The Mailman Part III: Dinner, Part I
The drive to the mailman's house is mostly silent. My mother fills gaps in the twenty minutes with alleviating anecdotes about the scenery we pass. I sit paralyzed by dread. Anxiety I have managed to ignore for days begins slowly overwhelming me. My only consolation is that I know how fucking hilarious this is. I try to focus on that, but the immediacy of the situation makes it harder to swallow.
We pull in the driveway and approach the door, a bouquet of flowers in hand. Noting the sign that says the doorbell is broken, we knock. After a minute or so, the mailman appears. He is out of breath. And sweating. A lot. Like... a whole lot. I'm not sure if I'm communicating this to you adequately. This man is panting, beet red and accompanied by a fuck-ton of sweat. Sweat is literally pouring from him; his face does not glisten with a few mere beads. Sweat instead floods from his hairline like rain. He is really, really, really fucking sweaty.
Our first step into the house is shocking. The smell of cat hits like a freight train. Literally. We stumble in, gripping each other for support, struggling for oxygen. This house smells like you tied a cat around your face and wore it as a surgical mask. And I've told you that I don't fucking like cats, right? I mean, I know I said awhile back I wanted to adopt one but I was obviously out of my damn mind that day.
"Where's Jerome?" he bellows. (Jerome is my father's name.)
"He was caught up at work, unfortunately," my mother explains.
"OHHHHH NO!" The Mailman bellows. "My mother was really looking forward to meeting him."
We follow him to the kitchen, where his mother is sitting. We head into the living room together while he remains in the kitchen. My mother and I sit alone and look around.
"I've never seen so many cat figurines in my life," my mother whispers.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Seriously guys, there are hundreds. Every surface in the house is literally covered in cat figurines. They line windowsills, fill tables and cabinets and stand single file against walls. Porcelain, china, bronze, painted, wire sculptured, stuffed animals, figurines and everything in between. Everywhere you look is another multitude of cat figurines to digest.
Even Christmas Cat thinks The Mailman is craycray.
After a few moments of silence, The Mailman's mother joins us, accompanied by the other guest: Arlene. Arlene is a seventy year old resident of our town who will be caring for the cats the first week The Mailman + his mother are gone; I'll be taking the second. We sit together and make surprisingly pleasant conversation. Arlene and The Mailman's Mother are as socially graceful as my mother and they maintain an impressive fluidity, despite my random, ill-timed and awkward interjections.
The Mailman's Mother informs us that she knew my paternal grandfather's family; all four of his siblings, in fact, though she had never met my grandfather himself.
"I knew I'd be able to tell as soon as I saw him," she says, of my absent father, on whether or not he was descended of the family she had known. "They all had very characteristic features... those prominent blue eyes," she explains, slowly.
"It's funny, all five of my sisters have my dad's blue eyes, but I have my mom's eyes," I blurt out, weirdly, forcing a laugh. The room smiles and nods before moving on to a new topic, and I sit stewing in shame for having spoken at all.
At this point, The Mailman rushes out of the kitchen to join us. He stands in the middle of us, wiping sweat on his apron, huffing and puffing. He introduces me to two of his four cats, telling me their names. I smile uncomfortably and say hello to them. What happens next nearly knocks me to the floor.
"I'm a Princess," The Mailman rasps in a high-pitched feminine voice. "I think I can do whaaaaateeevvvverrr I want!"
"Yes, of course you are. You're so beautiful and spoiled!" he coos back to the cat in motherese. "Daddy loooves you soooo much!"
"Hey, what about me?!" he cackles in a similar but decidedly more masculine voice. "I'm a Prince! Feed me already! I love to be pet! I'm so spoiled and wonderful!"
"Of course you are," he answers back, nuzzling the cat.
I observe in horrified silence. I lack the ability to react whatsoever. It takes every ounce of strength not to dissolve into a full-scale emotional breakdown. Fortunately, the need for a response is eliminated by The Mailman yelling.
"OH NO!" he hollers, sprinting full speed back into the kitchen.
His mother then resumes the conversation and goes on to tell us about her recent hip surgery, but it's hard to concentrate with the sounds I'm hearing from the kitchen.
"GODDAMNIT DON'T BE BURNED, OH SHIT, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, WHAT THE HELL OH NO OH GODDAMNIT PLEASE NO, DAMN IT, GODDAMN, DON'T BURN, NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!"
The shouting and swearing is accompanied by the deafening sounds of pans crashing and clanging. "I can't laugh, I can't laugh, this isn't funny, I'm not allowed to laugh, my Mom will be mortified if I laugh right now, it would be so inappropriate and unacceptable and rude!" I mentally scold myself. After a few minutes of this, he returns to the living room.
"Was something burning?" his mother asks, calmly.
"Yes. but it was just a little bit of garlic. I started it over," he explains.
"Can I help you with something?" Arlene offers.
"Well, I would certainly like some company," he answers, heading back into the kitchen.
She totally ignores this.
That exchange is repeated a dozen times before dinner is served, and she ignores his request every. single. time.
He makes multiple trips between the kitchen and living room, each time complaining that his pants are falling off. Arlene suggests a belt or suspenders every time, and he brushes off the solutions, choosing instead to continue with complaints.
Finally, he announces we should move to the dining room table, as salads are about to be served.
