Facts & Arguments is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.
When asked what I do for a living, I respond with my official job title: "I am a de-liv-er-y a-gent," I say using a slow, mechanic voice and moving my arms in jerky, erratic motions. My official title makes me feel like a robot. You might know me better as the postman.
I wear different hats for my job depending on the season: a waterproof Tilley during the rainy months, a baseball cap in the summer and a woolly toque for the few days of the year we get snow in Victoria. In addition to these physical hats, I also wear many different proverbial hats.
My most common unofficial duty is to act as a human manifestation of Siri, Apple's answer maven. Last spring, after living in the city for only a couple of months, I was assigned a mail route in James Bay, a quirky neighbourhood bordering the ocean. There is a strip of hotels at the northern end and bed and breakfasts dotted throughout creating an abnormally high ratio of tourists. As I strode down the sidewalk a small car pulled up. It was so crammed full of elderly couples it looked like it had been put through the dryer a few too many times.
The window rolled down and a woman poked her head out, "How do we get back to the Huntingdon Manor?"
The hotel she was speaking of rang no bells for me. "Do you know what street it's on?" I asked.
No one in the car knew, and so instead the woman started to describe the cinnamon buns and scrambled eggs they served for breakfast, presumably hoping her portrayal of their run-of-the-mill complimentary breakfast might help me to identify it. I had to defer to the real Siri to help them find their way back.
Another hat is that of an intruder, or sometimes a chew toy, depending on which canines' eyes you are looking through. I face an array of occupational hazards in my job, everything from painful paper cuts to slippery stairways and distracted drivers. But perhaps the most dangerous hazard I face is your beloved four-legged companion. It is during the summer months when I am most on guard. Children are home from school and the regular nine-to-five work force spend summer staycations puttering in their yards. It is natural that they bring their dog outside with them, but unfortunately for me, they are utterly unaware of the daily territorial battles their pooch and I face.
Most days, when no one is home, their canine sits at the window, loyally guarding the house. As I approach the front door, they bark and growl and throw their weight against the door until I leave. I've been told this creates a bit of a complex, making them feel like the alpha dog since, in their mind, it is their ferocious howling that causes me to leave each day.
Therefore, when I approach the dog's territory to deliver the mail and they are no longer locked inside, they see an opportunity to finally confirm their superiority. This is what happened one summer day when my role as intruder became blurred with that of a dog bone and I had to make an unexpected trip to the emergency room.
As Fall turns to winter and the temperatures drop, I don a pointy red hat with a white pom-pom. At that time of year, I work overtime, making sure that everyone gets their packages in time for the holidays and because the days are increasingly shorter, many of my deliveries are conducted in the dark.
Late one evening, the week before Christmas, I trudged up three storeys of an apartment building to deliver a small brown box. Opening the door from the stairwell on these trips is like playing that mystery box sensory game; I never know what scent will await me. On a good day, it might be curry chicken or lavender laundry detergent. Other times, I'm hit with sour milk or stale cigarette smoke. Each floor has a distinct smell.
But as I opened the door on that particular December evening, my nostrils were flooded with aromas of ginger and browned butter.
The woman who answered the door asked if I'd like some cookies for the road and my eyes lit up. She handed me an overstuffed bag of gingerbread and then paused to inquire if I'd like a beverage as well. I declined, but as I walked away I wondered if she was referring to a glass of milk. Sometimes, this job is as close as any mortal can get to feeling like Santa Claus.
I fear that one day I will be replaced by a robot. (In fact, Amazon has already begun preliminary drone-delivery testing.) But if I'm to be replaced, I hope it is a drone disguised to look like Harry Potter's Hedwig and that it delivers mail through the chimney. A robot would be more efficient, not wasting time discussing complimentary breakfasts with a car full of tourists or waiting in apartment corridors for a bag of cookies. A robot wouldn't have to worry about contracting tetanus from a dog bite either.
However, with so many of our human interactions disappearing, I wonder what the community will look like when the majority of our day is spent talking to machines. I wonder if maybe the most important hat I wear is that of a friendly neighbour, a smiling face that waves good morning as you go about your daily routines.
Kaitlyn Bailey lives in Victoria, B.C.