The Visitor

"Daddy, wake up. Some guy is at the door."

My boy isn't paranoid, it's just that out here, way out here, we don't get unexpected guests.

I staggered to the door. It was a big ol' man.

"I'm your postman," he said.

There was silence here. We don't get mail at the place, went to a PO box, plus I was just waking up.

"Wondering why you don't want mail." He stuck his finger in my chest.

"I do want mail."

"But I'm your postman."

This was one of those conversations that was going nowhere.

"Okay, Scott. You win. You're my postman."

He seemed happier. "Name's Steve." He covers up the cursive Scott on his jacket. "The wife picked it up at a garage sale."

Stuff like that really messes a half-asleep guy up.

"Say," he keeps going, "love to look at your heating system."

Now I'm barely vertical. Wrong name? Fine. Fast-lane subject change? Too much.

I scrunch up my face and lean toward him, I imagine kind of a pre-vomit look, I stare at his perma-smile. It won't go. Hard to trust a man who doesn't stop smiling.

"Well, maybe I could come in and take a look."

"Nap time." The first solid thought I'd had.

Scott or Steve or whoever he was must not have taken Sunday afternoon naps. Ever. Now he leaned forward, scruchy-faced. This would have been the picture for the ages. My mailman and me, toe-to-toe, matching scrunchy faces.   

"Well," he said.

"Well," I said.

"Bye then." He slowly unscrunched that round face, found his perma-smile and put it back on, and turned away.

"Um." I grunted, the victor. I shut the door, turned toward my boy all scrunchy faced on the couch. "Mighty impressive scrunchy face, son."

"Um," he grunted.

I turned and headed back toward the bed to finish my nap, knowing the house was in good hands. My boy knows how to handle the mailman.

Comments

[arolis]

(: & : trying to make a scrunchyfaced emoticon

[sandrah]

You should wrap up all these strange essays and publish them in a book! Then again maybe you already have.