The Interview (9 page)

I grabbed
The
Killing
Kind
and tried to read.

That didn’t work either. I couldn’t stop thinking about
Batman.

Batman knew a lot about me. It should have troubled me, but
“troubled” is one of those complex emotions. There was no
way he could have found out all that stuff between the time I showed
up at Tristan's and when I woke up with my mouth taped shut.

Curious.

I fell asleep an hour later. I slept like crap for five hours. I
dreamed about spiders. Connolly had come up with a creepy freak named
Pudd, and I was paying the price for his brilliance. I could feel
little widows and recluses crawling all over me. Uck! I’d wake
up. Check myself frantically. Realize it was a dream and go back to
sleep.

I woke up at seven for good. I found Annette in the kitchen. I was
dressed and ready for another day in the sauna. She was still in her
robe.

“I wish I was retired. Look at you. Ready for another day of
lounging around, not doing anything except flirting with the boys
down at the country club. Rough.”

“I can't feel my legs. I think I'm dying.”

“Oh, God. Here we go.”

“I'm serious. I may not last the day. I have to call Jolie and
have her come sit with me. I think I'm going blind.”

“You are the biggest drama queen I've ever met.”

She smiled a smile that would make Satan proud, pure evil. “Are
you going to cry again today, you big baby?”

“Do you kiss your grandkid with that mouth?”

“Yes, but he's a sweetheart. Never cries when I'm there. He's
an angel.”

“Yeah, but he's a heavenly angel. You hang out around lakes of
fire.”

“Careful, I'll raise your rent.”

“I pay your mortgage. What are you going to do, make me pay for
the Mercedes?”

“I could. Just remember that before you come home whining
tonight.”

“Annette and her reality checks. What would I do without them?”

“You'd spend your life bitching and moaning about how rough you
got it.”

I kissed her on the cheek. “Wouldn't want that. I'd sound like
a little old lady.”

“Have a great day, Kelly.”

“You too, love. I'll be home for lunch.”

“I'll be sure to be gone then.”

She's sweet.

I decided to walk to work with the idea that it would be the only
time I wouldn't sweat today. It was on the wrong side of eighty once
again, and by nine it would just be stupid to walk around outside.
It's my job though. I cut through the school and walked in the door
with one click to spare. Twenty-five other losers in postal uniforms
milled around the time clock in anticipation of another day
delivering mail. I don't like getting to work at 7:30, or 0750, in
the morning. I like strolling in as late as I can get away with. But
this morning I looked forward to a boring day of letters and sweat. I
didn't want to think about what was in my closet, or the lives
hanging in the balance, or gigantic penises. Definitely not that.

I avoided looking at anybody while I slid my time card. I slid into
my case on stealth mode. Found some
Buck
c
herry
on my iPod and went to work. Before the song could even start there
was a knock on my case.

“Hi, Kelly.”

Heaven help me. Not today. “Hi, Thelma. What's up?”

“Nothing. Just wanted to say good morning.”

“K. Hi.”

“Your karma is still looking great. Keep it up.”

Thelma has been trying for three years to get a medical out.
According to her, she is allergic to grass, pollen, cement, coffee,
sugar, gluten, and paper. She is also lactose intolerant, has a weak
bladder, and can't see more than ten feet in front of her. The post
office could care less about any of these things. Now she's going for
a psych leave. The stress of carrying mail has destroyed her ability
to live a happy life. Like I said before, she's an empath. The world
is filled with tiny dramas, and Thelma is hooked in to everyone of
them.

Thelma is also my T-6. The post office follows a six day work week.
Carriers work five days. T-6's carry the route when the regular
carrier has the day off. A T-6 has five routes that they are
responsible for. In Thelma's case, she has routes six through ten.
I'm Route Eight. The guy on Route Nine was off today, so Thelma was
on his route.

Lucky me.

“There have been two UFO sightings in China in the last eight
days.”

“Really? Crazy.”

“I think the aliens have realized that America is not the most
superior nation on the planet anymore. That's why they've started
checking out China. They're the next great superpower.”

