Country Mailman

 

Tune in every week to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

*  *  *

I had one hour left on the mail route, took a deep breath, stopped just before the hurt started, and pulled the car under some shade trees for a break. My back was on fire. Breathing deep was nearly impossible. I knew the cause so I opened the glove box and downed two ibuprofen tablets, paused, and then swallowed another. Driving a new vehicle always causes aches and pains until my body gets accustomed to the change. Three or four more days and I’d be back to normal.

The first time it happened, I thought I hurt my back lifting something heavy and when I mentioned it to Edna at the café as she was pouring my coffee, she insisted I go see her chiropractor. I’ve never been to a chiropractor, knew nothing about them and had big doubts, but the pain persisted. And so did she when I continued to complain, making an appointment for me. I relented and thought it couldn’t hurt, might even help. I’m usually open to new ideas.

The big guy seemed nice enough. I showed him where the pain was in my back, explained what I did for a living and how long it had been hurting. He nodded as if he understood and asked me to lie on my back. So far, so good. A moment later, he had some sort of wrestling hold on me and twisted by upper body in such an excruciating manner that the phrase exploded from my lungs in a volume that even a deaf man could hear. “OH …MY…GOD!”

The chiropractor instantly released me and tried to jump back, but I had the front of his shirt in a death grip. “You’re not going to do that again, are you?” I gasped lowly, trying not to bellow again as the pain gradually subsided. I had pulled him down so his face was only inches from mine.

“No, sir. No, I won’t.” He matched my whisper.

His eyes were wide and I uncurled my fingers from his shirt and tried to pat away the wrinkles as I inhaled slowly. When he realized I wasn’t dying or jumping up off the bed to attack him, he motioned for the nurse who had nearly escaped out the door. She was very reluctant to follow the chiropractor’s instructions to put me under the heater but as I lay there, I realized my back did feel better. My ribs hurt like the devil, though.

I paid the lady when I left and walked slowly to the car, thinking I was crazy to have come. The next day I was sore, but the pain was gone in one side of my back. Now, only my ribs and half my back hurt. Dutifully, I reported to Edna and she got a stubborn look in her eyes, saying I needed to go back in a week so he could fix the other side. I snorted in derision at the thought of getting anywhere close to that office. A week later, I sat in the chiropractor’s waiting room with my name on the sheet.

I don’t think anyone recognized me as the man who had frightened every person in the waiting area a week earlier because the chiropractor had me lie down on the same bed. Again, he got me in that wrestling hold and twisted me in that same excruciating manner but this time I was ready and did not express the Lord’s name as I bellowed in pain. This time I just yelled.

I think that’s when he remembered me, because I only caught his shirtsleeve as he tried to get away. My grip was deathlike, though, and he had to stay by my side as I gasped in a breathless whisper, “Don’t …ever …do …that …again.”

“No sir, never.” He again, matched my whisper.

After I released him, I lay still, trying to determine how I was going to get up from the bed. The chiropractor sunk onto a stool in the corner. We both had heard my rib crack. I watched him visually recover from the shock of the situation, stand and motion to the nurse, who again had escaped and stood in the doorway with eyes as wide as a week earlier. They whispered and she reappeared with a handful of items. He helped me stand, handed me an oversized ice pack, a support brace and pointed to a side door.

“There won’t be any charge. I’ll help you to your car. Do you think you can drive?”

Just like the last visit, my back felt better, but my ribs were on fire. I nodded, wanting only to get home and lie down.

He escorted me to the car and shook his head sadly. “You’ve got a cracked rib.”

The pain had subsided and I inhaled slowly, not feeling the shock any longer. “It doesn’t feel so bad.”

“It will tomorrow.”

As I drove out of the parking lot, I looked in the mirror. The man was still standing where I’d left him.

A week later, I went to the clinic, had x-rays of my ribs and discovered, besides the dislocated rib on my left side, there were two cracked ribs on my right side. Edna hasn’t mentioned her chiropractor again and I haven’t complained of my back, but on occasion, I use the big icepack. It comes in handy.