Epilogue

Epilogue

I found this story, neatly typed, among Dad’s

papers. I remember hearing him tell it. I think it

was one of his favorites, and it explains why, in his

notes, he liked to use the generic abbreviation,

“H.A.” to refer to postal supervisors.

Horse’s Ass

When you find yourself standing in front of your

supervisor who is seated at his desk, explaining his

reasons for taking punitive action, and he says, “I

guess you think I’m a horse’s ass………. but I AM an

administrator,” .............how in hell do you respond?

How often in a short, or even a long life, will you

have a line like that thrown at you? How often have

you walked away after hearing something like that,

and thought to yourself, “Why didn’t I think to say

this or that while I was standing there (in front of

the “horse’s mouth?” )

Yeah, I’ve been there. He was sitting there

explaining to me why he “had to” remove me from

my job. Trying to make a punitive action (entirely

unwarranted) into an administrative action. You

find yourself standing there totally alone among

several co-workers, including a union shop steward,

all called in to witness the proceedings. Well, he is

the boss, so you don’t contradict him in front of all

the underlings. It just wouldn’t seem polite, would it?

The best I could come up with, on the spur of the

moment, was total agreement.

“Mr. Munnell,” I said, “You’ve hit the nail on the head.

I do indeed THINK you are a horse’s ass. I don’t say it

aloud, as that would be disrespectful, but I certainly

do think it. When I arrive for work and see your car

in the lot, I THINK, ‘The horse’s ass is here.’ When I

read one of your notices on the bulletin board, I

THINK, ‘The horse’s ass is at it again.’ When I hear

about something Mr. Munnell said or did, I THINK ‘

There goes the horse’s ass.’ No, I never say it aloud,

but I am constantly THINKING it.”

I must have used “the expression” in at least seven

contexts. He just sat there, glaring at me and

gripping the edge of his desk a little tighter with

each example of my thinking. I saw the shop steward

(all 250 pounds of him) trying to “disappear”into the

chair he was sitting in, and one of the junior

managers, a damn decent individual who should

have been running things, standing in the doorway,

looking over Munnell’s shoulder at me, and grinning

like a preacher with an overflowing collection plate.

I’m certain that I saw a single tear slowly running

down Munnell’s cheek. His knuckles were white and

he was holding onto his desk (and control) with

everything he had.

I have always regretted that I did not use “the

expression” once more. How far would that desk

have flown if Munnell had “lost his grip?” Regrets,

regrets.

John J. McNulty

Drawing by Nora Carr Haydon, granddaughter of John McNulty