“I don’t think so,” Mike said. “I don’t think we’ve had that yet.”
“In my day you always did,” the postman said. “We would all stand up and say the same thing about indivisible. Blah blah the state of this country. Blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, Mike. Blah blah blah blah business addresses, or blah blah blah private homes.”
Mike wasn’t listening, except perhaps a little bit. His father’s voice was like the dull sound of the sea. “What?” he said. “What’s private homes?”
“You know what private is,” the postman said, slipping some mail into the slot. “You can’t go in unless you ring the doorbell and someone lets you in.”
“Like vampires,” Mike said. He was going through a thing about vampires.
“Not like vampires,” the postman said. “You’re not listening, Mike. We’ve talked about this. We hope this guy will let us come in and—”
“What’s the best part of your job?” Mike asked. This was part of the report he had to write, which would be read halfheartedly by his teacher as she shared a bottle of chianti with her spouse whom she loved.
“I’ve been saying,” the postman said irritably, pointing to the next house. “Pay attention. The fellow at 1602 is the best part. You’re gonna meet him. You’re gonna love him. He’s a great fellow. Handsome, and pretty tall, and he’s made something of himself. I can’t wait to see him again.”
“A guy? That’s the best part?” Mike asked.
“Yeah it’s the best part,” the postman said, and stepped up to 1602. The house looked like any other house, home to somebody, not to you. It had paint on the outside of it, and windows on the walls. Mike had scarcely any curiosity about it at all. “We’re all together on this, Mike. We’re all on the same page. You’re gonna love him. I love him. I love him like a root beer float. And you’re gonna love him like saltwater taffy.”
Mike, like a bird, had headed south once. He had walked down the boardwalk, where the taffy is made in small buildings and shops. The sea had nudged his feet and it had been very hot and sweaty outside. He had read the signs, everything they put up for him to read, but still he was unprepared for the man who opened the door. Love can smack you like a seagull, and pour all over your feet like junk mail. You can’t be ready for such a thing any more than saltwater taffy gets you ready for the ocean, or Bring Your Child to Work Day prepares you for the lonely times of going to work. But Mike wasn’t going to have any lonely times. Not lately, or not in the immediate future. No way, with a door opening like this one.
“Can I help you?” the fellow said, and Mike just loved him. Why wouldn’t you? Mike loved this fellow on the spot, like his father said, particularly his necktie and the way that he grasped his hair with one hand, distractedly, as he looked out at his postman. Love flowed through Mike and stuck to the roof of his mouth like a sticky sticky sweet, this fellow from 1602, this man who suddenly showed up on the route and opened the door.
“Hello!” the postman said. “Hello! This is my son. I wanted him to meet you and he did too.”
“Um, hello,” the fellow said.
“We both totally think you’re a great guy,” the postman said. “We both love you. We just want to come in for a minute.”
“It’s not really,” the fellow said. “It’s not really a good time.”
“Just for a minute,” the postman insisted, and Mike nodded in agreement. “I have to continue my route because everybody wants their mail, but if we could just come in for a minute, so my son here could get to know you. It’s Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. Be a sport, will you be a sport?”
“I guess so,” the fellow said, and gave them the benefit of the doubt with an open door. The postman held the fellow’s packet of mail out and then flipped it back toward himself and his son.
“I won’t give you your mail,” the postman said playfully, “until you let us in for a few minutes.”
“I already said okay,” the fellow said sharply, and Mike flushed a bit. This is love, and the trouble with it: it can make you embarrassed. Love is really liking someone a whole lot and not wanting to screw that up. Everybody’s chewed this over. This unites us, this part of love. Mike walked through the door into 1602 and just beamed at this fellow, all smiley with admiration and liking him a lot.
“Make yourselves at home I guess,” the fellow said, and just past the door was a sort of living room kitchen combo where Mike could see the fellow cooked and ate and sat on a sofa and put his feet up on a table with magazines. Mike didn’t care which ones the fellow subscribed to, because Mike subscribed to the fellow. “I was just going to excuse myself,” the fellow said, adorably, “when the doorbell rang.”
