I walked up to check the mail a bit ago. The box held the usual junk (I really should start cashing in these free bras) but still in the box were the two copies of my manuscript I intended to go out today -- one has to be postmarked today. There's no way you can miss two 64 page manuscripts in bulky white envelopes right there. So I look down the street and see the mailman tearing ass from box to box like it's the 24 seconds of Le Mans or something. And so, in the same way a chihuahua can be said to be dogged, I took ofter him. Doggedly. He'd stop at one mailbox and for a glorious few seconds, in which his truck was mirage-like, I'd nearly draw even with him. Then he'd peel off down to the next mailbox and would shrink in the distance. As I roundly cursed him. And all his male heirs. His sickly aunt Flo.
This continued all the way down my street.
Around the corner.
And down that street.
Lest you see this in your mind's eye too dramatically, keep in mind The Worst Race Ever.
At last I caught him, making notes of some sort. I stopped in front of him, glaring a little bit. It isn't every day you're tailed through an entire neighborhood by a guy in a wheelchair. I think you'd notice.
He rolled his window down. "Can I help you," he said.
"Yeah, you dropped off the mail at my place but didn't pick up the outgoing."
"Oh, I guess I didn't see it, man. I'm sorry."
"Would you mind picking them up? These two large white Priority envelopes which you put my mail on top of?"
"Sure thing, man. Sure thing. I'll finish up and head right back."
I walked back and waited on him. At this point, if he didn't show, phone calls would be made. I rehearsed them in my mind. They were sweet.
Soon enough, he ripped back around and reached in to get them. He had to struggle a bit because of their bulk wedging them in. I realized that's why he'd left them the first time: he didn't want to bother.
After he had them, he breezily said, "Got you now, hoss!"