Some weeks ago I carefully encased a boxed bottle of Derek Jeter's new Avon fragrance for men, Driven, in three inches of bubble wrap. I twisted two good turns of black duct tape around the plastic and stuck it in a United States Postal Service priority mail box - one of the official ones with the self-stick tabs. I enclosed a hand-written letter and a small canvas covered in splashes of oil paint. An original Birdie piece of art, something I created for a friend, something my fingers made me press into the stiff canvas. A self portrait. A shock of messed hair, a wink of bloodshot eye outside a window, a spray of primary colors that signaled dissent, forgiveness, something not-quite-of-this-planet.
I waited in line at the Post Office in the weeks before Christmas. A woman with a heavy red knit sweater stood in front of me. She wore jingle bell earrings. I could hear them, barely see them under her thick Latina locks. She turned to me, looked at my one small box.
"I'm so sick of waiting. These clerks are so slow! I have an appointment in twenty minutes. I'm not going to be on time."
Her earrings snaggled her hair.
"Yeah, well, it's always like this at Christmas. I don't care."
I patted my package.
"Besides, this is an important box. I painted something for a friend. I have to get it to him right away, he has a party to attend."
I realized after I spoke that my words were strange, disconnected. My friend didn't know he was getting the best painting, the best visual expression, the best mix of color against paid medium I ever attempted. He didn't know he would receive this crazy surprise. I kept the secret, didn't divulge that I organized a box of Ultimate Fun in his behalf.
"I'm late. That's all I care about."
Earring Lady swung heavy hips away from me. I could see her psychically push the man before her, the woman before him, the twin teenagers at the head of the line carrying no less than sixteen boxes of love. I waited, paid, skipped home in the new snow. I can't explain the sheer joy of it, the importance it held in my heart, my heart so dark with family death, with my struggle to make ends meet.
This painting is going home. It's going home. He'll "get" it. He'll love it. Someone will see what it is I've done.
I kicked a small piece of red clay rock. It sailed across the street, hit the sidewalk with a satisfying THUD.
A few days ago my mailman handed me a notice. His gray hair stuck out from underneath his official baseball cap. He smiled, and I grinned back at his cute overbite.
"Birdie, you have to go to the Post Office and pick something up. They wouldn't give it to me to deliver."
I stuck the notice in my purse and did a little butt dance of joy. A package! A package! I have an exciting package! I tossed on my down jacket, the one with the underarm rip and broken zipper, and walked to the post office. I waited in line, and noted with a stifled giggle that Earring Lady stood in line, too, waited three people in front of me, waited with the same dour expression of temporal grief. I removed my cell phone from my left pants pocket and flipped it open, called a man on whom I had a big crush. His voice mail answered, and I left a message.
Call me. Call me.
I tried to sound sexy, sound alive, young, liquid, vapor, all the states of being I didn't carry. The postal clerk disrupted my dreams of sex along some wild west river.
"Can I help you?"
I handed him my orange notice. He glanced at it, then at me, as if he knew just what package this was.
"Hold on a moment."
He walked to the back room, walked slow and steady, heavy foot against floor. His official button-down shirt was wrinkled against his back, the crosshatch of a grasshopper's wing. He returned a moment later with my original box inside a clear plastic bag.
I looked at the box. Half of it sagged with the dried remnants of some kind of flood, smelled like a whorehouse, smelled like damn Avon.
"Sign here, please."
I offered my John Hancock and grabbed the box. A sturdy warning was taped to the plastic, telling me that I sent liquids without warning, that I caused deep olfactory trouble, that I broke a hundred codes of conduct, that I could be found, tried, hung as some kind of smelly beauty terrorist.
Today my house still smells like Derek Jeter, smells like buckets of stinky Avon. The secret painting hangs in my garage, airs, airs, airs, until some day in a week or two when its safe once more to travel to places I have never seen.
Last night I dreamed of Derek Jeter, dreamed of his dark hair against my stomach, his arms pressed into my back. I tapped him on one shoulder, broke his musky prayer, his body passion, in an urge of pure disgust.
"Geeze Derek, you really need a shower."
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Comments: 17
Hey, I was thinking about starting to send orders to my customers soon since I don't have as much time to dedicate... so tell me.. what was the problem sending the cologne? I have some of that (I took advantage of ordering a bunch) that we are using for gifts (hubby and I LOVE Driven!). So, why are you not allowed to send it through the mail? I was never aware of this.. maybe I should use UPS (although I'm not too happy with them right now since 2 of my packages were lost since they can't seem to tell the difference between a 6 and an 8).
Do you just have to tell them there is liquid or are you just not allowed at all?
Thanks hon.
Apparently, under today's rules, we are all terrorists until proven otherwise.
Tiffanie, oh boy, the reason I got busted was because the bottle broke, the neck of it snapped, and it rained Jeter on gawd knows how many letters, fliers, boxes, and postpeople! I think it's against regs to transport liquid, but of course I lied.
Dannielle, you said it! The letter I received was SO MEAN!!! I expected the fuzz to show up and take me down on my next Avon rounds!
but so much fun...
:)
L.
I had another dream about Derek last night. And THAT is enough about that!