“Okeydokey,” the postman said and led his son into the room to sit. The fellow at 1602 left, and the two visitors suddenly realized there was a woman in the room with them who had been concealed by a floor lamp.
“Hello,” the woman said. Her name was Muriel.
“Oh my,” the postman said, half-rising from the sofa. “I didn’t realize he already had company.”
“Yes,” Muriel said. “We’re having something of a reunion, actually.”
“Reunion?” the postman said.
“Here,” the woman said, and reached over to the pile of magazines. On top was some mail including an opened envelope.
“Oh, I couldn’t!” the postman said. “Not someone else’s mail. Put that in your report, Mike. Don’t read other people’s mail. Your teacher will love that.”
“It’s okay,” Muriel said, handing it over. “Read it.”
The fellow at 1602 washed his face more than necessary, as we all do. First Muriel, now the postman and his son. He looked at his wet face in the bathroom mirror. Why was this happening? Why love, today? But nobody ever answers that one, guy. He reached for a towel as the doorbell rang again.
Dear Joe,
I have reason to believe that you are my baby and that I am your real mother. When I was 161/2 or 17 I got pregnant and I gave the baby to your parents and said they should never tell anybody. They didn’t. You were my little boy, made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I named you Joe for obvious reasons, and as the years went on I was very lonely so I hired two detectives to find you, the source of my regret. I don’t want money or anything. I’m a normal person like everybody else and I just want to get to know you because you are my baby, baby.
Love,
Muriel, your real mother
“Sooo,” the postman said, handing the letter back. “The guy’s name is Joe.”
“I like the name Joe,” Mike said.
“Who doesn’t?” the postman said. “And you’re Muriel? Well, all I have to say to you, Muriel, is congratulations.”
“Excuse me,” the fellow said, walking through the room. “I have to answer the doorbell.” The fellow kept walking, amazed at his own decision to pretend he hadn’t heard what they were talking about. It wasn’t true, in any case. The fellow at 1602 looked exactly like his father and overall the letter was suspect. Last week he had received a letter on the same stationery telling him he had won a prize and it was signed “Muriel, your prize deputy.” He hadn’t answered that one, and now he was thinking both letters were limp ruses to get into the house. But now Muriel was in the house. She was in the house and all she wanted to do was sit on his sofa and get to know him. Where did he work? Where did he find that tie? Did he grow up happy with his fake parents? This is love, the plain truth once you get inside. Like a peacock, we all show off with the plumage. Come in and watch us make it! But then it’s just the same story, sugar and spice all spun up. We’re all mostly salt water. Love is candy from a stranger, but it’s candy you’ve had before and it probably won’t kill you.
“It’s just hitting me,” the postman said as soon as the fellow was out of the room, “that the name Joe is never on the envelopes I give this guy.”
“I have no idea if his name is Joe,” Muriel confided with a whisper. “I made up the whole letter
, just about. I just love this guy. I love him. I love him and I want to get to know him.”
“I know,” the postman said. “Isn’t he a peach?”
“I love him,” Mike said, “and I’ve only known him for a few minutes.”
“That’s how it goes,” the postman said. “It’s like a miracle. You’re lucky it was Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. Let’s look at his books.”
The three lovers shared a look and got a case of the giggles. There was no competition among them but otherwise there was nothing unusual. The books too were nothing unusual: something by Alice Walker, for instance, a very popular author, and several books on things that interested him. They say love is in the details, that it’s the little things that make a person special, but then why are the love songs so alike? It’s your smile, it’s your eyes, I love your eyes and your smile. I like to go to the beach with you, but really the beach is so interesting and pretty that you could take anyone to the beach. The girl singing that song “Please Mr. Postman” just wants a letter from some fellow, and you just make up who the guy is. You’re encouraged to do so, to draw up the details that bring you to love him, so why shouldn’t you go to his house, where the details live? That’s what the guy who delivers the organic box told himself, as he turned off the same song on the radio and stopped his truck at 1602 and rang the doorbell for obvious reasons.
