“Good afternoon. Didn’t you hear me knocking?” the man asks. The balls on him!
“Sorry, I had m’television turned up kinda loud cause my hearin’ isn’t so good these days. I was watching an action movie, a real fun flick with that Bruce Willis fella.” A fun flick. You hear me talkin’ like this? Your old pal Edgar is the best liar who ever lived.
The man looks shocked at this revelation, and then I realize why. Stupid me.
“You have electricity in there?”
“Generator.” Smooth as silk, motherfucker.
His face gets all twisty-like as he hands over a stack of envelopes. “Funny, Marianne never mentioned having a generator.”
Because Marianne is a goddamned twit, that’s why, Mr. Postal Dude. This shit better stop asking so many questions. That’s a dangerous thing to do, whether he knows it or not.
“Well, that’s cause its brand new. Just put it in after the storm started up, before it got too nasty to drive. It’s hummin’ around the back.”
He puts his finger to his ear, as if he is listening for it. The bastard doesn’t believe me. Sure, I’m a liar, but I’m a damned good one. I try not to look offended, even though I am.
“Can’t hear it, what with all the wind,” I say. He smiles at me, finally giving up on his interrogation. For now, at least.
“The name’s Skipper,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake mine. I take it. His hand feels like a wet fish, all floppy and slick and cold as hell. The snow is still gusting in from outside, and I begin to wonder how long all these fuckin’ formalities will take. It’s blinding out there. I hope he doesn’t plan on staying, cause he certainly ain’t invited to.
Skipper. What the hell kind of name is that? Obviously a nickname, but who the fuck would pick that for a nickname? If I knew a kid named Skipper when I was a kid, I probably would have put snakes in his locker. Probably would have ripped him a new one.
“They call me Edgar,” I say as I pull my hand away from the flippy-floppy mackerel. “Much obliged,” I say, holding up the mail he is delivered to me and pretending to look through it as if it is very important to me. It’s all about living the lie.
Skipper says, “I came knocking because I just wanted to let you all know that we won’t be delivering any more mail until after the storm ends. It’s going on a couple weeks now. We just can’t do it any longer.”
“No problem. It must be a pretty rough job with all this weather.”
Skipper nods, grinning as he says, “You don’t know the half of it. I used to do my route in about five hours. Now it takes me eleven. Only reason you all are still getting mail is because we got ourselves a couple of snowmobiles.”
“I’m surprised anybody is even sending mail anymore.” Suburbia, I think to myself, is the only place in the world where anybody actually gives a shit about the mail. There ain’t nothin’ good about the mail. It’s another trap we set for ourselves, makin’ it so we can’t leave. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Fuck that noise.
“I expect it to stop altogether pretty soon. Storm’s gonna end eventually, like all these storms do, but it’s coming in at a slow trickle now. Marianne used to get twenty or so things a day, mostly those cat magazines and advertisements, but now she’s only getting like two or three.”
Oh, what a loyal fucking mailman. He even knows all his customers by name, even knows how much mail they get. He’s a creep, that’s what he is. He’s a creep and he’s probably got the hots for Marianne. I sort of want to tell him what I did to her, to see if he starts cryin’ like a little girl.
“Speaking of,” he says, and I already know what he’s gonna drop on me next, “is Marianne home? If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell her in person that we won’t be delivering for a bit. I know she’ll be really upset about it, what with all the stuff she gets. She gets real excited when her magazines come, I know she looks forward to them all month.”
“Marianne’s in the shower.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I bite my tongue. I swear to my savior the lord Jesus Christ that I’m a way better liar than this. I’m just having an off day. All these mangy cats are gettin’ my allergies in a tizzy and makin’ me think funny thoughts. This ain’t typical, ya’ hear?
Then he asks the question that I know is coming next. “You guys have hot water still?”
“No.” But really, I should have said yes. “Yes,” I say. He’s got me scramblin’ and I hate that feeling.
Skipper looks mighty confused. “All the pipes in my house are frozen. It must be the electric you get from the generator, right? Shouldn’t you be conserving though?”
“I need to—,” I start to say, but then the Skipper interrupts me.
His moustache sort of dances as he makes a mean looking face. “Let me talk to Marianne,” he says, “right now.”
He fancies himself a tough guy. Isn’t that special?
“Go away before this gets ugly,” I say.
Skipper takes a step forward, getting in my face. “Where is it you come from? Marianne never mentioned having a boyfriend. I would know. I come to this house every day, so I would know if she had a boyfriend.” The tone in Skipper’s voice makes it sound like he may be a bit on the jealous side, like he wants to be pokin’ on Marianne’s tuna can. He’s a suspicious little shit, but he also hates my guts for gettin’ so close to Marianne.
“Back up, little fella,” I say. He’s not really little. In fact, he’s a few inches taller than yours truly. That don’t mean I can’t talk to him like a little man. A fella with a moustache doesn’t stand a chance against a wanderin’ man, unless he is a wanderin’ man himself. Most wanderin’ men don’t wear moustaches anyway. Cause people are less likely to pick you up if you’re not clean shaven.
“Marianne?” Skipper calls out now, pushing past me into the mud room. “You in there, Marianne?” I gotta admit, I’m pretty shocked at how bold this shit-for-brains is.
I grab him by the color of his dark blue parka, pushin’ him up against the wall. “I told you to get the fuck out of my house.”
“It isn’t your house. It’s Marianne’s.”
“It used to be Marianne’s, but now it belongs to me. Ya’ hear?”
“You’re a liar,” he says, bearing his teeth at me. He looks like he wants to take a swing at me. I sort of hope he does, cause I’ve been bored as all hell since Marianne got her head lopped off. I’ve been itchin’ for something to break up the day. “Where is she?” he asks again, way more insistent.
The little fucker is asking, so I’m much obliged.
“Follow me,” I say, walking through the door, waving for him to join me. He rights himself, pulling on his clothes as I take my hands off him. He readjusts himself, hopin’ he can get back some of his dignity. When he sees what I’m about to show him, he’ll know that he’s done messed with the wrong motherfucker. “I’ll show you her. You’ll love this, Skippy.”
He follows behind me and I can tell he’s hesitatin’, real slow like.
I can almost hear his expression. I’ve seen this kind of expression before. He isn’t believin’ this shit, not at all. In all his life, he ain’t never thought he’d see something like this. Marianne—all strewn about like confetti after a Fourth of July parade. What’s left of her is only the bits and pieces that the kitty cat’s ain’t lapped up. Her sweater is still there, but the cats have been pawing at it, untangling the threads. They’re usin’ her body like a scratchin’ board when we come into the kitchen.
I can hear him gasp. I can hear him thinking terrible thoughts about me. I can hear his heart deflating because he definitely had a crush on this old broad. I can hear him falling to pieces. I can hear him wondering to himself how he can go on. I can hear him pulling something out of his jacket, almost instinctively. I can hear him fidgeting with the device—probably some pepper spray. Mailmen always carry pepper spray, so they can defend themselves from wild dogs when they’re out on their route.