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I enjoyed my work as a postman. It was good to get out of doors every day and occasionally meet people. The bus drivers knew me. It was a respectable job. I didn't enjoy living alone all those years. My best friend was a big black hairy Belgian Shepard dog that I called Fido who lived next door. I lived in an old, poorly heated chick hatchery. Fido got busted regularly and I bailed him out of the pound a few times. He was a free spirit. Occasionally he came to work with me. The other guys liked Fido. On weekends Fido and I would walk up and down the rivers until the early morning, he was a good friend and accepted my poverty and my self loathing. Most of the time I was depressed. I hated myself because I continued to fail as an artist. The people in the art community called me "The Postman" and I began avoiding them... |