Bad Val! Bad Val! Whatcha Gonna Do When They Don't Come For You?

It's just my conspiracy theory, currently. I have only circumstantial evidence, and no positive identification. All I can do is describe the perp to a police sketch artist. They still have those, don't they? But I'm getting ahead of myself.

As you recall, I've been having terrible service from package delivery drivers. The most recent was the package left on a neighbor's back porch. I THINK I KNOW WHO DID IT!

When I came home from town Wednesday, there was a traffic jam at the turn-in to our gravel road. I waited beside Mailbox Row to make my left. An oncoming car crossed the bridge, but I still had to wait. There was a black pickup truck parked on the wrong side of our gravel road. On the left, where I usually park (facing the right direction) to get the mail. I had room to go past him, but another vehicle came barrelling down the gravel, dust flying.

I'm always on the lookout for ne'er-do-wells, of which I was sure this was one. I figured it was someone taking a shortcut through our enclave, due to bridge construction over by the other entrance to our compound. People do that a lot, even without the blacktop road over there closed. They dump trash, and throw gravel around while fishtailing in their speed.

Anyhoo... this was a brown car, shaped like an Acadia. I don't pay much attention to make and model. There was a sticker on the side. A magnetic square, such as real estate agents sometimes use. The car slid to a stop, the driver waiting for me to turn in, I guess. Which was difficult with him sitting in the middle of the road, next to that black truck. He didn't have a signal on. I assumed he was pulling out and going right, up the hill, in the direction from whence I'd come. Maybe T-Hoe was in the way of his turn. What with the truck taking up room.

 

I saw a few letters on the magnetic sign. I though it was a US, and fleetingly gave a mental nod. "Oh. It's the Post Office." Which was disconcerting, because the post office doesn't deliver to individual houses out here, despite those two different young temp employees this summer in the mail JEEP, asking me directions to specific houses.

I glanced at the driver, to see which variety of maniac he might be. A description won't do him justice. Let's just say he looked like if Jonah Hill and Marty Feldman had a baby. His face was all chubby Jonah Hill, but his eyes were crazy Marty Feldman. They were rolling around and popping out of his head. Like he was running from something, or in a terrible hurry. Or just a dude with weird eyes and curly hair.

My deduction was: "Here's one that's for sure going postal!"

As I passed by, that car pulled out and turned left, going over the bridge, in the direction I'd been headed before my turn. Huh. A signal could have solved this logjam.

There are so many weirdos around here, I really didn't give Crazy Eyeballs a second thought. Until Thursday, when I was trying to astrally project and find where my parcel was delivered. I had gone back to the front window, where I sit at HIPPIE on a TV tray. It makes a good desk. Though tiny. My plan was to look up a phone number for UPS, to see if they could track down that driver while he was still on the route, and make him bring my package to the right address. Yes. I know that was folly.

A car went down our gravel road. Right to left. From the direction past our house, heading out towards the mailbox/creek area. It was a brown Acadia-shaped car, with a square magnetic sign on the side.

WAIT A MINUTE! That car didn't belong out here. But it was familiar. THE SPEEDER! The Post Office car! Except the magnetic sign might have said UPS. Not USPS.

I think that's the guy who delivered my package to the wrong house! Crazy Eyeballs!

Even if I'm right, there's nothing I can do about it. Other than shake my fist menacingly at him if we pass on the road again. I might not even do that. Because he has Crazy Eyeballs.