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Over the last year we’ve heard stories of a life-saving pizza delivery woman, a gyrocopter pilot trying desperately to circumnavigate the globe, a parent who would do anything to avoid drunk driving, and numerous bacon-related visionaries.  Which one, of so many, stands out as the greatest of these steadfast souls?  Vote in the poll below and name YOUR CHOICE for “Hero of the Week of the Year!”

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“The only real blind person at Christmas-time is he who has not Christmas in his heart.  And also, as always, justice.  That’s blind, too.” –  Helen Keller

2011.12.22

Dear diary,

Hate is a strong emotion.  I have tried ceaselessly over the years to purge myself of hate through a variety of meditation techniques.  Being raised, as I was, on the Mean Streets, I knew hatred.  It was like I was related to hate, like it was my brother.  We’d go out together everyday.  Break a few windows, steal some ice cream from the corner store, then come home so mom could read us a bedtime story together.  Me and hate, we was tight is all I’m sayin’.

Try as I may to get the hate out of me, some things still bring it back to the surface like a week-old splinter festering under my epidermis.  Pushers in the ‘hood.  Inequality.  Missing episodes of The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  And, oh yeah, the mutha-lovin’ post office.

Don’t get me wrong, mail has revolutionized our civilization.  I mean, we go from cave paintings to this?  Sheeeeeeeee-it.  And I got love for my boi Benjamin Franklin, or B-Frank as I always call him, for inventing mail in the first place.  But the post office???  I’ve seen some things that will drain the hope out of a man, and I’ve been in some soulless places, but nothing compares to the post office on the corner of 5th and Main.  And that’s on a good day.

Unfortunately, the post office is exactly where I found myself today.  And, if you’ll note the date at the top of this entry, today is likely one of the last days you want to find yourself at the post office.  Last day for guaranteed delivery by Christmas, which means every jive sucka on the block is trying to mail things.  Which means the line is long.  Which means that’s 30 minutes that, instead of being on the streets where I’m needed, I’ll be waiting to mail a single envelope.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Streetwalker, why you gotta’ mail it today?  Wait ’til tomorrow, fool!”  Don’t you think I thought about that already, sucka?!  The contents of this envelope are too important to let go for even one day: the monthly check I send home to my mom so she can afford groceries.  Times is hard for her.  Mom, I love you, even if you did stop taking my phone calls.  Or inviting me over.  And you changed the locks on the house.  I got love, especially during the holidays.

Given my desire to be on the streets making a difference, it should come as no surprise that, while I’m standing in the longest line I’ve ever seen at the post office, my hyper-keen senses almost involuntarily continue searching for danger.  Without drawing attention to myself, I look around the cramped room, silently surveying the assembled people and looking for any sign of problems.  Several of them meet my gaze nervously, and I pause a moment, letting my eyes do the talking.  ”Don’t even think about starting nothin’,” I say, with something louder than words, to every suspicious-looking fool in the room.  Some frown at me, others break their stare and look down at their feet.  Either way, I know my message has been delivered.

Three more people are called to the counter, and the line moves forward.  Only 15 people ahead of me now.  Directly in front of me is a woman and her small child, probably no older than five.  I love the children at that age, when they’re still innocent.  When there’s still a chance…

I look down at this little boy, and he looks up at me, then tugs on his mother’s shirt.  His mother crouches down to hear him whisper in a hushed tone, “Mommy, that’s the Streetwalker.”  She turns to look at me, then pulls her child closer to her.  Clearly, my presence has reminded her of her own sacred responsibilities as a parent.  If I accomplish nothing else today, this will have been enough.

The minutes drag relentlessly as I stand in the line, listening to postal employees ask one person after the next about the contents of their packages.  Those three words–fragile, liquid, perishable–over and over.  They can’t be too careful anymore.  Not in this world.  I know this all too well.

As my olfactory senses begin to pick up the most rancid, inhuman odor they’ve ever encountered, my attention is suddenly diverted by something far more grave.  The man at the counter, upon being asked about his package, answers with the word I’ve waited to hear some mutha-lovin’ fool say since the moment I stepped in here: “Perishable.”  Suddenly, I know why fate has placed me here.

I act quickly.  The only thing separating me from this piece of human filth is the counter in the middle of the floor with all the customs forms on it.  I tuck my envelope into my pants and, within seconds, I am vaulting over the counter, sitting atop it and swinging my legs around.  I’m on this guy before he even knows what’s going on.

“Back off, jive sucka!” I say, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him away from his package.  As I hear the gasps and fearful cries from the crowd behind me, I know that they were all blissfully unaware that there was a man in their midst capable of unspeakable evil…a man I’m about to bring to justice.

“Hey, buddy!  What do you think you’re doing?!” he has the audacity to ask me.

My left hand on his shoulder, my right hand clutching my beat-stick, I look from him to the package on the counter, seeing the terrified look on the face of the postal worker in the corner of my eye.  ”Why don’t you tell me, sucka?” I say.  ”What’s in that box?”

“What are you talking about?!” the man says, playing innocent.

“Why you mailing something perishable?” I say, forcefully.  ”What’s your target?”

The man shakes his head.  ”My…my target?”

I gaze at him unflinchingly.  ”It don’t matter, ‘cuz the only thing perishing today is going to be yo’ a**.  Now…what.  Is in.  The box?”

The man glares at me, obviously shaken up by my timely intervention.  ”Cookies?”

I can’t help but laugh at this fool now.  ”Cookies?  You gonna try to blow everyone up with cookies?”

“Blow everyone up?  What are you talking about?” the man asks, feigning confusion.  Then, after a moment, he patronizingly asks, “Wait, do you even know what perishable means?”

“Of course I know what it means,” I say, looking around the post office interior into the eyes, the very souls, of every man, woman, and child in there.  ”Everyone in this room is perishable.  Life is precious, fool.  Remember that.”

As I release my grasp on his shoulder, he adjusts his shirt and says, “Uh, sure, right, whatever.”  Although he continues muttering under his breath as he turns back to finish mailing his package, I know that he got my message.  He leaves moments later, taking care to keep his distance from me.  My eyes follow him as he hurries for the door.  Once he’s gone, I turn to the postal worker behind the counter.

I pull the envelope out of my pants.  ”I need to mail this.”

“Don’t you think you ought to put a shirt on?” the man says, intimidated as he eyeballs my skillfully-crafted physique.

Silently, I raise the beat-stick in my right hand high enough for him to see it.

“Oh!” he exclaims, with a chuckle that would seem nervous under more threatening circumstances.  ”Streetwalker!  I didn’t know it was you!”

“Yeah it’s me,” I say.  ”Now can I mail this letter?”

The man shrugs.  ”But, you got out of the line,” he says.

“But it’s just one envelope.  I got to get back out there and bring justice to the streets,” I say, cocking my head in disbelief.  Was he really going to send me to the back of the line?

“Well, Streetwalker,” he sighs, “I have to bring justice to the post office.  And, technically, you just cut in front of about 10 people.”

And so I ended up in the back of the line again.  Such is the sacrifice made of heroes every day.  The post office: where even righteous action goes unrewarded.  Merry Christmas, Streetwalker.