Downtown, I sat grading a stack of essays written in the waning moments of procrastinative opportunity. I will hand them back with notes and suggestions for the future, and the students will glance at the tallied score and toss them in the trash on the way out of class. I spied a mailman across the street, a block away from the bank thermometer that read 76 degrees. He wore blue uniform shorts, running shoes, a healthy tan, and he walked with purpose. He carried packages that contained items the recipients had been dreaming about for a week and letters from geographically separated lovers that smelled like perfume. Children and the elderly alike anticipated his arrival. At 5:00 the mailman would head home and read a book, watch a baseball game, listen to a record while lying on his back, view a movie with his wife's head on his shoulder, or all of the above without feeling guilty about not working. At that moment, I thought he might have the greatest job in the world.
