May 27, 2019

i hope scorpions eat your mailbox

On the nineteenth day of walking, I went out earlier and pushed hard, before the oven out there finished preheating and my skin became acquainted with the Maillard reaction.

I was on our street, nearly home, when I noticed that a neighbor's mailbox door had come off on one side, the joint rusted through and the nut and bolt presumably crumbled into flaky decay, lying in whatever that decorative leafy plant stuff is they have around the base of the post.  The last mail delivery must have dealt the death blow.

I thought about walking home and, just for some extra steps and while no one was awake yet and looking, grabbing a new, fresh bit of hardware and coming back up the street and repairing it.

If it had been Mr. Preston's house, I would have.  Mr. Preston has had two heart attacks and walks up and down our street per doctor's orders with no leash in his hand because he lost his dog, Baby, years ago and will never finish grieving for her.  His wife Kathy is a sweet dear, retired from teaching first grade.  I would have fixed their mailbox.

But I realized this mailbox belonged to the house of the family that practically lives in our local Huge-Ass Baptist Church, which I always call Six Flags Over Jesus.  Seriously, this place has annex campuses because it's too big, and a soccer field, and a corporate-looking logo and t-shirts and shit.  And these people are the ones who kept their kids far, far away from us starting the day we moved into the neighborhood eleven years ago, because Teh Gay Germs.  Their two little girls were playing ball in the next yard while we carried up boxes and came to meet us, all freckles and friendliness.  They were playing again the next evening and when they saw me walking to my car, they picked up their ball and quickly walked home, sometimes glancing behind them in confused fear.

When I pass one of the parents in my car and wave, something everyone does here on our street, they look away and pretend not to see me.  I wave anyway.

I do.  I wave at them anyway.  But I did say earlier that I've lost some kindness.  Fuck 'em and their decrepit mailbox, I decided.  I walked on, home, into our delicious gay air conditioning, and resumed my gay lifestyle.

6 comments:

  1. Wonderful, good for you. I'd feel the same x

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  2. I don't blame you one bit. If they're going to treat you like you have cooties, then I hope Jesus finishes iff their mailbox with a lightning bolt.

    I love Six Flags Over Jesus, by the way. Hilarious. When I moved to Oklahoma, I swear there was a damned church on every street corner, with bizarre names. I joked with The Husband Dude about The Church of the Man On The Silver Mountain With a Goat in the Purple Haze. LOL

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    1. Go Google "Eggbeater Jesus".

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    2. Good grief - I'm thinking they're very lucky 'Eggbeater' stuck and not vibrator.

      Unless you're going to fix their mail box by sticking it where the sun doesn't shine, the slow onset of nature's rust is probably the best revenge ;)

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  3. And I thought my neighbors suck. You win. Well, dealing with them is losing though. Good call on not fixing their mailbox!

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    Replies
    1. I'm not terribly proud, but still think it was the right thing. I'm not going to take the Pepsi challenge against any other neighbors, though - there are horror stories out there! Yours might suck 10,000 harder.

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