Love Triangle

This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

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Even with the weather cooling a bit, we get a call for an “assault,” according to the computer screen mounted between our seats.


My partner, Bronson, is already scowling. “Animals,” he says.


We handle a million assaults, people fighting each other, with fists or with weapons, especially in the summer months. And I can’t help but think he’s right. I have never gotten into a fight. I just never let situations escalate. Other people fight all the time. It baffles me.


It baffles Bronson too. He no longer instigates arguments for the sake of riling people up, nor is he deliberately abrasive. Since falling in love with Rachel, the pretty ER nurse at Maimonides, he’s a whole new person, more mature, as if he’s crossed some invisible line magically changing him into a man.


“Hopefully, the police are already there,” I say.


When we get to the scene, a residential street in quiet Mill Basin, we find a police sergeant, five cops, and some onlookers standing around. Someone has apparently been arrested and the sergeant has just finished questioning a mailman, dressed in postal worker blue shorts and a sweat-drenched polyester shirt, sitting on the stoop of a semi-detached brick house.


The sergeant tells us the mailman was assaulted.


“What happened?” I ask.


The mailman takes off his flying-eagle baseball cap and runs a hand through his sweaty, thinning hair. He clutches the front of his uniform and says, “What happened is I got punched in the chest!”


I ask him if he has any trouble breathing.


He shakes his head.


“Any chest pain?”


He releases his shirt. “Uh-uh.”


“Can you walk?”


He nods.


“Then why don’t we walk over to the ambulance where it’s cool and check you out.”


A look of horror crosses his face. “No!”


I’m alarmed. “Why not?”


He shouts, “I’m claustrophobic!”


I almost remark aloud that it’s good he has a job delivering mail outdoors.


Instead, I take his pulse. It’s high, 120. I ask him what happened, while Bronson takes his blood pressure.


“I told you! A guy punched me in the chest!”


“Yeah, but why?” I ask.


He sighs and explains. “We used to date the same girl a while back.” He grows even more panicky. “All of us used to go bowling together. At the Gil Hodges Lanes. You know the place?”


I nod. Who doesn’t? It’s one of the biggest bowling alleys in Brooklyn, named after the Brooklyn Dodger.


The mailman’s breathing gets heavier. “Oh jeez, and now I’m gonna see him every day.”


I’m confused, until he explains that he and his assailant live along his brand-new postal route, and that he’s going to have to face the guy’s house every day.


“Maybe you can change your route?” I ask.


He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You kidding? I used to deliver in the projects. Filthy elevators, busted mailboxes.” He gestures at leafy Mill Basin, where cicadas buzz in the trees and children play catch in the streets. “No stairs, nice houses, big mailboxes. I can visit my dog at lunchtime.” He gets agitated again. “I got promoted to this route. I’m not giving it up.”


I ask him some pertinent questions about his medical history and if he takes any medications. He answers no. Bronson announces that his BP is good, 110/80.


I scratch my forehead. “So there’s nothing really the matter with you.”


“No!” he shouts, disturbed again. “But I’m having a panic attack!”


I grab his hands. “Breathe,” I tell him, inhaling deeply, hoping he’ll follow suit. I exhale through pursed lips and inhale again. He stares at me wide-eyed and slowly imitates my breathing. Now we’re breathing together, and it’s working to calm him down.


He tells me about how the girl chose him but then left him, and how he thinks it’s because he came on too strong, always wanting to cook dinners for her. He tells me he spent the last 10 years living in the house he grew up in, taking care of his sick mother, and that since she died last year he’s been lonely. That’s why he got the dog. A pug. “I think I scared her off,” he says. Meaning the girl.


I tell him it’s an honorable thing, taking care of an aging parent, and that the romance with the girl probably just wasn’t meant to be. “You can’t control things like love,” I say. “You can’t make it happen.” And in an instant I’m sorry I said it. It makes me sound smug. I remember hating comments like that when I was single.


Suddenly, the postal worker looks unbearably sad. I pat him gently on the shoulder, feel the scratchy polyester fabric. He’s still sweating, but now he is willing to go over to the ambulance.


He stands up, shaky, but pushes me away and finally balances on his own two legs. “Just … keep the doors open,” he says.



Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.


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