I got a message from my mail depot telling me to call them ASAP.
When I called, Dane told me, “12240 53 st. He’s saying you’re not taking back the mail you’ve misdelivered. Do you pick up mail that’s misdelivered?”
“I do if it’s sticking out of the mailbox, or if there’s a note.”
“Okay. That’s good. This guy says you didn’t pick up some misdeliveries. He’s pretty upset. He’s acting really belligerent, so when you get to his house be careful. If he comes out to confront you, get in your truck and lock the doors and call us.”
Say what?! I know this guy. He’s the same guy who called in to tell on me, pissed off because I was walking on his lawn. Because his walkway was a sheet of ice, the DOOF! Any other mailman wouldn’t even attempt to deliver your mail. Do you know how good you’ve got it, you DINGER?
I’m very nervous about this situation. It sounds like this guy might get violent. I have a terrible fear of confrontation. I’ve been deemed the politically incorrect term – a pussy – many a time in the past.
This guy’s almost the last house on my walk to boot. So I’ve got the whole day to think about what this guy is going to do to me. Yell at me lots? Slash my Achilles Tendon? Hog tie me and spoon feed me bile? Nail me with his Crossbow, slash my throat and smash my skull in with a bat? He’s going to have a bat for sure. This is indisputable. He’s going to crack me in the knees. He’s going to take me down and gouge my eyes.
I don’t want to go. Why is Dane even suggesting I go deal with this guy when he’s clearly in such a state?
When the time comes I walk as quietly as I can. I look at his windows, all of them covered up by curtains. Even the little tiny windows have curtains.
He’s got one of those big, deep, bread loaf style mailboxes. Yeah. This guy also never picks up his mail. Does he think mailmen scour through each mailbox, rereading the addresses of letters of yore? No. We pick up the ones that are outside the mailbox with angry scratchy writing on them. The mail inside your box? That’s your mail. If you don’t want it I need to know you don’t want it. I need to know there’s a problem. What is your problem you butthole? Is he in the bushes?!
I tiptoe away from the house, with the one misdelivered letter he was so furious about, shaking with the huge rush of adrenaline.
I hate crybabies.