“Just for a minute,” the fellow at 1602 said with a sigh. “I already have three people here.”
“I didn’t want to insist,” said the guy who delivers the organic box. He was holding a box of heavy cardboard, filled with organic fruits and vegetables and other products. The gentle hump of a mango, the perky celery, and a plastic container of yogurt were peeking out of the top of the box like they wanted to be with this guy, just lay eyes on him for a few moments, his pretty eyes. “It’s just that I think you’re totally super and I want to get to know you.”
“Get in line,” the postman said, and nearly everybody laughed.
“Do you guys love him too?” the delivery guy said, putting the box on the counter.
“Hell yeah,” Muriel said. “I love this fellow like he’s my own baby.”
“I like his necktie,” Mike said.
“We’re all on the same page, clearly,” the postman said, putting a book back where it belonged.
“I’ve been watching this guy for like six months,” said the fellow who delivers the organic box, pointing to the fellow at 1602 with an eager open palm. “Ever since I got on this delivery route. He’s a terrific guy.”
“I love him,” the postman said and winked at Muriel.
“Who doesn’t?” the delivery guy said. “He’s the rat’s pajamas.”
“It’s cat,” Mike said. His teacher’s unit on idiomatic expressions had been almost a complete waste of time.
“I knew it was some animal who had the pajamas,” said the fellow who delivers the organic box. “Cat. I’ll have to remember that. Now, where do you keep your blender?”
“Call him Joe,” Muriel said. “It’s a name I made up for him, a term of endearment. Try it.”
“Where’s the blender, Joe?” the delivery guy tried, but he’d already found it, in a cupboard. There are only a handful of places where a blender is kept. If you live with someone romantically, for years even, you could switch to a new person and find their blender within moments.
“Look,” the fellow finally said, and everyone looked. He fussed with his hair in that way people love and gave everyone a little smile like he didn’t really mean it. “All this is very strange for me.”
“Like you’re walking on air?” Mike asked.
“No,” the fellow said. “Another kind of strange.”
“It can’t be any kind of strange,” said the guy who delivers the organic box. “You asked for it.”
“I did not ask for it,” the fellow said.
“Sure you did,” the guy said. “Every week I deliver organic food right here to this house. Look, we have tomatoes, mangoes, beautiful kale, homemade salsa, wild clover honey, celery and fennel and potatoes, and a thing of organic yogurt from the dairy down the highway. Look at all the flavors here. I bring you them because you want to eat them. You signed up for it, Joe.”
“And I give you your mail every day,” the postman said, “except Sundays and holidays. Why shouldn’t I think you’re terrific, and stop by to tell you so?”
“I’m putting you in my report,” Mike said. “It’s for school.”
“That’s not the same thing,” the fellow said.
“The hell it isn’t,” Muriel said. “I love you like my own son and you don’t want me in your house?”
“Yeah, it’s my house,” the fellow said. “You all seem like nice people, but I’m going to ask you to get out of it. Get out of my house.”
“Don’t be silly,” the fellow who delivers the organic box said. “I’m making you a mango lassi.”
“You’d better make a pitcher,” the postman said, craning to look out the window. “We got someone else coming up the front steps.”
“What the—” the fellow said, but the doorbell rang and he had to go answer it. Once more, this is love: it rings and you open up unless it looks like an ax murderer.
“Maybe it’s his wife,” Muriel said. “I’d love to meet her.”
“Who wouldn’t?” the delivery guy said. “I bet I’d love her too. I’m certain of it, in fact. This is going to be delicious. They drink these in India, like at a wedding or if they’re feasting. Mangoes, yogurt, a little lime juice if I can find it. I found it!”
“My my,” said the first of the three women who walked into the room. It wasn’t his wife. None of them were. All of the women were somewhat old and they lived in the neighborhood. “What a lovely room!” she said. “I love how it flows from the kitchen to the living area, and I love you!”
