The university dominated our life in Chicago. My heavy reading and studying schedule kept me very busy; then we went to special lectures, and we even spent our limited free time socializing with grad students. But I never missed an opportunity to make a little extra money for our meager budget.
In 1956, during my initial term at the university, I looked ahead and applied for Christmas work to the postal system in Chicago. I was delighted to be accepted, but had a completely different experience from the two seasons I worked for “the PO” in Havana.
My first year at the Chicago PO, I reported downtown to the huge postal facility that straddled Congress Expressway. We were told that it was the largest postal center in the country. In 1953 when I had gone to work at the post office in Havana, it was an aw-shucks, low-key affair, with practically no orientation. The Chicago experience ushered me into a huge bureaucratic institution with strict regulations and ironclad penalties. Showing up in the expansive lobby of the building, a stern-faced and mean-talking official herded dozens of us into a small area, and then laid down the law to us. He emphasized we were on federal property, under strict federal supervision, and that any infractions would be punished by federal law.
Looking around the lofty lobby, for the first time I noticed the narrow slits where the walls met the ceiling. The supervisor said that we would be watched all the time, and if we dared to take anything, even a single postage stamp, they would know. If we saw money, or a billfold, anything of value, we should not pick it up, just notify our supervisor. He gave us a final warning: “You walked in here free men, but if we arrest you, you’ll be marched out in handcuffs.”
Much to my surprise, I was assigned to cloakroom duty, eleven P.M. to seven A.M. Carpenters had used two by fours to convert a large space into rows of eye-level boards with numbered hooks for hanging coats. Above each hook was a small peg for a numbered bronze tag. The “work” was super simple, hanging up an employee’s coat and handing over a bronze tag. After eight hours of work, the tag was exchanged for a coat.
Shifts of workers came and went. The beginning of a shift was more relaxed, as employees filed in. At the end of a shift, things became hectic as tired workers crowded the counter. Some used the ploy of holding a tag over the counter and dropping it. “Oh, ‘scuse me, that’s my tag.” We ignored such intentional accidents, and just worked as fast as we could.
The first night on the job turned out to be uneventful. Our “work” came in hectic spurts, with lengthy lulls between beginning and ending shifts. I asked the head of the cloakroom, another “temp,” what I should do in between shifts. He said, “Get lost.” I asked him what he meant. “Go back in among the coats so you’re not seen.”
The second night I came to work with a book, and used my leisure time to get some reading done. In between shifts, I’d walk to the end of a row, squat down behind a long overcoat, and read until the hubbub of workers signaled me to go to the counter to pick up a numbered tag.
Several nights, the postal police escorted a guy in handcuffs to our counter, shoving others aside. “Get this guy his coat.” We followed orders, watching the security guards drape the coat over his shoulders and lead him to the elevators.
My second season working for the post office in Chicago, I was assigned to the Cottage Grove branch, near where we lived. Although a much smaller facility than the huge downtown building where I worked the previous year, its orientation routine laid down the law in equally intimidating terms. The supervisor lecturing us temps told us, “Don’t you never pick up anything. Don’t you never put anything in your pocket.”
Even this small branch had the surveillance slits high on the walls; inspectors could observe every move workers made. I was glad to be assigned to a truck picking up mail from blue drop boxes on the street. My instructions followed the same lines as for inside workers. “Whatever you find in that drop box, you just put it in the canvas bag and take it back to the branch. Sometimes robbers drop a stolen billfold in a box, to get rid of the evidence. Don’t ask questions, just put it in the bag with the other mail.”
I liked this assignment better than the cloakroom work, because it got me outside, away from the prying eyes of inspectors. Then I remembered the severe warnings the security people had laid on us, and I began to look around when emptying the contents of a blue drop box into the heavy cloth bags. Maybe a non-uniformed inspector was watching me. I made sure not to make any motions towards my pockets.
A four-story bank building had an unusual drop box inside the lobby, basically just a chute that allowed people on upper floors to deposit envelopes and let them fall to the first floor. I had a master key to open the door on the first floor. I was surprised to find at the bottom of this mail chute a neatly folded light blue U.S. Postal Service jacket.
Hmm, it was too thick to fit into one of the slots. Someone must have opened the door and put it there. I remembered the stern voice of the security officer not to ask questions about anything found in a drop box, just to put whatever I found in the collection bag. As I did, I looked around to see if an inspector was watching me.
I thought this must be a test to see if I followed orders to the letter.
The next day when I double parked outside this bank building, a middle-aged man hurried over to me.
“Did you run this route yesterday?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did you find a P.O. jacket in the bank mail chute?”
“Yes sir.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I put it in the collection bag.”
“What did you do with the bag?”
“I left it with the mail at the branch.”
This man heaped on me a torrent of swearing and insults. He delivered mail in this neighborhood, and he left his jacket in the bottom of the mail chute for cool days.
I apologized to him while he stomped off, still cursing my stupidity.
Carrying the mail in Havana had been a breeze, and even turned into fun delivering presents on Christmas day.
Working in Chicago postal operations made me wonder if U.S.P.S. stood for United States Penal Service.
H. Byron Earhart 