J e r r y s p I n e L l I

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12 . The Nine Hundred 
Block of Willow 
His father parks the Clunker, and they sit in the 
front seat having lunch. Donald has given much 
thought to lunch. On an ordinary day he might 
have packed a peanut butter and banana sand-
wich and a pack of M&M’s and a strawberry 
Twinkie. But that is not what a mailman would 
eat. So he made himself a sandwich of Lebanon 
baloney and cheese and lettuce and pickle chips 
and mustard. For dessert he chose an apple. He 
wanted to bring coffee in the thermos jug, but his 
mother would only allow decaffeinated iced tea. 
It’s the best lunch he’s ever had, sitting in 
Clunker Four with his dad, pith helmet and 
leather bag waiting in the backseat. He pours iced 
tea into the red plastic cup and pretends it’s coffee. 
He eats half his sandwich, two bites of the 
apple and a sip of iced tea. As he opens the car 
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door his father says, “Where are you going?” 
“Back to work,” says Donald. He can’t wait. 
He’s too excited to eat. 
“Close the door. Relax,” says his father. “You 
don’t just wolf down your lunch and run off. 
Lunchtime is not for eating. Working man needs 
a break.” 
Donald closes the door. He sits back. He folds 
his arms. He looks at the ceiling. He whistles. 
His father laughs. “Are you relaxing?” 
“Yep.” 
“Well, we don’t just relax. We talk too. We 
have a chat.” 
“What do we chat about?” 
“Anything we want.” 
Donald doesn’t have to think long. “Dad,” he 
says, “do you think it’s going to snow?” 
“Someday, sure, next winter. But not today. 
We got a warm day in April here.” 
“Oh,” says Donald. “How about rain?” 
Mr. Zinkoff looks at the sky. “Doesn’t look 
like it.” 
“Hail?” Donald says hopefully. 
“Sorry.” 
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Donald punches the seat cushion. “Phooey.” 
To Donald, one of the best things about being 
a mailman is that you have to deliver the mail in 
spite of snow, rain, hail and, for all he knows, tidal 
waves and tornadoes. In fact, it was on a day when 
he saw his father come home with icicles hanging 
from his earmuffs that he decided to become a 
mailman. He watched his father shake the snow 
and ice from himself, and he said, “Wow, Dad! 
Was it hard?” He has never forgotten the answer. 
His father picked an icicle from his hat, stuck it in 
his mouth like a toothpick and said, “Nah. No 
problem. Piece a cake.” From that day on, when he 
sees stormy weather out the classroom window, he 
thinks of his dad trudging heroically through the 
blizzard saying, “Piece a cake . . . piece a cake . . .” 
The night before, Donald went to bed fer-
vently wishing for a blizzard the next day. When 
he awoke he ran to the window and was met by 
pure sunshine. He searched sky and ground for 
evidence of bad weather, but could not find so 
much as a solitary hailstone. 
“But you know,” says his father, “weather isn’t 
the only thing you have to worry about.” 
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“It’s not?” 
“No way. There’s biting dogs and wild cats. 
There’s banana peels you can slip on. There’s 
turtles you can trip over and break your nose. 
There’s rhinos.” 
Donald boggles. “Rhinos?” 
“Sure. Who says a rhino can’t escape from the 
zoo and show up on your mail route? Do you 
know of any law that says that can’t happen?” 
Donald couldn’t think of a single law against 
it. “I guess not,” he says. 
His father nods. “There you go. It’s a danger-
ous world out there. A mailman has more than 
just snow and rain to deal with.” 
Donald beams. “Yahoo!” He looks out the 
window, relieved to know the world is not as safe 
as it appears to be. “Is lunchtime over yet, Dad?” 
Mr. Z consults his watch. “Almost. Just 
enough time to talk about the Waiting Man.” 
Donald stares. “Huh?” 
“The Waiting Man. You’ll see him in the next 
block, the nine hundred block. Nine twenty-four 
Willow. You can see him in the window behind 
the mailbox.” 
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Donald is intrigued. “Is he waiting for the 
mail?” 
“No, he’s waiting for his brother. I hear he’s 
been waiting for him for thirty-two years. His 
brother went away to fight in the Vietnam War 
and was MIA and never came back.” 
Donald senses a sadness somewhere in the 
distance. “What’s ‘MIA’?” 
“Missing in action. It means they’re pretty 
sure he was killed but they can’t find his body.” 
“Are you pretty sure, Dad?” 
His father looks out the window. He nods 
slowly. “I’m pretty sure.” 
“Isn’t the Waiting Man pretty sure?” 
“I guess not.” 
Thirty-two years. Donald cannot imagine it. 
Donald cannot wait more than thirty-two seconds 
for anything. Of course, a brother isn’t just any-
thing. Thirty-two years. Would he wait that long 
for a brother? Would he wait that long for Polly? 
His father claps his hands. “Okay. Enough of 
this chitchat. Time to hit the trail. Let’s go! 
People are waiting for their mail!” 
Donald scrambles into the backseat. He 
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straps on the bag, plunks on his helmet and hits 
the sidewalk. 
As it turns out, no escaped rhinos are out and 
about this particular day. No turtles either. Not 
even a banana peel. But Donald does see the 
Waiting Man. He’s a face in the window next 
to the numbers white against the brick: 924. He 
appears to be wearing pajamas. His white hair 
is thick around his ears and wispy on top. He is 
looking up the street, in the direction that 
Donald came from. When Donald stands on the 
top step, he is close enough to reach out and 
touch the window. But the Waiting Man does not 
turn, does not seem to know Donald is there. He 
merely stares unblinking up the street. 
Donald watches the Waiting Man for much 
longer than he realizes. He does not move away 
until, in his own mind, he has waited longer than 
he had ever waited for anything in his life. 
He is at the next house before he realizes he 
has forgotten something. He rushes back to deliver 
924 its letter. The Waiting Man is still there. 
Several houses later Donald hears someone 
behind him calling: “Mailman! Oh mailman!” 
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He turns. He has to lift his head to see out 
from under the brim of the pith helmet. 
A white-haired lady in a mint-green dress is 
standing on a step waving her letter. She is sur-
rounded by a four-legged aluminum walker. She’s 
smiling at him. “Thank you, mailman!” she calls. 
Donald calls back, “You’re welcome!” He 
stands at attention and salutes her. 
Shortly after that comes a moment Donald 
has not expected. He reaches into the bag and 
feels nothing but leather. He takes it off and puts 
it on the sidewalk and peers into it. Nothing. 
Empty. He has delivered his one hundred letters. 
Many times he has imagined the start of Take 
Donald Zinkoff to Work Day; never has he 
imagined the end of it. 
Clunker Four grumbles at the curb. 
“Workday’s over,” calls his dad. “Time to go 
home.” 
Reluctantly Donald drags the bag to the car. 
He gets in. He does not take off the helmet. His 
father gives him his day’s pay. He puts it in his 
pocket without looking at it. He cries all the way 
home.