“Wow. You've given this some thought.”

“Lots. India, too.”

“India has given this a lot of thought?”

“No. There are UFO's in India.”

“So India is going to be a superpower, as well.”

“Right. We're on the downhill slide. That's why the post office
is making all these changes. They're trying to show the aliens that
they're efficient and worth notice.”

“Huh. So the aliens are the reason my route has changed four
times in the last year?”

“Yes. All the barcodes, too. They use the language of
mathematics, so barcodes are easier to read for them. They're
tracking us.”

“The Post Office?”

“No. The aliens. The barcodes were their idea.”

“That makes sense.” It did in a bizarro post office way.
My scanner couldn’t read the barcodes half the time. I ended up
punching in sixteen-digit delivery confirmation numbers. Good times.
Waste of time. I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on
around here. I had been leaning towards stupidity as the main reason,
but aliens worked for me.

“I knew you'd understand. The spill in the gulf is a PR stunt.”

Thelma has mousy brown hair that hangs limp at all times. Her glasses
were thick and black with the required piece of scotch tape holding
on one arm. The blue of her eyes was faded, and the whites were shot
with yellow and blood vessels. She looked sick to me, but the aliens
were in charge so she was probably the picture of health.

“The oil spill?”

“Yes. British Petroleum planned it all.”

“They planned to kill untold numbers of fish and wildlife,
completely decimate the Gulf States economy, and make Katrina look
like just another storm?”

“Yes. They're following the Exxon plan.”

“The Exxon plan? Please enlighten me.”

Where was a supervisor when I needed one? I glanced at Casey's case,
but she was hiding. I knew she was listening to the whole thing,
trying not to laugh out loud.

Thelma leaned close so I could smell the eggs she had eaten for
breakfast. “Are you aware of how much Exxon profited last
year?”

“A lot?”

“Billions and billions of dollars.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. The Valdez was the single greatest thing that
happened to Exxon. Nobody remembers the devastation it caused, they
only think about the stock prices. Exxon is worth a lot of money.”

“Exxon-Mobil, is worth a lot of money,” I corrected her.

“Right, and how long do you think before Exxon-Mobil-BP is
going to be worth even more?”

“You are so smart, Thelma. I can't believe no one has seen
through their plan. Why are you a mail carrier? You should be in the
White House. Obama could use you.”

“I know,” she said with exasperation. “These
fucking pricks won't cut me loose.” Thelma looked over her
shoulder to be sure no one was listening. “They know, Kelly. I
should be out there saving the world. Stopping those money-grubbing
oil companies. But they're keeping me here. They're all in it
together.”

“With the aliens?”

“Yes! Finally!”

“Stay strong. Keep me posted.” I bumped knuckles with
Thelma, then turned and prayed she went away. Maybe if I closed my
eyes and counted to twenty. It worked with Batman.

I gave it a shot.

When I opened them, I snuck a peek behind me. “I'll let you
know if I discover anything else.”

I gave her a thumbs up. She smiled and vanished.

I put my earbuds in, and pushed play. There was a tap on my shoulder.
I shook my head, took my earbuds out, and turned around.

“Morning, Carl. What's up?”

Carl looked like the Michelin Man after an overdose at the air pump.
He bulged everywhere. He was my height, but must have weighed 300
pounds. A head of thinning hair barely concealed a small head atop a
short, thick neck.

“Just wanted to give you a heads up, Kelly.”

“What's that, Carl? Did I miss a scan point?”

“No.” He glanced down at his clipboard, then ran a
finger down a column. “You hit them all.”

“That's a relief.”

“No, umm, the problem is with your street time. Graciella is
going to hammer you for it, and, I, uh, just wanted to give you a
heads up.”

“Thanks, Carl. I'll look forward to Graciella pulling me into
the office. Anything else?”

“The computer is still crunching the numbers, so I'll come back
to you with your OTDT”

OTDT stands for “out the door time.” It is a relatively
new concept in the Post Office. It's based on imaginary numbers and a
convoluted formula that seems to change every day. I think they
borrowed it from the movie studios who use a slightly different
version to figure out how much money they didn't make on their last
blockbuster. It fit right in with Thelma's alien scenario.

