I can’t miss my Soap Operas

Ring! Ring! You’ve GOT to be kidding me.  It’s not like Mr. Howell is so busy as the most overpaid phone operator in the history of mankind, but the phone literally reverberates throughout the entire building.  So, I know he has to hear it in the office with him.  Ring!  Son of a..

“Good Morning.  Howell, Howell, Keith and Knotch.  This is Dan….”  

“This is your local Google listing” The automated voice recorder responds.  CLICK!  I hang up in such a disgust that I actually am kind of apologetic to Carol (or so I’ve named her) the local Google voice robotic operator.  By this time, I simply MUST go see what the urgency is going on downstairs that Mr. Howell, the next in line for phone duty after Salina, is not answering the phone.  I KNOW I didn’t miss the rapture, because I’m post-positive Mr. Howell won’t beat me there. How judgmental of me to think that.  That spider sure got me in a crappy mood this morning–Sneaky little bastard!  I click, click, click my way down the hall, clearly notifying everyone below that Atila the Hun is vastly approaching.  Now, I already make Boom-Boom, Pow music when I walk–thanks to the wonderful helping of junk in my trunk inherited from my mom, accompanied by the stallion-like thick, strong thighs–thanks to my dad.  So, when I walk–and I’m on a mission and I’m on these aged, old hardwood floors, I sound like an earthquake’s a’coming.

When I reach the bottom step, I hear two male voices–giggling and cackling like two hens in a hen house.  I lean my head back and let out a disgusted sigh.  I knew I shouldn’t have come down here.  I claim to have the “gift” of foresight.  Why didn’t my “gift” foresee me staying upstairs in my office.  Since I’m downstairs, I’m already committed.  So, I paint on my smile, accessorize it with “Sunshine” charm and prance my way into the office.

“Good Morning, Ms. Amoureaux!”  The voice is a high-pitched, scratchy squeal of a voice and that of our beloved neighborhood mailman, and the only person still allowed to call me by my former, married name, Nathaniel Amos, Sr.  Last year, Mr. Amos lost his wife of 46 years to colon cancer.  He hasn’t completely been right ever since.  He is such a sweetheart.  I simply adore him.  Mr. Amos stands about 6’1″ tall.  He has almond brown skin, more-salt than pepper hair–all of which is on his face and none on his head.  I’m assuming the remainder of the hair that fell from his head, and missed his face, ultimately landed on his chest.  I gathered this because of the massive bouquet of whiskers peeking out from the two loosened, top buttons of his blue, freshly dry-cleaner crisp mail shirt.  He has about ten teeth, total.  This includes top AND bottom, and when he laughs, the world can see all ten at once.  I’m sure, with his charm, in his yester-years, he had no problem reeling in the ladies.

“Good Morning, Papa Amos.” I say as I reach down to give him a hug.  He is seated in his usual, rugged, green leather chair, next to the door in Mr. Howell’s office. The chair doesn’t really go with anything, but it was a gift from Ms. Howell–odd gift, but a gift nonetheless.  I have affectionately called Mr. Amos “Papa” every since I have known him–which is since I was a child.  He delivered the mail to my mom’s consignment store located in the square.

“And how are you, today?”  He sounds JUST like how Santa Clause would sound and has a twinkle in his eye that gleams with loneliness, love and sincerity all at once.

“Why, MAH-velous, of course!”  I sing back to him.

Papa Amos has our mail in his hand and, as I look over at the floor to the right of his chair, I notice that he also still has his big blue bag,  full of mail that is yet to be delivered for the day.  Our office is the first delivery on his daily route.  Every day, Mr. Amos spends, on average, a minimum of 45 minutes sitting, chatting and laughing it up with Mr. Howell.  Thus, drastically delaying the remainder of the mail delivery.  This does not include the lunch-time soap, line-up of The Young and the Restless and The Bold and the Beautiful.  I have repeatedly tried to get Papa Amos to set his DVR to record, but he says watching the DVR is like watching reruns and it’s not as real as watching the same show.  Plus, he says he is scared of going in to make a delivery, they have the soaps on their television and he sees part of it, spoiling the rest of the show and therefore, the entire episode.

“Papa. Any mail for me?”  I ask, knowing the answer.

“I ALWAYS have something for you, Suga.” I love it when he flirts, it’s just so cute and creepy all at the same time.  He hands me the mail and I begin to sort through the mail.  Mail sorting was once Mr. Howell’s duty.  However, after opening a property tax statement that mentioned a beach house in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, that Mr. Howell was not aware of, Ms. Howell placed mail assortment under my list of “things to do.”  I collect the mail and head out of Mr. Howell’s office and back up stairs.

Mr. Howell did not look at me the entire time I was in his office.  He knew I did not come down there for the mail.