One of those guys

When I was a summer replacement in the United States Post Office I toiled with several other temporary workers. Most of the time I was on the parcel post belt. My job was to "trow" (nobody threw anything in the post office, we "trew" things) parcels into bins.

This is how it worked. Parcels would travel on a conveyor belt. I, and several others, were to pick up the moving parcels from the belt. We'd read the address, find the bin for that locale, and "trow" the parcel into that bin.  So, if I snagged a box that read Babylon, my task was to spot a bin beyond the belt and trow the box into a bin with all the other parcels heading to Babylon.

It was an interesting job, not because of the challenging nature of the tasks (though since the bins were arranged in alphabetical order it was sometimes challenging to trow a parcel into the Syosset bin since it was way in the back).  One aspect of the job that was interesting were the dynamics between the temporary workers and the regulars.  The regulars had short cuts for many of the tasks and a routine for their work. Some of the regulars were supervisors and, in that capacity, made suggestions to us about how to get things done swiftly.  There were several characters who had amusing ways of passing the time while trowing parcels or handling other responsibilities.

A couple of years after my stint at the post office, I went back to the location to visit with some of the people with whom I worked.   I ran into a fellow who had been a temporary that summer, but had stuck around and was now working full time in a supervisory role.  When we chatted he said, "Remember when we used to have to deal with the supervisors. Well guess what, now I am one of those guys." The way he said it was amusing and I can still see the expression on his face when he summarized his new status.

The other night we were watching the Monday Night football game after Hilary squared off against Trump. I had, despite my intentions to not watch the debate, viewed much of it.  But it ended, thankfully, at about 1030, so I turned my attention to the game.

I did not do so because of my interest in the New Orleans Saints and the Atlanta Falcons.  I did this because in the fantasy football family league I reluctantly joined this year we "had" Drew Brees as our quarterback.  The Maroons, our team, had lost its first two contests and it looked bleak for this week's as well.  We were down by 60 points going into the game, so Brees would have to have a great night for us to have a chance.

The thing is that according to the rules of fantasy football, Brees was having a great night.  So good that by the time I tuned in we were close to overtaking my cousin's husband in our head to head battle.  The Saints and Brees had the ball and were driving which meant we were accruing points with every pass.

However, down by only three points the Saints had to relinquish the ball.  The Maroons chances therefore became slim.  All Atlanta had to do was get a first down or two and the game would be over.  Atlanta did get an initial first down so it looked as if the Maroons attempt to break into the win column would have to wait.  But then what happened was that a player from Atlanta broke into the open and was en route to the end zone.  This was good news for our fantasy football team.  If the Atlanta player scored, Brees could get back on the field and might complete a few passes before the game ended. If he did so, the Maroons would win.

So, because I am a participant in fantasy football, I started to shout for the Atlanta player to score a meaningless touchdown so that Drew Brees might throw some meaningless passes.  I barked "Go, Go, Go" at about 11 at night. Donna was ready to call the local asylum because this to any reasonable person made no sense.  Did not stop me. I kept saying Go, Go, Go.  Sadly, the runner was tackled, Brees did not get on the field, and the Maroons lost.

I am becoming one of those guys.