The Interview (5 page)

I prefer sunrises to sunsets. I've always been that way. I like to
watch the world roll itself out of bed. When I lived down here, I
rarely missed a sunrise. That's how I met Kim, my jogging buddy.

We cut the distance down between us quickly. We high-fived, then I
fell in beside her. I matched her pace as we ran away from the rising
sun and towards the Newport Pier. She pulled her earbuds out and
said, “What's up, Kelly?”

“Nada. Kicked a guy's ass last night.”

She glanced at my wound.

“Looks like it was the other way around.”

“Nah. Different guy. Unrelated.”

“Busy night, huh?”

“Kind of.”

“So why’d you kick the guy’s ass?”

“He was grabbing a waitress's ass. She didn't like it.”

“And the other guy?”

“Still not sure about him. I’ll get back to you on that.
How ‘bout you?”

“I watched
Memento
. Then had really good sex with
my boyfriend. You were right about the movie. It was cool.”

“Your night sounds better than mine.”

“Well, you protected a woman's honor. That's pretty cool.”

“Yeah, but you had really good sex. That's even cooler.”

She couldn't argue. She knew I was right.

Now that we were all caught up on each other’s lives we settled
into our run. Kim runs from the Balboa Pier to Newport Pier and back
every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. The run is a four mile round
trip. I join her for about half of it, depending on where I park. Our
conversations are never much longer than the one we just had. She
wears her brown hair in a ponytail. She has brown eyes, a small nose,
and a nice cupid's bow. She's maybe 5'5”. She wears loose gray
shorts and a white sports bra. She's maybe thirty. I don't know her
boyfriend’s name, what she does for a living, or her last name.
I think she lives local, but I wouldn't swear to it. She knows less
about me. Yet, for the last year we have run on the beach together.

We reached the pier, slapped one of the wooden supports, then
started off in the opposite direction. When we reached the stand
where I had stashed my stuff, I said, “See ya, Kim.”

“Later, Kelly. See ya Thursday?”

“Always.”

I peeled off. She waved, then popped the buds back in her ears, and
continued her run down the beach. I grabbed my board and my fins and
jumped in the ocean. The water was a shock to my skin but it felt
damn fine all the same. Except in my cut. The saltwater had a field
day in the fresh wound. The run had left me covered in sweat. So I
traded one type of salt on my skin for another, and paddled out.

The waves weren't going to win any contests. Little rollers that I
had a good time on. I just pushed off the bottom, caught the wave
just as it broke, then rode it in. It was boarding 101. Most
five-year-olds can do it, and some of them do it better. It was a
nice way to start the day, though. And the memories might get me
through the heat that was coming my way when I got to work.

I sat down just out of the water's reach, sipped on my still-warm
coffee, and broke my first law of the day by lighting a cigarette.

Nothing finer, folks.

I watched the ocean do its thing. A small group of dolphins swam by.
If you have ever been to Newport, you've probably seen them. They do
the same route as Kim, Pier to Pier, back and forth. Sometimes
they'll surf the waves with us humans, causing heart attacks to the
occasional guy who doesn't know the difference between a dolphin and
a great white. They're cool.

I always feel like Magnum P.I. on mornings like this. Minus the
cigarette, of course. My shorts are a bit longer. I don't have the
mustache. I don't drive a Ferrari. I'm a mailman, not a P.I.

Huh.

Screw it. I still felt like him.

THE TWENTY-FIVE MINUTE TRIP to Newport more than doubled itself on
the way back to Placentia. I thought about Kim, dolphins, Magnum
P.I., and Batman.
Alanis
Morissette
started singing about how “Ironic” life can be and that
seemed to fit.

I liked Tom Selleck, he of the short O.P. shorts. My mom loved him
when I was growing up. She still loved him when he did his turn on
Friends
. The Jesse Stone movies were good, probably better
than the books, actually. I wasn't a fan of his commercial
voice-overs or his westerns, but Magnum was cool without a doubt. My
thoughts meandered as I inched along the 55.
Simon
and
Simon
followed Magnum on Thursday nights
for a while, but for the life of me I couldn't remember anything
about the show except that it took place in San Diego.

