GOING POSTAL

It was August 1986. I was just a couple months out of college and was putting my BBA to good use as a doorman for a Sixth Street honkytonk called “Raven’s Garage.” (If I’m not mistaken, Raven’s was in the same spot Emo’s would occupy for many years before relocating to Riverside Drive.) Anyway, as might be expected of any good college graduate working in a bar, I was in the habit of staying up late, drinking a lot, and sleeping until well after noon.

And I was good at it.

Per my usual routine, I woke up on this Wednesday morning afternoon, enjoyed a “breakfast” of Dr. Pepper and god-only-knows-what-else, and got dressed for work. On this particular day – for no reason at all – I decided to wear my U.S. Postal Service shirt which I’d purchased a couple of years earlier in an Austin thrift shop. I probably wore it 2 or 3 times a year and had never given any thought whatsoever to its history or how it had been used prior to me owning it.

To put it in perspective, I put way more thought into the purchase and subsequent frequent wearings of my Gumby & Pokey screen printed AND flocked t-shirt depicting Pokey and Gumby engaged in a game of baseball, with Pokey pitching to Gumby supported by an infield and outfield comprised of eight Blockheads. Squinting hard at the pitcher, Gumby has a thought bubble above his head saying, “This one’s going downtown.”

Wearing that shirt was a social, artistic, religious, and political statement of grave consequence. Wearing my letter carrier shirt was not. At least not prior to August 20, 1986.

I pedaled my one-speed cruiser across the Congress Avenue bridge to Raven’s. It was still only about 4pm, so there were few, if any, customers. As 5pm approached, I took up my position at the door in anticipation of the happy hour crowd’s arrival.

The first person to walk up was a largish man wearing Wranglers (in Austin, in July) and a largish-er cowboy hat. I was just about to give him the spiel about drink specials and who would be playing on the stage when he cut me off. With extreme prejudice.

”You think you’re funny??”

“What?”

Instead of simply repeating himself, the Cowboy shoved me up against the wall and then repeated himself.

“You think you’re funny, motherfucker???”

While, of course, I thought I was funny – because, I mean, come on – I did not think he was truly seeking my opinion of humorous talents. So, instead of answering, I decided to go with just being terrified and confused.

He then pulled at my shirtsleeve, where the USPS patch was sewn.

“What the fuck are you even thinking, man?”

Now I was actually more confused than terrified, which was, itself, sort of terrifying. I thought, maybe, for a moment, that there was a law prohibiting the unauthorized wearing of USPS-approved apparel – a law which this particular citizen took very seriously.

“I don’t have any idea what you are talking about, man.”

My confusion must have been apparent, because the guy quickly dialed it down, seeming to believe I was telling the truth.

“Don’t you know what happened today?”

I was 21 years old, still technically drunk from the night before, and had been awake for only 90 minutes. All of which meant there was no way I could possibly interpret “what happened today” in the way that he meant for me to, because all I could think was, “Umm…not much, dude. The day just started.”

“Some lunatic shot up a post office in Oklahoma today and killed a bunch of people.”

Holy hell.

The blood drained from my face as I apologized about a thousand times. I then went straight to merchandise display where they were selling Raven’s Garage t-shirts. I pulled the first one I saw right off the wall and changed shirts right there in the club.

I don’t think I ever wore that shirt again. And I don’t even know where it is today. Which kinda bums me out. But it bums me out even more that I don’t know where that Gumby and Pokey shirt is.

I wrote this on the anniversary of the Edmond, Oklahoma, post office shooting – the first mass shooting of its kind and the event which gave rise to the term “going postal.”

© 2014 Lee B. Weaver