Since the U.S. postal system started in 1863, no mail has ever been delivered to an address in Bridgehampton, New York. Not to a house or business or farm. Not in snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night. For the past two decades, residents thought the federal government tried to compensate for this inconvenient gap by assigning Tony Curtis Lambert to work at the Bridgehampton post office.
Tony greeted you with a sincere smile and warm wise-crack whether your lockbox was overflowing or totally empty. He could chitchat without crossing the line into gossip, keeping his counsel but not his enthusiasm. After inquiring about your bum knee, he would, like a magician, have your parcels, large and small, on the counter before you could even ask for them. He was in a good mood so much of the time that it could hardly be called a mood at all--it was a state of being. And he made slogging to the post office on wet or wintry days well worth the effort. You could say Tony Curtis Lambert transformed Bridgehampton, N.Y. into Mayberry, R.F.D. without a glint of chagrin.
Now Tony is gone. Gone. Not to the great sorting room in the sky, just to the Cutchogue branch, 33 miles west, yet far enough to keep me at home for seven days, quashing my grief with rugalach, spare ribs and wine too-sweet. I am sitting Post Office Shiva. No magazines will be read this week. No bills paid. No shaving, no shoes, and no recycling junk mail from politicians and real estate developers. No more Tony.
No joy in Mudville.
That Tony Curtis Lambert requested and received a transfer to another post office is hard to fathom and impossible to accept. Like Tom Brady leaving Boston. Like Lawrence leaving Arabia. Acts against nature. For Tony Curtis Lambert was a living, breathing Bridgehampton landmark—a Bridgehampton High alumnus, a Bridgehampton fireman, a Bridgehampton Citizens Advisory Committee member. The only times Tony Lambert was not in Bridgehampton were for stretches with the U.S. Marines and the Air National Guard. Otherwise, we all saw Tony about three times a week for 22 years, plus every election day at the Bridgehampton Community Hall where, as a poll worker, he guided would-be voters, replaced unworkable pens, protected our most cherished franchise. Doing this whilst wearing a teal Miami Dolphin sweat shirt only highlighted our beloved freedom of speech and assembly and bad taste.
“Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what Tony Lambert did for your country.”
While you’re at it, ask not why Tony Lambert left Bridgehampton, for the answer, soon forthcoming, is not anything to write home about.
If you don’t live or work in Bridgehampton, it’s hard to imagine a hamlet without any mail delivery. After all, mail gets delivered to the Havasupai tribe at the bottom of the Grand Canyon by mule train. And mail gets delivered by boat to folks who live on the Magnolia River in Alabama. And mail reaches Death Valley when it’s 116 degrees and to Alma, Colorado when temperatures plunge to zero. Hell, over thirty million homes find mail at their front doors, including homes in neighboring Water Mill and Wainscot, but not Bridgehampton.
Rare is the person, business or robot that can grasp this oddity. Take Verizon, please. They long ago disconnected my landline because their monthly bills were mailed to the address of installation and not my box number, so I never saw nor paid a single bill. And no matter how many times I explained this black hole in the postal universe, Verizon never got the message.
During the pandemic, when only two people at a time were granted entrance into the main room at the post office, you felt like you were waiting to board the Great Ark, and all the other animals had gotten there first. The early birds weren’t just the birds. But Tony remained upbeat and helpful through thick and thin, through mask and morosity. He set the tone and promoted the protocols, making the post office feel like a community water cooler where you ran into neighbors and swapped stories and commiserated about a dud of a Christmas. Doors were held open and pleasantries were exchanged. On certain Tuesdays, after a long weekend holiday, for example, your friendly meeting place could devolve into a miniature Grand Central Station and your neighbors may appear less than neighborly and you may have had to repress an impulse to go postal. There was Tony, keeping his cool and a gentle lid on the proceedings.
Standing on line, one had the time to marvel at the fact that you can still drop an envelope into a blue metal box on Montauk Highway, near the eastern tip of Long Island, New York and it will be read two days later by a friend on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica, California—all for 68 cents, less than a can of cat food, less than air at the gas station.
To know someone's mail is to know someone's business. Tony knew when I was building a restaurant, when my kid moved to Hawaii, when we got a pandemic puppy. The puppy part was easy. My wife took the mutt everywhere, and quickly turned Tony’s cheery salutations into feigned disappointments when I picked up the mail. “I prefer to see the Missus and the Dog,” he would say. “You’re stuck with me,” I would say, “just like they are.” And then we’d talk politics, religion, beards, motorcycles, vacations in Russia, and how his house burned to the ground. I was not a special customer. Tony maintained a cordial relationship with everyone who had a postal box in Bridgehampton, and that’s mostly everyone in Bridgehampton. There are 525 households in Bridgehampton, with 1,459 residents and 1,654 boxes in use at the post office.
“I’ve seen newborn babies and watched them grow up to be driving their parents to the post office,” Tony told a newspaper last week. “There’s nothing but love, pure love, the whole 22 years. I talk to people about sports, their kids and family, the good things and the bad things.” And why he had to leave, why he transferred to the Cutchogue branch. It is the same reason teachers and nurses are leaving this area, why businesses are relocating. Traffic. Traffic is worse than ever and there is no solution in sight. It drives everyone crazy every day: schedules are rerouted or scrapped; appointments are pushed back or canceled; retailers are clock-blocked; sleep patterns and work habits are adjusted to avoid logjams; accidents take five hours to unclog; residents pray that no loved one is in an ambulance or a burning building on some afternoon in August.
In short, the citizenry has been thrown under the bus (despite the shortage of buses) by a short-sighted and ineffectual local government. So Tony went west after he lost his Bridgehampton home. Working in Cutchogue saves him at least an hour, each way, each day, and it will only get worse, or better, come this summer, if summer ever comes.
By Memorial Day, I may be able to schlep to the Bridgehampton post office without a heavy heart, without looking for my buddy. But in this moment, for this week, I am sitting Post Office Shiva. No parcels, no notifications, no announcements, no junk mail, no bills, no shoes, no mirrors, no jokes, no Tony.
No Tony? Pass the too sweet Manischewitz--tout suite!
Condolences from the small town of Alton, NH where we also are not blessed with mail delivery, but must trek to the Post Office to pick up mail. I appreciate your tribute.
Beautiful read. Thanks for sharing