Ten days ago, Hick had a load of gravel delivered for the road down by the mailboxes. The guy is one of his not-real-close cronies. He brought the gravel the same day ordered. Told Hick just to mail him a check. That's what cronies do. Provide the service, trust that they'll be paid later.
Of course Hick is not a check-writer. Nor an envelope-addresser. That's the job of his secretary, Val.
Imagine the secretary's surprise when Hick picked up the mail Saturday, and her meticulously-addressed envelope was in it, RETURN TO SENDER, NO SUCH NUMBER.
"I guess you better call your buddy and tell him why he hasn't been paid for the gravel yet!"
"What do you mean?"
"Didn't you see that envelope? The one you told me to mail to the gravel guy?"
"WHAT? That's what that is? Well. No wonder. You didn't put no number on the address."
"I put EXACTLY what you told me to put!"
"I told you to put 1234 STREET NAME. Not just STREET NAME. No wonder they couldn't deliver it."
"I put EXACTLY what you sent me in that text. In fact, I asked you before mailing it if you were sure of the address. And you said yes."
"I gave you the number."
"Here it is on my phone. Buddy Budski. STREET NAME. Town, State, Zip Code."
"No, I gave you the 1234."
"Phone don't lie! Right here it is."
Hick spent ten minutes scrolling through his phone, to prove me wrong. Unfortunately, he couldn't fabricate an old text with the 1234 in it.
"Huh. Well. I'm sure I sent it to you. But they should have been able to deliver it like that. It's a rural route."
"So you think every mailman knows every resident just by the street name? And can tell which order to put their mail in to deliver to all those people on that street! No way.
"I'll call him."
Buddy Budski finally sent Hick a text. "Just re-mail it."
Hick brought the envelope back to me. "Just send it again."
No number address written on it. I've got to check my phone for a text. Buddy Budski might wish he'd taken Hick's offer to meet him at the place and time of his choice, and hand-deliver that check.