William Kienzle - Chameleon

Carson noticed that the waiting line was lengthening markedly and turning customers into a surly mob. He liked that. But reveries have their place. One must be careful not to attract unduly the attention of a supervisor. There was a knack to appearing occupied while daydreaming. And Carson had mastered it.

“Next!” Carson intoned.

An insignificant little man, diminutive and apologetic in every way, stepped up to Carson’s window. Slowly, the man extracted a handwritten list from his coat pocket. With some sheep-ishness, he carefully smoothed the paper flat and hesitantly pushed it over the counter toward Carson.

Carson took it all in impassively. The man was a Jew, obviously. One of the Christ-killers. As far as Carson was concerned, Hitler had to be defeated, otherwise the world would no longer have been safe for democracy-not to mention Hitler’s antagonism toward the Church. But, give the devil his due, he’d had the right approach to the “Jewish Question.”

As he picked up the offered list, Carson reflected that if he were a bank teller instead of a postal clerk, this might be a holdup. At least that’s the way it always happened in fiction. But this was not a bank and this probably was not a holdup. If it were, Carson’s only regret would be that his gun was at home.

It was very neat script. Probably written by the Jew’s wife. Carson’s imagination took over. They probably lived in Southfield. Many Jews, after more or less abandoning the city of Detroit, had moved north into the well-landscaped suburb that now boasted several synagogues. In a moment he would know for sure, because the little man had begun to write a personal check. That would necessarily reveal his address.

Carson began to punch into the computer the individual charges for the stamps requested by the customer as he was making out his check. Ten 30? stamps, five 20? ten 5? ten 3? and ten?. Carson totaled the order, looked at the bottom line, and smiled. God was good. “That will be,” he announced, “four dollars and ninety cents.”

The man began to fill in the amount on his check.

“You can’t use a check,” Carson said.

The little man looked up from his writing with a bewildered expression. “Can’t use a check?” he repeated, “Can’t use a check? Why not, please?”

“The amount has to be at least five dollars or you can’t use a check.”

“What’s the amount again, please.”

“Four dollars ninety.”

“Four dollars ninety. Five dollars. Ten cents?” The tone was incredulous.

“A rule is a rule.” Carson well knew that when the amount of difference was so minuscule, he had the discretion to waive the rule. But that was not his style. You keep the rule and the rule will keep you. Lower the standard for one and it becomes worthless for all. The Catholic Church he knew and loved, briefly, used to be like that. Then, among other evils, the Church got into situationism, and the whole thing fell apart.

Besides, it was especially savory to insist on the letter of the law from this member of a race that carried the curse of being responsible for the blood of Christ. That’s what Pontius Pilate said when the Jews persisted on calling out for the crucifixion of Christ: “His blood be upon you and upon your children.”

Of course saner souls knew that the Vatican II statement on the Jews refuted all that nonsense. But, as has been observed, Arnold Carson did not validate that Church council.

The customer, his partially completed check now useless due to Carson’s strict judgment, began checking the money in his wallet and searching through his pockets for change. He spread the total amount on the counter. “Three, three-seventy-five, four-twenty-five, four-fifty, four-sixty, four-sixty-five. That’s all I got, Mister.”

“Seems you’re short both ways. You want to write a check? Then you gotta buy more stamps.” From Carson, this represented compassion beyond the call of virtue.

“I don’t know,” the customer said, searching his pockets in vain for just a few more coins. “I don’t know. That’s all the stamps she said to get. Mama says our budget is tight like nothing. I better not.” The man looked intently at Carson. He was confused. He needed a drop of mercy, not strict justice. “Please, mister: ten cents!”

Should he take $4.65 worth of stamps-and hope that the lack of the additional fifteen cents worth wouldn’t upset Mama’s plans? If so, he could always make another trip and come back later-

“Move on. You’re holding up the line. There are people in line who know what they’re doing. You’re keeping them waiting.”

The little man was about to make one more plea but decided against it. He could read the self-satisfied, taunting look, the affected superiority in his antagonist’s smug smile. He concluded that while Carson probably was not German, he would have made a typical Nazi.

The customer turned and left. He had failed the simple mission his wife had given him. He would have to go all the way home to find out what Mama had in mind next.

Carson, exceedingly pleased with himself, fixed his gaze on the slumped shoulders of the departing would-be customer. He, Carson, had won another one for Jesus Christ. And he hadn’t even needed his gun.

Before Carson could call for the next customer, he heard his supervisor’s voice behind him. “Arnie,” he stage-whispered, “take your lunch break now.”

Without a word, Carson placed the “closed” sign at his window and retreated to the inner room. There he found five other postal employees brown-bagging it, one of them Jerry Hessler, a continuing thorn in his side. Carson was not surprised; Hessler often lunched at this time.

Carson preferred to eat in peace-much better for the digestion. So he would just as soon not have had to contend with Hessler. However, if it be God’s holy will that he do battle during lunch, his loins were girded, figuratively, and off to war he would march.

Hessler waited until Carson began to eat his egg salad sandwich. It was Friday and, although Catholics long ago had had the law of abstinence from meat on Fridays lifted, Carson still observed the restriction. So, indeed, did all the members of the Tridentine Society, as well as a few other Catholics, though the latter for far more rational reasons.

“Hey, Harry,” Hessler called across to one of his friends, “did you hear they’re raising the urinals higher on the walls in the Vatican?”

“No.” Harry knew where this was going. “Why’s that?”

“To keep the Cardinals on their toes.”

Everyone laughed, even the neutrals. With the exception of Carson; he felt like smashing the remainder of his sandwich in Hessler’s face. But even Carson could recognize that, on the one hand, the provocation was not yet outrageous enough and, on the other, that Hessler would keep it up until the provocation was sufficient.

The six employees resumed their meal. They had all been through this routine often enough to know that the war was strictly between Hessler and Carson. It did not pay either to intervene or take sides. Eventually the two men would be shouting at each other, and a supervisor, hearing the noise, would come in, restore order, and clear the room.

“Hey, Harry,” Hessler called out again to his straight man, “did you hear that the Pope announced that the Church has just discovered a first-class relic of Jesus Christ?”

“No kidding. I thought he ascended into heaven.”

“He left part of himself on earth.”

“What?”

“His foreskin.”

The laughter was a bit more hearty. Again Carson restrained himself.

He bit into his sandwich and chewed it until the laughter subsided. Then he spoke, almost offhandedly. “I didn’t hear about that, Hessler. But I can understand how they could have found the relic.”