The tension was palpable. A certain publication owed me $600 for written services rendered, but the check had failed to appear throughout November.
Emails followed and I was assured it would arrive this week. Yet each day went by and no mail; plus I needed it to make December’s rent.
So come Friday afternoon, yesterday, I found myself sitting on my front door’s steps tentatively awaiting the mail man, while I sipped a comforting cup of Yorkshire Tea.
His little post van toddled up the street delivering mail to the houses on the opposite side. At the top of the hill he turned around and started to come along servicing the side of the street on which I live.
I craned my neck. Two houses up he was parked. Then he moved toward the duplex I live in.
He drove straight by with a friendly wave.
Unprintable terms filled my mind.
He parked two houses on and got out to deliver a bevy of letters; I scurried toward him.
“Nothing for me?”
“Don’t think so,” he replied and got back in to his van to check. Three mail trays were perched by his seat. On top of one , my eyes caught sight of what seemed an envelope distinctly addressed to a certain James Jeffrey.
“How about that one?” I squeaked.
Check in hand, I cycled to the ATM to pay it in. Rent paid.
Margarita to celebrate, baby, and to toast the United States Postal Service that though it’s going through a rough patch gets the job done, which is good enough for me.