Friday, December 22, 2006
The back story
It's hectic at the post office, but one man behind the counter has survived far worse.
By TERI SFORZA
The Orange County Register

SANTA ANA – Anything fragile? Liquid? Perishable? Potentially hazardous?

The lady with the dangly Santa earrings and the Merry Christmas sweatshirt shakes her head "no." "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening…?" She plops a plastic bag on the counter that's stuffed with freshly bought gifts. "I need a box," she says.

"I'll fix you up," postal worker Frank Orzio promises.

"In the lane, snow is glistening…." The folks in line at the Grand Avenue post office clutch their packages and sing along beneath their breath. If they watch closely as Orzio reaches for a box and begins packing Santa Lady's presents, they might notice that his left arm is stiff and working at an unlikely angle. If they watch him as he pulls the bin stacked with boxes into the cavernous warehouse so they can begin their holiday journeys, they'll notice that he walks with a limp.

"A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight…" Orzio has worked for the U.S. Postal Service for 27 years. He's the guy who sees customers stagger in laden with boxes and invites them to park their packages on his counter while they wait.

"Gone away is the bluebird…." There's a packet of Ice Breakers on his cubicle counter, beside the Germ-X hand sanitizer. The boom box playing holiday carols sits on a stool behind him. This is the busiest time of year for postal workers: The frenzy reached its peak Monday, when more than 280 million cards, letters and packages were processed. Most of that stuff was delivered Wednesday, the busiest delivery day of the season. And people continue to line up, wrestling with packages, figuring better late than never.

Orzio politely helps them navigate the holiday rush. They thank him and leave and think, "Now there's a nice guy." But there is so much about him they don't know.

"Here to stay is the new bird…." Orzio's mother died of cancer when he was 10. There were three boys, but no one could take all three. So he and his bothers were parceled out to various relatives. He wound up with his mother's sister, and became thick with his cousin, Alex George Waigandt. In 1967, they enlisted, together, in the Marines. They had different last names, so the military didn't know they were family. If so, they would most likely have been split up, and Orzio might not be alive today.

"He'll sing a love song as we go along…."

They arrived in Vietnam in January 1968. Assigned to an outpost in the jungle about 30 miles southwest of Da Nang. Tents and bunkers and sandbags. That first day, they learned that real firefights sound much like firecrackers exploding on the Fourth of July.

In September, he was on patrol when the rockets started raining down. He took shrapnel in the arm. Eleven stitches, right there in the jungle. Cousin Waigandt was wounded that day, too, in the legs, but they sent him off to Da Nang for treatment.

When it was time for a healed Waigandt to return to the outpost, Orzio hopped on the truck that would bring his cousin back. Reunited, they sat in the back of the truck, heading back to the outpost with a dozen fresh-faced Marines.

The Viet Cong had set up an ambush. The truck rounded a blind corner. A mine exploded. Shots rang out. Orzio and Waigandt remember fire and smoke and the numbness that signals pain – Orzio was burning. He was pinned under a shattered hulk of truck. And he had been shot, upwards of 13 times – including twice in the mouth and jaw, once in the side of the head, through his helmet (his eye popped out of its socket), and in the shoulder, legs and hips. His back was broken. A knee cap was gone. His jugular had been severed and was spurting blood. He was 20 years old.

Cousin Waigandt was the only one who could get up. Almost everyone else was dead. He grabbed a gun, shot wildly to scare away ambushers who might wish to finish them off, and searched the wreckage for Orzio. He spotted Orzio's jet black hair and the fountain of blood spraying from his neck.

Waigandt knew he had to stop the bleeding or Orzio would surely die. So Waigandt stuck his fingers directly into Orzio's vein and staunched the flow until medics came. Orzio was given last rites, twice. He slipped in and out of consciousness, spent the better part of the next two years in hospitals enduring surgery after surgery, and lost most of his leg. He was told he'd never walk again. In the end, he got a duffel bag and a discharge.

It was 1971. He was still a kid. He moved into an apartment with his cousin in La Habra and tried to shake off the depression. What was his life going to be like now? Would he ever get married, have children, live a normal life? Who would want him in this condition? He lost faith in God. He thought about suicide.

At first, Waigandt had to drag Orzio out of the apartment, but it got easier and easier. Waigandt got a plane and a pilot's license and persuaded his cousin to spend a summer in Alaska, flying between Juneau and Anchorage. Orzio was working on a pilot's license of his own when they decided it would be fun to buzz some beaches, aim some eggs at Waigandt's girlfriend's house and drop some sparklers. The Federal Aviation Administration frowned on this type of activity, and Orzio's piloting career ended right there.

Back in Orange County, Orzio landed a job managing apartments, got into real estate, and met the woman who would become his wife. They had three children. He wound up at the post office because he wanted a good, stable job and spent the next 25 years as a manager in Huntington Beach. He retired for a bit, but came back, and is now working the counter in Santa Ana, though he expects to return to management soon. "The post office is like a family," he says. "If anyone gets hurt, we all help."

Orzio and his wife aren't together anymore, but the kids are in their 20s and doing well – one's a teacher, two are in college. He has a special person in his life. He has rediscovered his faith. And, despite the dire predictions, he did indeed walk again.

"I thank God every day that I'm alive," he says. "He did it for a reason. I'm still trying to figure that part out."

It may be this: Orzio has joined a group of veterans who meet with injured Marines who have returned from Iraq. "When you become disabled, it's hard to accept the way you are, especially when you're so young," he says. "They have to know there are others out there like themselves, who've been through it, who've survived." That sort of support wasn't there for him. But he will make sure it is there for them.

The line is getting longer in the post office. People seem a touch exasperated, but still hum along with the carols. "Later on, we'll conspire, as we dream by the fire…."

Orzio keeps a tiny picture in his wallet. It's of a young man, handsome, muscled, strong, with his shirt off and his dog tags glistening. Him. Before. He doesn't look at it very often. But it's important to know it's there. To remember that, deep down, things are still the same. He is still the same.

"Next in line, please," Orzio says, and another frazzled woman comes to the counter. "I didn't buy enough of those snowflake stamps yesterday!" she cries.

Orzio nods his head understandingly. "I'll fix you up," he says.

Ellie