“Wouldn't want to miss the OTDT.”

“You're a good man, Kelly. Thanks for taking this seriously.
We're in a crunch, you know. Post Office is losing a lot of money. We
all have to do our part.”

I spread my arms out and said, “I do what I can, Carl.”

“I know, Kelly. Don't worry about Graciella. She's just trying
to impress the big bosses.”

Graciella was the current squeeze of the District Manager. Word was,
our current postmaster was on the chopping block and as soon as they
paper trailed her to death, she'd be gone and Graciella would get a
promotion. Graciella needed to impress the big bosses about as much
as Tristan needed a penile enlargement.

“Got it.”

Carl waddled away and I went back to work.

“Kelly,” a voice whispered. I looked at the clock. I had
been at work for fifteen minutes and I hadn't done a thing. Batman
should have shot me. It would have been better that way.

“Casey,” I whispered back.

“Is Carl gone?”

“Yeah.”

Casey popped around from Route Seven's case. Every time I saw her I
thought of Mother's Cookies. She just looked like she should be on
the bag of Mother's Cookies. Casey was fifty-four. When I first met
her, she was a silent, withdrawn woman who wore sunglasses in the
office to hide the bruises, and flinched anytime a voice was raised
nearby. She's a couple inches over five feet, and if she puts rocks
in her pockets and holds a five-pound bag she might weigh 98 pounds.
Five years ago, her husband vanished. Just up and left without a word
to anyone. Mysterious.

In two years she can declare him legally dead. I don't think she's
worried about him popping back up. I think she knows exactly where he
is.

The change since his sudden departure has been dramatic, to say the
least. She never wears sunglasses. She smiles and laughs. Her hair is
bright red, and she has tons of freckles. She is a constant source of
outlandish tales. She's the closest thing I have to a sister.

“I found a snake in my yard yesterday.”

“I thought you got that snake repellent stuff.”

“I did, but I think I sprayed it after the snake was already in
my yard. Now it won't leave.”

“What kind of snake was it?”

“A big one.”

Casey knew snakes like I knew guns. “What did you do?”

“I screamed.”

“Naturally. But after that.”

“I called Animal Control. They wanted a hundred bucks to come
get it.”

“Did you pay them?”

“No. I'm not paying them a hundred dollars.”

“Does seem kind of ridiculous.”

“That's what I thought. So I walked over to the Fire Department
and asked them if they could come get it.”

“Reasonable. Fire fighters are good guys.”

“They wouldn't help me.”

“Bastards.”

“I know, I thought the same thing.”

“So what did you do?”

“My mom called when I was walking back and told me that my
sister barricaded herself inside the house and was threatening to not
eat.” Casey's sister weighs three times as much as Casey. She
could stand not to eat. “I had to go try and talk her out. By
the time I got home it was dark. So he's still out there.”

“Did you get your sister to eat?”

“Yeah, I found a window that was unlocked and I climbed in. She
was parked on the couch with a box of Twinkies and an empty Domino’s
box, watching Wipeout. I bitched her out. She said she was sorry but
no one comes and sees her. Drama.”

“So what are you going to do about the snake?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you had an idea.”

“You could shoot it.”

“I don't have a gun.”

Huh. I know someone with a gun.

“Let me think on it. I'll call you later.”

“Thanks.” She glanced at the clock. “I'm going on
break. Talk to you later.”

Half hour down and not a piece of mail had stirred on Route Eight. I
needed a cigarette. I took a break.

THE POST OFFICE’S POLICY ON air conditioning in the workplace
is crank it in the winter and leave it off during the summer. It
makes us sturdy and impervious to the elements. It also makes me a
cranky bitch. When nine o'clock rolled around and Graciella dragged
her fat ass over to my case. I was well past the bitch phase.

She tapped me on the shoulder. I popped an earbud out and listened to
her say, “I need to see you in the office, Kelly.”

“Can't”

“Excuse me?”