So, what'd you do today?

Nuh uh. It most certainly has not been a month since I posted. I'm like the friend who never calls, aren't I? Well, let me make you feel better by assuring you that there are many areas where I fall down on the job.

For instance, my mailman hates me. Actually I don't know if it's a man or a woman, but I picture a man. A crabby old man, with 3 months to retirement, stealing money out of birthday cards. His gnarled hands stuffing bills into the boxes, chortling at all the lovely junk mail-- better than calling a pox upon my head. I picture him with stringy hair and jaundiced eyes, hocking a tubercular loogie every time he passes my house.

I am the bane of this man's existence. Because I only check my mail on the Tuesday when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is waning. Oh sure, I could blame my devil-may-care attitude on the fact that my mailbox is halfway down the block, and it's safely in a locked box, but I wasn't much better when my mail sat at the end of my driveway. On the plus side, getting the mail is kind of thrilling. It's got to be done on the QT, because the mailman and I must never meet face to face.

When I set out to get the mail (as I did this morning) first, I cover my face in camouflage paint and don my sun bonnet, on which I've hot-glued foliage. I'm stealthy as a cat; I peek round the side of the house before I expose myself to the open street. In the blink of an eye, I'm flat on the ground, inching down the street on my belly, pausing to do recon behind the bushes. I bring a jar of coins, and as neighbors walk by I give them a hale and hearty "Top of the morning to ya!" and pretend I'm looking for change. They buy it every time, suckers.

Finally, I've made it down the block, asphalt ground into my knees and elbows, I spring up quickly, the air fairly crackles with electricity as I put the key in, and when the tiny door swings open-- empty-- save for a lone neon orange card lying desolate on the bottom of the box.

Dear Lowly Worm,

Apart from rabid Rotweillers, warm gum on the sidewalk, and letters to Santa, you are the worst part of our job. Each day we stuff a few more letters in your box, wondering how long this charade will go on. How many more pieces of mail can we squeeze in before the box explodes? How many more days before you heave yourself from the butt-shaped dent in your naugahyde recliner, and fulfill your postal responsibilities? We've taken your mail to the neighborhood office where it will be loved and appreciated, and will hold it for you for exactly 7 more minutes, so get your butt down here. This notice will self destruct in 5 seconds.

In the five seconds before my hand is singed and blackened, and the air fills with smell of sulfur, I stare blankly at the card. He's done it, check and mate. I shake my blackened fist at the sky, yelling "Curse you professor Moriarty!" (Sorry, sometimes I think I'm Sherlock Holmes.)

    "Uh, everything alright?" Asks a voice behind me.
I spin like a ninja, landing in Praying Mantis Stance. It's Mrs. Wilford, my neighbor. I nonchalantly shift from Praying Mantis Stance to Walking To Mailbox Stance. I smile and doff my foliage covered hat.
    "Right as rain, Mrs. Wilford, right as rain."
I turn on my heel as run down the street as fast as I can. Careening into my garage, I burst into the house, grab my purse, keys, and an empty grocery sack, and hurtle myself back out to the car.  Tires squeal as I peel out of my driveway, nearly flattening Mrs Wilford and her Lillian Vernon catalouge. I give her the "oops" face, wave sheepishly, and slam my foot on the gas-- no time for chitchat.

4.7 minutes and 3 dead squirrels later, the car catches air as I hit the ramp of the Post Office driveway. I lay on my horn giving postal patrons fair warning as I streak through the parking lot, lurch up onto the sidewalk, and throw it in park. 

As I head for the entrance, I try to catch my breath, and gather my wits about me. I straighten my hat and try to smooth my clothes. I grab a rumpled Kleenex from my purse, spit on it, and try to scrub the Rambo makeup off my face.

I push open the door and pass the infrared sensor as my eyes adjust to the dark. Instead of a buzzer announcing my presence, Berlioz's March to the Scaffold begins to play. It's so cold, I can see my breath. The room has a thirty foot ceiling; it's dimly lit by frosted wall sconces, the floors and walls are black marble. A counter 6 feet high looms in the center of the room, a black velvet curtain stands behind it. Between the curtain and the counter sits a withered man with a barrister's wig. I can tell his favorite lunch is lemons with a vinegar chaser, and during his break he likes to nip off to the mens room for a high colonic. He says nothing, but glares down at me over his Pince Nez.

I stand before him, face smudged, clothes wrinkled, and shivering like a Dickensian orphan. I hold up my tattered sack, and driver's license.

    "Please sir," I intone in my best Cockney "may I 'ave my mail?"
He snatches my license, and wordlessly sweeps behind the curtain. In a moment he returns with two large bundles held together with thick rubber bands. He leans over the counter, and holding each bundle between his finger and thumb, like rotten fish, drops them in my sack. He leans further craning his neck until he's inches from my face.
    "You make me sick," he hisses.
    "Yes sir. Thank you, sir." I curtsy, and hustle toward the exit.

I push through the exit doors suddenly engulfed in the sun's warmth and light. My dignity slowly returns, as does the feeling in my fingers and toes. I stand in the sun, knowing one day I must once again enter the belly of the frozen beast. But for now, my overdue bills and I have safely emerged.

FIN

Comments

[Brenda]

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA Oh, what a good post. I have a different problem- our UPS man HATES me. See, our driveway is long, my husband works long hours and in the winter it's less than perfectly "groomed". So, because it's winter and I HATE driving in ice or snow, I order stuff online, and it often comes UPS. That means he HAS to come in the driveway or park on the road and walk. He HATES me. I think he's the same guy that delivers your mail. He frightens me and I make my sons answer the door:)

[lizardek]

That was worth the wait! So in love with you.

[lizardek]

THAT was worth the wait. How I do love you!

[lizardek]

Argh stupid computer. I thought it didn't post.

[falwyn]

Bwahahahahahaha. You rock.

Though today I just wish I could don some Rambo paint and belly crawl to the mailbox. Anything preferable to feel like crap AGAIN. (I'm sick. Again. And I'm 'bout done with that, let me tell you.)

[Steph.]

You have earned a 1 month pass from not posting. This was classic and I must share it with the great beyond.

I don't get it though. My husband and I have actually gotten in a sprint to see who can get out the door to get the mail fastest. And we don't even get good crap. Oh, your self control amazes me...

[DM]

Oh my God. This is hilarious. I hate getting the mail as well but at least when our mail box is too full, the concierge delivers it to our apartment.