Mailman, Mailman, Do Your Duty

My mailman's arms are covered in tattoos and his hair is long, blonde, and wavy.  When he pulls up next to my apartment in his little red Chevy, he takes out a tattered blue mailbag from his trunk and begins his day of collecting letters.

I want to do a story on him but every time I see him, which is everyday, I'm either carrying home groceries or 10 minutes late for lecture (I happen to be a student).

I'm determined more than ever to ask if I could take pictures of and write a story about him, but what's wholly awkward about photojournalism is that first exchange when you approach a subject:

Me: Hi, my name is Mimi and I'm studying photojournalism at the University.  I would like to do a picture story on you.

Him: Go away I hate your guts leave me alone I have to work.

Believe me, I've had a number of nightmares about it.  In any case, I must do it this week or I'll forever be a lame ass photojournalist, doomed to take pictures of people I know and scenes I'm familiar with.  Journalism shouldn't be comfortable.

ISO 400, f/1.8, 50mm, 1/15 sec

Stetson Street, Brookline.  September 21, 2008