect the mail the way the FBI used guns to protect the United States.
In the third year of training he learned how to carry the bag. Not too fast. Not too slow. How to use store window reflections to spot a pirate following him. He had to carry the bag the way Hoppie did. Like a businessman carrying a briefcase. He had to learn what to do if, making a delivery, he came across an accident near the drop.
It was forbidden to go to the same barber twice, shop at the same market, eat at the same place, buy his clothes at the same store.
He learned how to drive a hyped-up taxi, a small van, a motorcycle.
He learned to avoid traffic jams by taking shortcuts. He learned he must never drive fast unless fleeing from a pirate. He was taught how to use a Polaroid. Off work, he knew that he was under surveillance by Hoppie.
For three years, he had periodic brainquakes. They didn’t show in his cipher face. Hoppie was unaware of the attacks. He had annual physical checkups by a company doctor, always passed, lucky he never had a brainquake in the doctor’s office.
Hoppie did all the talking. That suited Paul. The final day at the end of the third year, Hoppie took him to meet the Boss for the first time. On the way, Hoppie braked.
“Goddam it, Paul, I forgot!”
Hoppie U-turned, almost sideswiping a passing truck.
“Jesus Christ, Paul, I’d’ve had my ass reamed if I didn’t take you to Yonkers first. There’s a place you got to see before you start carrying the bag.”
“What place?”
“Your future, goddam it,” laughed Hoppie, “is in Yonkers.”
In the suburb of New York, they pulled up to a big isolated house. It was surrounded by trees. It was kept very clean. He knew what the word future meant. His father had explained it very clearly. He couldn’t understand why this big house was his future.
Inside, Hoppie took him on a tour. Paul saw old men playing cards, chess, checkers, staring out windows. Many had canes to help them walk.
“For retired bagmen,” Hoppie said. “When you’re pensioned off, you can live here for nothing or you can live alone. Most bagmen, the older they get, the more they’re hungry for a little company. Most of ’em here are over the hill with no memories. Those attendants there in white shirts are also retired bagmen who like helping the older ones.”
Hoppie took him to the cemetery behind the house.
“Only for bagmen. Few guys in any goddam other business get this kind of security when they’re old.”
After Paul had had a good look, Hoppie led him back to the car.
At a fast
There was no need to mention Ivory Face. Why should he? He didn’t know her. He had never spoken to her. As he piloted his taxi through the streets he knew so well, he remembered Hoppie teaching him. For a whole year, every day, while he was getting $50 a week and living alone in the Battery shack, Hoppie drove him through every street and alley in New York City that Paul had to know if he got the job of mailman.
He should be with Ivory Face right now. He knew that she was lonely, had followed her a few times, saw where she worked, never saw her with anybody until that stranger, and now even he was gone…
In the first year under Hoppie’s tutelage Paul learned landmarks he could spot blocks away, even at night.
Nights when he wasn’t working, he tried to write poems, read books his mother had given him, studied words in the dictionary.
Hoppie taught him how to back up fast without lights in a dark alley, how to avoid blind dead ends, how to escape from a pirate by driving behind 24-sheet billboards on empty lots through camouflaged rubble.
Paul learned how to lose a pirate on wheels in the snow, the rain, on the waterfront, on roofs, in the subway, in elevators, markets, theatres, bus depots, train stations, airports, in churches, in a crowd, a rally, at ballgames and how to use streets under construction.
He learned how to use a gun to protect the mail the way the FBI used guns to protect the United States.
In the third year of training he learned how to carry the bag. Not too fast. Not too slow. How to use store window reflections to spot a pirate following him. He had to carry the bag the way Hoppie did. Like a businessman carrying a briefcase. He had to learn what to do if, making a delivery, he came across an accident near the drop.
It was forbidden to go to the same barber twice, shop at the same market, eat at the same place, buy his clothes at the same store.
He learned how to drive a hyped-up taxi, a small van, a motorcycle.
He learned to avoid traffic jams by taking shortcuts. He learned he must never drive fast unless fleeing from a pirate. He was taught how to use a Polaroid. Off work, he knew that he was under surveillance by Hoppie.
For three years, he had periodic brainquakes. They didn’t show in his cipher face. Hoppie was unaware of the attacks. He had annual physical checkups by a company doctor, always passed, lucky he never had a brainquake in the doctor’s office.
Hoppie did all the talking. That suited Paul. The final day at the end of the third year, Hoppie took him to meet the Boss for the first time. On the way, Hoppie braked.
“Goddam it, Paul, I forgot!”
Hoppie U-turned, almost sideswiping a passing truck.
“Jesus Christ, Paul, I’d’ve had my ass reamed if I didn’t take you to Yonkers first. There’s a place you got to see before you start carrying the bag.”
“What place?”
“Your future, goddam it,” laughed Hoppie, “is in Yonkers.”
In the suburb of New York, they pulled up to a big isolated house. It was surrounded by trees. It was kept very clean. He knew what the word future meant. His father had explained it very clearly. He couldn’t understand why this big house was his future.
Inside, Hoppie took him on a tour. Paul saw old men playing cards, chess, checkers, staring out windows. Many had canes to help them walk.
“For retired bagmen,” Hoppie said. “When you’re pensioned off, you can live here for nothing or you can live alone. Most bagmen, the older they get, the more they’re hungry for a little company. Most of ’em here are over the hill with no memories. Those attendants there in white shirts are also retired bagmen who like helping the older ones.”
Hoppie took him to the cemetery behind the house.
“Only for bagmen. Few guys in any goddam other business get this kind of security when they’re old.”
After Paul had had a good look, Hoppie led him back to the car.
At a fast
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