3 Letters

28 Nov

Dear Mr. Postman,

You’re kind of a gray, weasel-y man, and I’m never quite sure what you’re saying to me, but I do enjoy our visits.

Like last week when you were shuffling my papers around and saying, “Howmanyhowmanyhowmanysheetsgoingoneway, whichwaythesesheetsgoing?”

I was pretty sure I was at an auction, with you as my highly effective if under-articulate and very-specialized auctioneer (“stamps, stamps for the mail, get your stamps”).

“Hey, you wanna some runaround money?” you asked me.
“Excuse me?” I asked you.
Cash back. The post office now offers cash back.

“Go get ‘em tiger!” you say.
“You too! …I mean, have a good day?” I say.




Dear Lady,

So, you are standing behind me in the coffeeshop, and you are talking to your friend who you are visiting from out of town. And you are telling him this story:

So it’s 4:30 in the morning, I’m plastered, and yelling at Jerry in the middle of the street in downtown Manhattan.  I kept yelling at him that he didn’t love me, and why didn’t he love me, and all of a sudden this homeless man wanders over and goes,

hey lady! would he be standing here fighting with you at 4:30 in the morning if he didn’t love you?

I shut up.  And the homeless guy looks at Jerry and says, Can I have five bucks?

… your friend says, “I think he deserved it, for that good deed.”
And you say, “Yeah, probably. Jerry just started yelling at him until the guy backed away.”

First Thought: The homeless guy definitely deserved five bucks, and I don’t think much of Jerry for refusing to give it to him. But he was probably plastered too.

Second Thought: Somebody overheard me telling this story as he walked in, and asked if I was talking about an episode of Seinfeld. I could have been, yeah?

Third Thought: I mean, I know the temptation to fight when you’re plastered at 4:30 in the morning is strong, and I know that sometimes it’s hard to believe that he loves you…but girls. Ladies. Gentlewomen of this world. Oh my. We should stop starting that fight. Though I like doing almost anything in the middle of the street.

Fourth Thought: Who names their kid Jerry these days?


Dear Barista,

A customer asked you what was on your finger.

“Oh, this?” you said. You looked at your index finger, pinky-side. (Hold your hand up, it’ll make sense).

There was a curvy black line on it. “It’s a tattoo,” you said.

“A tattoo?” the customer asked. A tattoo? I thought.

You held your finger up to your top lip. Yep—a perfect handlebar moustache.

You wiggled your finger a little, and the moustache dipped and danced.

The coolest tattoo in the world.

“I got tired of always drawing it on,” you said with a shrug.




One Response to “3 Letters”


  1. Dear Mr. Postman (again) « Dear Mr. Postman - 10 December 2008

    […] Dear Mr. Postman (again) By margaretmichelle Dear Mr. Postman (again), […]

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