THE PLACENTIA POST OFFICE IS located at 1401 Kraemer Ave., but us
carriers use the back door on Angelina. My shirt was unbuttoned, and
my boots were not tied as I swiped my card at 8:05. I was five clicks
late as opposed to five minutes. Five clicks was acceptable to the
number crunchers. Five minutes was actually eight clicks and
therefore not acceptable. Like most things, the Post Office has done
its best to take a very simple thing like “time” and make
it as convoluted as possible. The time clock runs on “postal
time”, a strange mutation of military time where time is
measured in hundredths of an hour; 0850 equals 8:30 AM, 0825 equals
8:15 AM, and so on. Our scanners are on military time; 1315 equals
1:15 PM. And our wall clocks are normal, but they are never right.
The clock above my case is five minutes fast. The clock at the other
end of the building is seven minutes fast, while the one out on the
dock is 45 minutes slow because nobody sprang the hands forward in
the spring.

When you've been here long enough it all starts to make sense. Or
maybe you just stop caring. That could be it.

I slipped into my case undetected, finished dressing, then turned the
volume up and went to work. Listening to
Satriani
makes
me case too fast. My hands try and keep up with his guitar work and
next thing you know I'm out of mail to put up. I was flying along in
a blue dream thirty minutes later when somebody tapped me on the
shoulder.

“You got a call, Kelly.”

“Thanks, Carl”

Carl held up one short, pudgy finger and said, “Line one.”

“Gotcha. Thanks.”

“You want your projected out time?”

“No. Thanks though. I don't do science fiction this early.”

I left him standing there with a puzzled look on his face. Carl is a
good supervisor, but he does like his numbers a little too much. I
walked over to the phone on the clerk's desk and punched line one.

“'Lo.”

“Will you please get a cell phone,” Frankie pleaded.

I can talk to Frankie on the phone. I trust her voice. I can hear the
smiles and the tears, and I know they are real.

“You know how to find me.”

“Yes, but it would be easier if you had a cell phone. I can't
call you once you're out on the street.”

“You've managed so far, Frankie. I have to make you work a
little.”

“No, Kelly, you don't. What you need to do is get a cell phone.
What if I get the urge at lunchtime to come see you? Huh? If you had
a cell I could call you and tell you to come pick me up. As it stands
now, I have to call Annette or Fred and have them drive around till
they find you. If they can find you.”

“Not going to happen. It's a six-hour drive to San Francisco.”

“The airport. What if I flew in unexpectedly to surprise you?”

“Annette or Fred would pick you up, but you don't fly down here
unexpectedly at lunchtime.”

“Texting, then. I could send you dirty texts. We could have
text sex! That'd be fun!”

“Text sex sounds like two computers fucking.”

She blew hard into the phone in frustration. “I hate talking to
you on the phone.”

“Back at you. Why'd you call?”

“What time is the game on Friday?”

“Nine. You coming in?”

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“You playing?”

“If it doesn't put anybody out.”

“Well since I play shortstop on Fridays you'll be putting me
out, but I'll forgive you. You can make it up to me afterward.”

“I'm better than you at short. The team will thank me.”

“You got that right. Give me your flight info.”

I wrote it all down. She told me she loved me. I responded in kind
then hung up.

Hmmm . . .

I ambled over to Route Twenty-eight. Fred was in his case, his
headphones on, probably listening to Mark & Brian. I tapped him
on the shoulder. He spun around with his eyes wide, slipped the
headphones from his ears and said, “Scared me, Kelly.”

“Too much caffeine. Frankie's playing on Friday.”

His face lit up in spontaneous happiness. Frankie has that effect on
people. It's cool to see. I have no idea what it feels like.

“Sweet. We'll have a real shortstop for once.”

“Ha ha. Now all we need is someone who can play first.”

“Right. If I wasn't 6'7”, half your throws would end up
out of play. Hey,” he suddenly remembered something.
“
Queensryche
is playing Thursday at the Grove.”

“They don't do it for me anymore. DeGarmo needs to come back.”

“Come on! I've never seen 'em,” Fred whined. I waited
for him to stamp his foot.

