The Interview (6 page)

“I told you yesterday not to park there.”

Deep breath. “No, Mrs. Hicks. Yesterday you told me to watch
out for the beehive. Remember? It was on the base of that light pole
and you told me to be careful, because you didn't want me to get
stung.”

“I did no such thing. If there were bees there I would have
pushed you into them.” She looked at the base of the street
lamp. “There's no bees there. You're a liar. You steal my
checks and walk on my lawn. Don't park in front of my house.”

Can you say, Sybil? Two weeks ago she told me not to park in front
of her house. A week later she tried to run me down with her garbage
can. She chased me down the street with a broom a couple months ago.
Another time she hid around the side of her house and sprayed me with
the hose and told me to stay off her lawn. On other days she brings
me cookies or a soda or a water. She smiles and tells me about her
husband. He's been dead ten years, but she still thinks he's at the
store.

“OK, Mrs. Hicks. I'm sorry. I'll move it in just a minute.”

“Give me my mail. I know you steal my checks. You and that drug
addict. She steals my checks when you're not here. Don't park in
front of my house.”

“Mrs. Hicks, Thelma isn't a drug addict and she doesn't steal
your checks.”
She
'
s
just
sick
,
like
you
.
“I'll
move the truck in just a second.”

“Mom,” her son called as he came out of the house. “Mom,
leave Kelly alone. He's just doing his job.”

“Don't tell me what to do, young man. This rude fellow keeps
parking in front of the house. Your father doesn't like it.”

“Dad doesn't mind, Mom.” He reached us and mouthed that
he was sorry. I shook my head that it was OK.

“When your father gets home, you're in trouble, Mister. You
need to learn some respect.”

She went with him. She rained curses on his head as she went. He took
it all without complaint. He was a good son. We all have our crosses
to bear and he bore his with the patience of a saint. I wondered if I
would be that kind and gentle if one of my parents went off the deep
end.

Hopefully, I would never have to find out.

IT IS THE STANCE OF the United States Postal Service that we carriers
should always wear our seatbelts. It is also their position that we
should keep our doors closed while driving. After more than fifteen
years of carrying mail, I have decided that the USPS doesn’t
know what it is talking about most of the time. I don’t wear my
seatbelt. I don’t close my door when I’m driving through
my residential neighborhood. Especially when it is 107 at one o’clock
in the afternoon.

I drove down Montecito. The air was stifling inside my truck even
with the door open. I was smoking.
Megadeth
was front
and center in my left ear. I turned left on Pinehurst. A cop was
coming towards me. I ignored it. The Placentia PD likes to cruise
this neighborhood occasionally. They sit at the stop sign over on
Limerick and wait for people to blow through the intersection.
Besides, I’m a mailman. Cops don’t mess with us about
seatbelts. I turned on my blinker, waited for the cop to pass, then
turned left onto Cherry Hill.

I coasted up Cherry Hill with my right leg stuck out the door. This
served two purposes. One, the breeze on my sweaty leg felt good. Two,
my leg disrupted the airflow outside my vehicle and forced a tiny bit
of breeze into the cab. I made it halfway to my park-point before
losing any forward motion. I pulled my leg in. Stepped on the gas.

There was a sharp,
Whoop
!
I glanced in the side
view mirror. There was the cop. Roof lights flashing red and blue.

Whoop
!

I PULLED OVER WHERE I pull over every day. I sat in the truck and
smoked my cigarette and waited for the cop to come alongside me. I
looked in the left mirror. The steering wheel in the LLV (Long Life
Vehicle) is on the right side. The better to deliver mail at curbside
mailboxes. I was curious which side the cop would walk up on.

I watched her get out of the cruiser. She disappeared from view. I
switched to the right mirror. There she was. She stopped about two
feet from my door and said, “Hands where I can see them.”

“Seriously?”

She put a hand on her gun. She unsnapped the holster. “Hands
where I can see them.”

My life just kept getting better and better. First the drunk guy.
Then the naked guy. Then the guy in the mask. And now I was about to
be drawn down upon by a cop while in my mail truck. What the hell was
wrong with people?

