And finally...
The Mailman Part IV: Dinner Part II
We take our seats at the table as Arlene pours us each a glass of water and a glass of wine. The Mailman sets our salads at our places and we begin to eat. They're... delicious. Like really, really delicious. There's this crazy-good dressing and mounds of creamy goat cheese and all sorts of fabulosity happening. (I may or may not have been watching Kimora: Life In The Fab Lane the entire time I've not been blogging.) I eat delightedly, both at the unexpected deliciousness and the excuse for silence. Until...
A cat approaches. The Mailman immediately begins a full-fledged conversation between himself, me and the cat. It's requiring a level of conscientiousness I usually lack to keep from dropping my fork.
"Pet me!" he purred/squeaked.
"I, uhh... Uh, I... eating. I'm... I'm eating. So... right. Yeah. Later," I stutter out.
"Daddy pets me while he's eating!" the Mailman's cat insisted.
I smiled awkwardly and shoved a giant forkful of lettuce into my mouth to avoid answering.
May I add here that my expertise on which fork to use for what originally came from the movie Titanic? Because it totally did. Thanks, Kathy Bates. Anyway. The main course arrived on the table and consisted of chicken in a wine/mushroom sauce, pasta in a basil pesto, rolls and a corn casserole. The Mailman loaded up everyone's plates, ignoring our insisting that we had plenty; "You need more than that!" he hollered, piling on the food. The dinner was equally delicious.
A few bites into the pasta, the Mailman's face went sour.
"It's too dry!" he hollered, and sprinted out to the kitchen, returning with a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. He then poured it all over his own serving, then moved on to our individual plates.
"Oh, no thank you-" my mother began, as he coated her plate in oil. I sat silently, accepting my greasy fate.
When he got to Arlene, she covered her plate with her hands and asserted "No thank you. I don't want it."
"You need it," the Mailman insisted, drizzling it over her hands a bit.
"Well, I'm not going to have it," she stated, calmly.
Very obviously disgruntled, but aware that he'd been bested, he shrugged and set the bottle down.
We sat at the table making small talk and things started to seem more... normal. After dinner, we cleared the plates and everything was ordinary. Until...
Arlene and I were put in charge of scraping plates. Background: Our local newspaper comes folded in a small, orange plastic bag. The bags generally aren't suitable for any other purpose, as they are designed specifically for protecting newspapers from rain and snow. The mailman handed us one of these orange bags and requested that we put the discarded food inside it. We looked at each other confusedly and fumbled through the task, awkwardly stretching the bag to dangerous angles and trying to avoid making a mess.
"Don't you have another bag, sweetheart?" Arlene asked.
"No," he answered. "Well... I do. But that's the one I want you to use."
Looking at me with a slight smirk, she remarked, just loudly enough, "It looks like we got the hardest job."
In a bold step outside my comfort zone, I... forced a smile and laughed awkwardly.
The Mailman then escorted us to the front door to teach us to use his security system. After giving us an unnecessarily thorough explanation of the process, he proceeded to punch in four numbers and open the door. I nodded, affirming my understanding. Arlene completely froze.
"I... don't think I'm going to get that. I... I don't know, it's a lot of technology. I don't understand it, I just don't! I won't be using it," she insisted.
"Well, you have to," he answered bluntly.
"Why don't you try it?" I offered, sympathetically. I then walked her through it a few more times, until at last she proclaimed
"Why that's easy!"
I smiled and turned to walk back to the room my mother was in, when he stopped me to show off his picture of Obama's inauguration. I expressed my genuine appreciation for it and it seemed to satisfy. I again started to leave the room when he stopped me again to ask who I had voted for. I told him proudly that I had traveled 23 hours to cast my vote for Obama and he smiled broadly and launched into a speech about the election. Arlene eventually interrupted him to tell a story of her own. I don't remember it verbatim, but it consisted of her car breaking down on the side of the road, her husband being unable to fix it and a crazy-seeming man pulling over abruptly and fixing it for them. She explained that he had terrified her, as he had essentially stormed their car with a giant toolbox and fixed it with no explanation. They weren't sure what he was doing, and considered his murdering them a real possibility until he finished and explained to them that Jesus had ordered him personally to drive up and down highways helping people with car troubles.
"You'd think Jesus would have mentioned that he ought have some decorum," I added, smirking snobbishly, and basking in my own wit. The Mailman and Arlene stared blankly at me in silence until I turned and led the way back to our mothers.
We then spent about 45 minutes sitting in the living room having a lively conversation, much of it centered around Jon Stewart and how wonderful he is. I finally spoke up, mentioning I had a paper due in the morning.
"What's it on?" the Mailman inquired.
"Eng-Psy-The History of Economics in the United States," I stuttered out, desperately. The room nodded and my mother and I returned to the car and drove away. About a minute and a half into the drive, we burst into hysterical laughter and didn't stop until we reached home.
