The Postman Commeth.

21 Jan

This made it official.  Having your own mailbox meant you had arrived.  Grown up.  Come of age. You were finally standing  out there…on your own.

Before you were just one of the pack; an” Occupant” or an “In Care Of” ( which was especially belittling when they wrote it “c/o”), or worst of all the dreaded  “And Family”.  But now, yes now and for all times moving forward, you had your own spot in the world where people could find you.  Information would be arriving. Things like the “You are invited to attend our Seminars”  or “We regret to inform you that your card has been canceled” or even the fantastic and perhaps life changing “Congratulations You have Won’s”.  I mean, who knew what would one find on a daily basis.

There was so much potential now.  For a while there it had been grim.  You had been a little drawer at the Post Office, you had a key and yes it was only yours, but that little gray box made you feel like one of the crowd, like all the rest of the lemmings that had one of the hundreds no thousands of other little boxes with keys that surrounded yours.  It was nothing special just being part of that pack besides the cameras beaming down from every corner made you feel like Big Brother was watching and quite frankly it gave you the creeps.

Next there was the infamous “Slot in the door”.  This severally limited your expression as there was only incoming material and it always ended up in a pile on the floor that the dog would chew up ( or worse),  leaving fragments here and there of undecipherable yet vital- you were certain of- correspondence, totally a sodden mess of information lost forever.

Then came the move…and the step up was  that little black wall hung tin contraption outside your front door.    The mailman always looked so haggard that he had to get out of his little jeep and even when it was cold and rainy, trek up the sidewalk, wearing his blue shorts and logging boots, just to bring you some flimsy sale flier.  Oh the embarrassment of it all. Made you just want to hang your head in shame.  It was almost as bad as the time you forget to put enough postage on that letter and when you got home you found the envelope, Sticking out, yes,  Sticking out of the tin box with Big Red Letters—– INSUFFICIENT POSTAGE.  God, how you were mortified.

But finally, that was all in the past.  This last move had gotten you to a place where you could put down roots.  Yep, dig that hole, pour that cement and pound that post into the ground.  Attaching the silver box to the top was like the crowning glory to a lifetime of struggle against all odds.   The red flag being raised daily would be your sign to the world that you were here; had never surrendered,  and never would.

Come and get my mail, it would proclaim, bring it on,  whatever you have for me and stuff it in.  Give it your best shot, for I am here ready and willing to take on all comers,  even the ” or Current Resident’s”.

Member’s Pick, Friday:  Thinking Ten

A mailbox

1 Comment

Posted by on January 21, 2011 in Flash Fiction, Quick Fiction, Southern Humor


Tags: ,

One response to “The Postman Commeth.

  1. Ann

    January 21, 2011 at 5:24 pm

    Awesome. You are gifted.


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