“Now.”

“OK,” I said. I turned in my seat, popped the cigarette
into my mouth, and stuck my hands out the door. “Better?”

No answer.

I leaned my head out and looked to the right. “What now,
Officer?”

Her gun was out. It was pointed at me. I was missing something.
Something important.

She said, “On the ground. Face first. Spread ‘em.”

“Is this a joke? Are you a stripper?”

“NOW!” Not loud, but firm.

Nope, she wasn’t a stripper. I got out and lay face down on the
Dunn’s lawn. The grass was hot. The blades cut at my face. My
legs. My arms. My earbud fell out. What was I missing?

I watched her walk towards me. She looked like a giant from my
perspective. Gun drawn. She asked, “Do you have any weapons?
Needles?”

“No.”

“I’m going to search you. You better not be lying.”

I waited. She slipped the gun back into the holster. She did not
search me at first. She straddled me. Felt like a 125 pounds crushing
me. Her knees squeezed my chest. She grabbed a handful of hair and
yanked my head back so she could whisper in my ear. “Don’t
move.”

Strange. I felt helpless. If it was a male cop I would have bucked
him off and kicked him in the head and run. I couldn’t do that
to her. I always wondered what I would do if I encountered an angry
lady who wanted to cause me harm. Now I knew.

She did a cursory search of my body. I wasn’t hiding anything
and I think she knew it going in. Her breath was hot in my ear. I was
kind of liking it.

She released my hair. I wasn’t expecting it. My face hit the
ground. Her knees released my chest and she stood up.

“You can stand up. Slowly.”

“OK.”

She took a few steps back. I stood up. Faced her. I wondered how many
people were watching our little drama.

I brushed pieces of dead grass from my uniform.

The cop was a few inches shorter than me. Good shape. Athletic. She
had a good mouth. Strong cheekbones. Mirror shades. Intimidating.
Brown hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Too severe, apparently.
This lady was wound way too tight.

I asked, “Going to tell me what’s up?”

“You weren’t wearing your seatbelt and your door was
open.”

“So you molested me?”

“Did I offend you?”

“Not at all. Going to write me a ticket?”

“No.”

“Can I go back to work?”

“What’s your connection to Tristan?”

Tristan. First name only. Like Madonna. Curious.

“Don’t have one.”

“Sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re lying. I’ll find out. When I do, it won’t
be good for you.”

“When you find out, let me know.”

“I’m watching you, Mr. Jenks.”

“And I kind of like that, Officer.”

“Have a nice day.” She spun around. Walked to her car.
Did a u-turn and was gone.

Huh.

THERE ARE 588 ADDRESSES ON my route. 525 of them are considered “park
and loop.” That’s to say that I park and I get out and I
walk a loop of addresses. Most times there are two loops to a
park-point. Sometimes three, sometimes one, but most of the time
there are two. The last sixty-three addresses are curbside. That is
to say, I drive to each box. I hate curbside. The LLV is hot. I
sweat. People park in front of their mailboxes. There is no flow. No
routine.

By the time I got to the 560th address on my route, my patience was
just about gone. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. A customer had
informed me forty-five minutes ago that her backyard thermometer said
it was 110. Then she told me to stay cool as she headed back into her
air-conditioned home. Stay cool. People and their stupid sayings.
“Stay cool” on hot days. “Stay warm” on cold
days. “Stay dry” when it rained.

The
Prius
was parked where it always was. Right in
front of the two mailboxes. And the owner was right where he always
was. His fat ass parked in the driveway talking on the phone. USPS
regulations state that if a mailbox is blocked by a car, garbage can,
or object that prevents the mailbox from being accessed, the carrier
should bring the mail back to the office. Every day I stop, get out
of the truck, walk over to the boxes and put the mail in. Every day
the guy sits in his lawn chair and waves at me as I do this. His
garage is empty. There is no reason to park his car on the street.
But he does it every day.

I drove right on by. Didn’t stop. Didn’t wave. Just kept
on going to the next set of boxes. Why? Because I felt like it.
That’s why. If I could get pulled over and searched for no
apparent reason, then I certainly could skip a mailbox. I didn’t
feel good about it. I didn’t feel bad about it either. I just
did it.