“I knew he would have a fantastic room,” said one of the other women, “because he is a fantastic person.”
“Come in, come in,” the postman said. “The fellow who delivers the organic box is making us all a pitcher of Indian drinks. Stay for a moment and we’ll drink a toast—to Joe!”
“What are you adding, clover honey?” one of the women asked, looking over at the blender. “It looks like this is going to be very unusual.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a somewhat unusual situation,” Muriel said.
“I for one am glad,” said one of the older women, and perhaps because of her age the fellow who delivers the organic box turned off the blender and everyone gave her the floor. “I had a story I was going to tell,” she said. “I was going to say that I had a rare disease of some sort and I needed comfort. Or that I was anxious for my mail and that I saw the postman go into this house and not come out and so I couldn’t wait anymore or I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. But I’m not anxious for my mail. I’m healthy as a donkey, and no one writes me, just companies hungry for money. Dear Valued Customer, they say, but I know better. Who gets real mail nowadays?”
“It’s not donkey,” said the fellow at 1602. “It’s horse.”
“Joe gets real mail,” Muriel said, and lifted her letter from the table. “I wrote him a real letter.”
“Then read it to me,” the woman said. “Or make Joe read it. Tell me a story to pass my time. I find you interesting, Joe, so nearly everything you say will be interesting too. I love you. I could say I’m lonely but that’s not the only reason. So many days you passed me by, see the tears standing in my eyes. You didn’t stop to make me feel better by leaving me a card or a letter. Mister Postman, look and see if there’s a letter in your bag for me.”
“I hate that song,” said the fellow, but let’s be honest: that song is an enormous hit. It’s most certainly part of a hit parade, and everyone loves a parade. Joe found, to his mild amazement, that he was having trouble not singing along with the love song that was now in the air. “I want you all to leave,” Joe said, but he was still adorable to the whole
crowd. “This is private property and you’re in flagrant disregard.”
“Flagrant disregard, get him,” Muriel said, or clucked. “Let your mother tell you something, Joe.”
“I don’t want you to tell me anything,” Joe said. “I’m not—I’m not the terrific guy you keep telling me about. I’m not made of sugar and spice and everything nice. I’m made of rats and snails and puppy-dog tails. I lie sometimes. I have broken people’s hearts. I’m looking for love, I’ll admit that, but now that it’s here in abundance, I’m afraid of commitment and I want you, please, to leave me.”
“It’s not rats,” Mike said, and bit his lip.
“Now look,” said the postman. “You’ve upset my kid.”
“Why are you here?” the fellow from 1602 said.
The postman threw the packet of the fellow’s mail on top of his other mail on the table in the guy’s house. “I’ll try to explain,” he said, and then he tried to explain the idea that’s here. It’s an idea we’re more or less stuck with. Isn’t love a sharing? Isn’t it opening your bag of sweets and passing it around, or whipping something up out of groceries you brought to someone else’s house? And if it’s a sharing, then you have to share it. Love makes the world go round, the hit songs collectively tell us, and the world is full of people you don’t know and might as well be nice to because they won’t leave. Some of the people you won’t like, but every day we wait for the postman and he hardly ever brings something good. Let us love you, the postman was trying to say, this time let everyone love you, but this kind of talk wasn’t really his style, so he just said, “We love you, guy. It’s your eyes and your smile and your necktie and shoes. You are terrific and we love you, and you’re a sport, so be a sport. Take a mango lassi and drink with us.” For in the hubbub of things the fellow who delivers the organic box had easily found glasses for eight. They were fancy glasses, not ones the fellow used often due to their delicacy, but why not use them now, even if they break? Why not fill them while they last?
“We love you, man,” the postman said, and held out a glass like you’d hold out a bag of something made by the sea. We all want what’s in the bag. You’d have to be crazy not to take some. Have you ever had a mango lassi? Thick down the throat, crazy orange, delicious and happy if you like that sort of thing? What else can a fellow do, in the grip of mango and yogurt and fruit, spun up into a substance just like love? It is love. It’s a part of it.
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