“You never will, Fred. They're not the same. Go see Tate when
he does his solo thing.”

I left him wondering who Tate was and returned to my case. Geoff Tate
is one of my favorite singers and
Queensryche
is one of
my favorite bands but when Chris DeGarmo left, the songwriting turned
to shit. Tate can sing but he needs DeGarmo to piss him off. Fred
doesn't understand that, or care for that matter.

I’m on Route Eight. Route Seven is on my left. I glanced in and
saw Thelma. “Where’s Casey?”

Thelma looked me up and down. “Your aura is different today,
Kelly.”

Thelma claims to be an empath. She’s crazy as far as I am
concerned.

“Thanks. I curled it this morning before I came to work.”

She shook her head and smiled. “You have a lot of positive
karma flowing around you. It’s good, Kelly. You’ve been
doing good works.”

“If you say so. Where’s Casey?”

“She called in. I’m double casing. It’s OK. Casey
is a good soul.”

A good soul who has migraines the day before or after her scheduled
day off. Yesterday was Casey’s day off. A migraine today meant
she turned a two-day weekend into a three-day weekend. Casey’s
my hero.

“Have fun with that.”

I switched from
Satriani
to
Queensryche
when I got back to my case. The rest of my office time was spent
listening to shuffled tracks off the first three albums.

My entire body was covered in a light sweat before I finished loading
my truck. It was ten in the morning and it must have been 95 already.
It was going to be a long, hot day. I foresaw a cranky bitch in
Annette's future.

I FELT LIKE A GIANT salt lick an hour later. Sea salt mixed with the
sweat. My shirt scraped against my skin. I was uncomfortable. I was
miserable.

I went home to take a shower.

I live two blocks from the post office. I also live on my route.
There are advantages. I deliver my own mail. I eat lunch at home. On
light days I can watch a little television. I’m never far from
a bathroom. And I can stop at home and take a shower when I feel like
a salt lick.

The house is a single-storey ranch style with Spanish tile atop beige
stucco. I rent a room from a sweet old lady named Annette. She’s
eighty. She’s a foot shorter than I am. She has faded blue eyes
that work just fine without glasses. She’s a drama queen.

I parked my mail truck behind my Cougar. Walked across the front lawn
that I needed to cut. “Sweet Home Alabama” was distant in
my ears. Opened the front door and was blasted by cool air. I love
A/C.

“Kelly, is that you?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Where you at?”

“I’m in the kitchen. I can’t walk.”

And it begins. I walked into the kitchen. Annette was sitting at the
kitchen table. There was a hand of solitaire spread out before her. I
opened the fridge and grabbed a Gatorade. Carried it over to the
table and sat down next to her.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Me too. I need a shower.”

“You can carry me out to my car. I’m supposed to have
lunch with the girls but I think I need to go to the doctor.”

I opened my drink and drank half of it. “Why’s that?

“I can’t walk. I can’t feel my legs.”

I reached out and poked her in the thigh.

“Oww! Why’d you do that?”

“You can feel just fine. I’m taking a shower.”

I kissed her on the cheek and headed to off my bathroom.

“You don’t care about me,” she hollered as I walked
away.

“I love you, you big baby. Go see your girlfriends.”

I did not bother with hot water. The cold water wasn't cold, more
lukewarm than anything else. Still, the water felt good. I could feel
the salty residue left in the wake of my sweat slide across my skin
as my core temperature dropped to normal levels. Dirt and grime
sluiced from my body in the torrential flow of 1.5 gallons per
minute.

Drought is a fact in Southern California, and conservation is one of
those things you learn to live with. Annette is very good at doing
her part to save the world. She recycles, installs water-conserving
showerheads, and sets her sprinklers to water the lawn in the middle
of the night rather than the middle of the day.

I could care less. I do my part because Annette thinks it’s
important.

I got out five minutes later. Dressed in new underwear, socks, and
uniform. Happy as a clam. Annette was gone when I was ready to go. I
locked up, hopped back in my hot box of a truck, and resumed my day.

I PARKED THE TRUCK, CURBED the wheels, then hopped out.

“Don't park there.”

Oh, Jesus! Not today! Please, not today!