Mailboy (Wattys 2015 Winner)

8. This is Considered as Kidnapping

 "Ain't nobody got time for 'dat!" My thoughts about waiting to update on Saturday. 

Zoey Willow Hunter

        "HOW's France treating you?” I said, pouring the pancake mix into a pan. It makes a sizzling noise and I place the phone in my hands rather than leaning by my shoulder and neck.

“Great! Just great, actually. The Eiffel tower is beautiful, Zoey,” said Harry Walters, his voice sounding far away.

He continued to tell me all about Paris and its French people. He told me about their pastries and how good they were, about how rude some of the people were, about the Louvre museum and how breathtaking it was to stand with his wife, Beatrice, on the highest floor in the Eiffel tower.

“How’s your new mail bud?”

I looked at the bandage on my hand and huffed. “Horrible. Just horrible, actually.”

“What happened? I got time.”

“No, you don’t. You told me a few seconds ago that Bea is waiting for you to come with her for dinner.”

He sighed. “Just tell me fast. Like when you have gossip and you’re telling me.”

“Fine. He’s an, excuse my swearing, an asshole. He is insensitive, rude and a plain old jerk. I hate him with every fiber in my body.”

“Zoey!”

“I said excuse my swearing!” I exclaimed.

“Talk to Julie Sanders about getting a new mail buddy, then.”

“I can’t. He’ll go to prison if he gets fired, I don’t want to be known as the merciless girl around here,” I said, struggling to flip the pancake in the air.

Normally, I am the best cook in this house. But talking on my cracked phone and doing something else at the same time had never been one of my biggest qualities. The pancake ended up flying high in the air and as I tried to catch it, it fell on my face.

“Zoey? Are you alive? Did you die?” shouted Walters.

I mumbled a series of curses as the pancake slid from my face onto the pan. Wiping my face with a towel, I continued talking to Walters.

“I’m here, I’m fine. Pancake flip gone wrong.”

“Good. Now, what are you going to do about the MAC?”

As I read in one of my favorite books, Tame, holy shit on toast.

The MAC stood for Mail Appreciation Convention, which happened every year. Ever since helping Walters became a regular thing, at about seven years old, I went with him every year. It was in the end of August, it lasted 4 days.

Either I’d have to go alone this year, or with he-who-will-not-be-named. No, not Voldemort. I meant the other he-devil.

“Can’t you come back in time?” I pleaded, knowing this was a lost cause.

I could see Walters shaking his head at me. “Sorry, hun, I’m retired. Plus, the Europe thing doesn’t end until September or even more. I don’t know.”

“Do I have to go with he-devil?”

“Mhm, he is your partner now. By convention rules, he has to go.”

“I won’t tell him about it. ‘Kay, bye Walters. Love you!” I hung up right after I heard him mumble back a goodbye.

I missed the old mailman so much.