Today I got a mystery package in the mail. Don't you just love to get mystery packages in the mail? Like when you haven't ordered anything? And you can't tell what it is, even by squeezing? Yeah. ME TOO!
I believe I've described EmBee, our round green metal-pipe mailbox who rests in an open-faced coffin of sorts, a long wooden box with cubbies full of other hicks' mailboxes, sunk into the ground three feet on cemented metal pipes (no relation to EmBee).
This afternoon, The Pony hopped out of T-Hoe and pranced over to EmBee. He yanked open her flat round mouth and reached his arm down her throat. It was like a roadside, overgrown game of Feely Meely. Out came a white plastic bag, rolled into the shape of EmBee's innards, a couple pieces of junk mail, and a mail order catalog. The Pony turned that package every which way but loose.
"What's that package?"
"I don't know. Something Genius sent, maybe?"
"You don't understand. Genius doesn't send US things. WE send Genius things."
"I don't get the address."
"WAIT! Is it even addressed to us?" For a moment I had forgotten the not-so-illustrious track record of the dead-mouse-smelling post office.
"I think so." By this time I was driving up our gravel road, with The Pony, my personal mail-sorter, investigating our package.
"What's the return address?"
"I don't know. ABC Capitol Drive. South Backroads."
"That's the main post office! What in the world would they be sending me? Let me feel it." Yes. I can drive up a gravel road and molest a mystery bag at the same time. Heavens to Betsy! The contents of that package defied description. But I'll describe them anyway. There were two longish lumps at both ends. And something very flat in the middle. That curved or bent if you tried to see how flexible it was. "I don't have a clue." We pulled into the garage. "Do you want to open it in here?"
"Not really. It's not MY package."
"It can't be the missing books that they're sending me. Unless they're gutted, and there's only two. But that return address does say, "Customer Service."
I hurried out of T-Hoe, out of the garage, past wiggly Juno with barely a pat pat here, not even enough time to take a bite of nose, and into the kitchen. I grabbed the shears and hacked that baby open.
It was my Walmart check order.
Oh, well. There's more than one way to fool the mailman.