Leslie’s Blog

“Join hands and let us pray.  Jesus, give us a productive day…”

The supervisor of the warehouse had gathered the package car drivers together, and told us to stand in a circle. I had expected a pep talk, but instead, he was invoking us to prayer.

This was the last straw for me. I stepped back out of the circle and clomped off to the locker room.

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I had stayed at the Auto Parts Delivery job as long as I could, but after months of having only $3.00 left over every Friday after stashing away money for bills and rent, I knew I had to find something more lucrative.

The UPS ad in the classifieds spoke of big bucks.

I interviewed for the UPS job and got it. I spent time in San Antonio for training and orientation. I passed my commercial drivers test, and earned my commercial drivers license. I was issued a brown uniform of shirt and slacks and cap, and bought a pair of the regulation brown shoes. I was excited to be working toward a good job with benefits and better than a barely living wage.

I would be a full fledged package car driver for UPS after I had endured the six month “on call” probation period.  Being “on call” meant I had all the responsibilities of the actual job, but with the added task of having to wait by the phone every morning for a call that would confirm if I should go in to work that day. I would sit by the phone and try to stoke up on coffee, dressed in the itchy brown uniform ready to bolt out the door.

I wore a hairnet to keep my long hair short enough to comply with the “no hair long enough to touch your collar” rule, which was intended to apply to men. Women had only just begun working as package car drivers, and the rule about hair hadn’t been changed yet. I could have cut my hair short, but opted for the hairnet instead.

The job required that I know all the streets in Austin, because there would not be time to read a map while I was driving, so I studied the Austin map every night, trying to get my bearings. As soon as I was familiar with a route, they would switch me, trying in vain to find some area where I could work faster.

The company was run with military precision, and my direct competition was a computer that tracked how many seconds it took for me to succeed at delivering each package. I was followed in lock step by a trainer, who didn’t ever speak to me while I worked, but took notes on her clipboard as she assessed my timed performance. She did break silence occasionally to chastise me for chatting with customers as they gave me their signature. She said that the time it took to say hello ruined the time allowed for each successful package delivery. I wasn’t giving her good numbers to report to her supervisor.

I was called into the office every week to compare my times to those of the computer, and I was sad to learn that I was the worst delivery person they had in Austin.

“You’re too slow,” I was told.

I was too friendly, I figured.

I also figured that I was uniquely unsuited for UPS.

As any of you lovely followers of my blog have probably figured out by now, I tend to be chatty, and not being able to exchange niceties with customers was not my idea of good business practice.

Then again, UPS was quite successful at what it did, and I was the one that didn’t fit in.

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I took off my cap, and my hairnet and put them in my locker. My trainer suddenly appeared behind me, startling me.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“I’m quitting,” I said.

“You can’t quit! You have packages to deliver!” she ordered.

“I can quit, and I just did,” I said. “I would like to have this job, but it just isn’t right for me. You know I am too slow, and I am ruining the numbers for the whole unit.”

She turned an about face and huffed off to tell.

What I really wanted to say to her, I didn’t.

I turned in my keys to the dispatch desk and walked out the door.

Leslie

I had heard of sanctuary, and figured I would try the front doors of the church to see if they were open. It was late at night, and I really didn’t expect the doors to open when I tried them.

I stepped just inside, and stood quietly waiting for someone to come to see what I wanted. The entry hall was wide with polished terrazzo floors, lit by overhead fluorescent lights that made a soft hum. The hallways that branched off in either direction from the entry were dark. I peeked down the left hand hall and saw that there was a light coming from one of the doorways. I stepped back to just inside the front door, not wanting to appear too bold.

“Hello?” I called quietly, hoping to attract attention without having to search. I knew I looked suspicious in my black Harley jacket, and I was not wanting to scare anyone.

A tall, pleasant looking priest came around the corner into the entry, his demeanor changing abruptly from a pious smile to a look of hesitant fear.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I really hadn’t intended to scare him, but I am sure that I did. It was all appearance, and had nothing to do with how I was acting. I held my hands quietly in front of me, slightly lowered my head, and stepped back a small step to indicate no aggression. He seemed to sense my attempt to be non-threatening, and regained his composure. He then immediately took a more authoritative air.

“We don’t keep money here for charity purposes,” he stated, trying to cover a lot of bases in one sentence.

“May I have some candles?” I asked.

Now, I know that that is an odd request, particularly coming from someone that looked as I did at the time, like a motorcycle gangster who might be intent on plundering and pillage. I thought I just looked like a scruffy girl wearing a black jacket, but all that would be in the eye of the beholder.

“We don’t have candles,” he said, trying his best to get rid of me.

I knew better. All churches had candles. I had seen the boxes and boxes of candle stubs that had been discarded to be replaced with fresh candles in the altar candelabra when my grandfather had tended church on Saturdays all those years ago. He was always patient with my exuberant running and playing in the pews while he swept the carpet and changed the numbers in the hymnal boards.

“I don’t want new ones,” I said, trying hard to convince this skeptical priest that I was not there to rob him. “I just need a few stubs.”

“Why do you need candles?” came the question, finally.

“I have two friends that are living in an apartment that don’t have any electricity. They sit in the dark after the sun goes down, and I thought that if I could bring them some candles, that it would be nice.  And I can’t afford to buy any.”

I would have been glad to leave at that point, if the priest had put up any more resistence, but all I wanted were a few candle stubs, and logic had brought me to that place.

“Wait here,” he said. I saw him hesitate again, and could tell that he was second guessing himself, probably wondering if he had just been duped, but he turned and whisked back around the corner, his cassock swaying behind him.

It took longer than I expected for him to return. He came back around the corner carrying a shoe box.

“This was all I could find,” he said as he lifted the box lid.

Inside was a trove of stubs, white and ivory, some almost whole candles, most with thick drips down one side from burning in a draft. The black untrimmed wicks stood in contrast to the soft white wax.

“Thank you” I said in a very hushed voice. “This is much more than I could have hoped for. Thank you.”

The priest didn’t say anything, but quickly waved the back of his hand toward me, trying to indicate you’re welcome and please leave, all at the same time.

I wanted to hug him, to thank him again and again, but I could see how awkward he was feeling, and the nicest thing I could do for him was to leave.

I stepped outside with the shoe box of candle stubs, skipped down the steps, then stood for a moment in the dark across the street.

I saw the priest linger a moment at the doors, peering out into the night. Then he turned the lock on the  deadbolt, pushed against the door to make sure it was secure, and disappeared around the corner and down the dark hall.

Leslie

Molly Bawn