To The Editor: During the summer of 1988, I was the guy who spray-painted house numbers on your curb. I’d spent June working the graveyard shift at UPS. After two summers toiling for minimum wage, when it paid less than vagrancy, UPS offered a whopping $8 an hour. But it was back-breaking work. I single-handedly unloaded 18-wheelers, much of its cargo heavy, and not quickly enough for the floor manager who barked like a drill sergeant. Because of fatigue, management only permitted four-hour shifts, I easily sweated off five pounds nightly. I was only in it until the fall semester, so when UPS demanded $100 in union dues, a C-note being Fort Knox then, I hit the classifieds and found Carl and his house-number empire. For the same $8 an hour, I worked from the leisure of my car, supplying those who’d acquiesced to Carl’s cold-calling with a bold, black house number on a white field. Operating at my own pace, I enjoyed a radio and the liberty to drive off for a soda whenever inclined. Carl provided stencils, spray paint, and even gloves. I figured I had it made. But never underestimate the damage that a dozen spray cans and stencils oozing fresh paint do to a car. Okay, mine was a 1980 Oldsmobile with a faulty trunk and an odometer into six figures, but there’s no number low enough in the Kelley Blue Book for a vehicle with a sticky, zebra interior courtesy of Krylon. That summer also was the hellish record-setter during which temperatures surpassed 90 degrees for an ungodly 40 straight days. The first 20 were easy, having earned my Master of Perspiration at UPS. But inhaling paint fumes daily as the merciless sun pulses on flesh and brain, nausea becomes continual, and a man even sees a biblical figure or two while crouching over a curb. And some of those curbs were unpaintable. Decades of erosion left many chipped, shriveled, and utterly incapable of bearing a legible number. Often, the top of the new number faced skyward as it bent sloppily around the curb. Angry customers deluged Carl with complaints. What could I do? Even DaVinci required a decent canvass. Some customers refused payment, and Carl fell behind in my salary. His empire crumbling, Carl returned my messages less frequently and in the last weeks of summer wouldn’t answer his doorbell. He still owed me $40, which, by then, exceeded my car’s value. Twenty-four years after leaving the house-number profession, my hours again have been slashed almost completely, and $40 is big money once more. I’m considering adding this long-ago trade to my resume so I can entice a wider range of employers, such as Sherwin-Williams or the Museum of Modern Art. But in our battered economy, a new job may be months away—a hardship about which my landlord and creditors care not. So, Carl, as an aficionado of walls, food, and heat, I’ve let you slide long enough. True, I don’t know your whereabouts or if you remember me, but I’m sure that reading this has jogged your memory. Winter’s first blast has arrived, and I’ll need at least 1,500 calories a day, not to mention extra blankets. You know, I could have spray-painted “You Owe Me $40!” on your door when I came by to get paid and you refused to open it. But pay up now and all is forgiven, okay? By the way, are you still in the house-number business? ‘Cause I really need the work. RANDY S. ROBBINS South Dennis