Voronkov Michael: другие произведения.

A postman

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  A postman
  Here comes the postman. Profession as ancient as people having something to say to each other. The postman is fittingly old and at each door he slowly reaches inside of his bag as if he was in pain or had a call for jury duty to deliver or there was a ticking bomb inside. It must be arthritis. Each morning he takes two tablets of ibuprofen and drinks strong tea as black as nights were when he was a kid. His route is long, pay is miserable and he doesn"t get rainy days off. No wonder we all have something to say about lost letters but we would never write a complain - we don"t want to give any additional business to that heartless postal corporations that takes advantage of the old guy. Besides why make that well worn mail bag any heavier that it already looks?
  We do not complain but instead barely waive a hand with a cigarette from the balcony. The postmen never waives back as you would never expect any acknowledgement of your presence from any other prominent fixture of our neighborhood. Through the balcony door our significant others supply information already written on a cigarette pack, but we are not ready to leave our observation station. Maybe lighting another one is just a common sense before going to the fish market. Saturday is the day when in-laws come for dinner. Fish is expensive and necessary evil.
  When the smoking young woman finally leaves the balcony the whole south side of the building again opens windows. She is trying to fit in and the building is trying to deal with it. A noticeably humid bay air brings bustling of delivery vans punctuated by occasional seagulls and sounds of night workers leaving the bus from downtown. It confounds the dull and dry building air as the heating system is too generous despite of heating oil prices. It is certainly nice not to think of the inhaler in the front pocket and have a freedom to visit your own balcony. Is it too early to bring the plants out?
  The window on the third floor never opens though - as if no one knows that they smoke the weed inside. It must be nice to have parents to pray about the security deposit. The midterms are a stressful thing almost as much as a girlfriend back in Ohio deciding to switch to category "ex". So, the burned rubber smell leaches in to the stairway worrying older neighbors. It also makes shiba from the mansard tag on the leash extra hard when passing that floor. The dog is shampooed each Friday to add to her ginger colors extra volume. Despite of treats to stay still, shiba makes sure that the whole production is as big as washing a jeep.
  Before they invented smartphones all our little secrets were known only to a postman as he brought us Christmas cards from in-laws, coupons for dog"s shampoo and letters with checks from concerned parents. If he would never come back, I wonder what would hold the masonry of this building together?
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