I watched him in the mirror. He dragged his ass out of his chair and
started to walk towards the truck. He waved. He wanted my attention.
He wanted his mail. I rubber-banded his and his neighbor’s mail
into a bundle. I threw the bundle into the back of the LLV. I
delivered the mail into the next set of boxes, made eye contact with
him in the mirror, then drove away.

I forgot about him as soon as I turned the corner.

A BLENDER WHIRRED TO LIFE in the kitchen as I left the bathroom, my
dirty clothes in one arm. Other than Frankie, Annette knows me better
than anyone does, and that sound is music to my ears, especially when
combined with vodka, Kahlua, amaretto, Bailey's, and ice. Nothing
finer than sipping on a Screaming Orgasm on a hot day.

When asked, my parents will tell you that they named me Kelly in the
hopes that I would have the physical strength of a man combined with
the mental and emotional strength of a woman. A kind of super-being,
if you will. What they got was a brain-damaged guy who likes chick
drinks, girls with boy's names, and a massive case of the “Me
Complex.” A super-screwed-up-being, if you will.

I deposited my pile of clothes in my hamper in the garage. We do our
own laundry. Joined Annette in the kitchen. She handed me the tall
glass with a smile upon her face. I drank deeply, my eyes closed, and
my taste buds singing in delight. “God, that's good,” I
breathed in release. I have been a bartender, off and on, for nearly
twenty years. Annette was my current apprentice. She drank
occasionally and even then, only a half glass of wine at most.
However, she did not have any problem with getting me absolutely
shnockered in the course of one of our impromptu classes.

She clapped, pleased with herself. I certainly was.

“You're a good teacher.”

“And you are my finest student.”

I caught her looking at my body, my skin still wet from the shower.
Shiny droplets caught in my chest hair, and my stomach muscles
gleamed. “You're making me blush.”

She shook her head, dropped her eyes, and changed the smile on her
face to one of embarrassment and possibly a little regret. I could
have been reading too much there though.

“Can I tell you something, Kelly.” She seemed very
serious. I was worried.

“OK.”

She hesitated, then said, “You have the worst farmer’s
tan I have ever seen.”

Annette. Gotta love her.

“Thanks, Annette. You’re the music in my soul.”

She laughed. Clapped again. “I got you. That was so great!”

I took another drink of my Orgasm. I raised the glass in a toast to
her brilliance and insight. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Little Rummy 500?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“I am having dinner with Jolie, but I have time to whip you
before I go.”

“Bring it, Grandma.”

THE WAY IT TURNED OUT she had time to beat me twice. She is a snake
when it comes to cards. At seven o'clock, she kissed me on the cheek,
hopped in her Mercedes C-class and headed to Brea to eat with her
daughter's family.

The pitcher of Screaming had me a little looped, which was a good
thing. I grabbed
The
Killing
Kind
from my bookshelf, my pack of cigarettes, the little bit left in my
glass, and headed outside to read.

The heat was a wall that I had to push through. The big round
backyard thermometer said it was 102 as I sat down in the lounge
chair. Annette's backyard is half patio, half lawn. Shortly after I
moved in, I convinced her to let me build a cover to the patio. I
spent a couple Sundays and the days off between banging nails and
turning nuts and bolts. When it was finished, I planted ivy at the
base of each corner, then trimmed and coaxed the plants up the posts
and across the boards on top. Five years later vines and leaves
covered the ceiling, creating a very serene and quiet place for her
to sit with friends and family, and for me to read and smoke.

The lawn needed attention, but I was holding out until my day off so
I could do the work in the relative cool of seven AM. I pushed the
button on the small fan next to the chair. The blades whirred to life
and hot air pushed at my face and body. Still, it was better than the
motionless, heavy air of the evening.

I had fifty pages left to read in Connolly's masterpiece of death.
Charlie Parker is one of my favorite characters in fiction, and I was
currently working my way through the series again in anticipation of
the next book’s fall release.