It's Only Time
Mr. Delivery Man dropped twelve boxes of product at my door this afternoon. I'm taking a short break from sorting, bagging, invoicing, stamping new books, gotta get it done! Get it done! I leave for the east in the morning, and my bag isn't packed and I don't have clean underwear. I dumped spaghetti-o's into the microwave for dinner. They aren't half bad with a bottle of beer. I hear my boys laughing, rolling, laughing, see them fly down the street in their homemade go-cart past those two little blonde girls who watch too much television.
A few days ago I stuffed my kilt with samples and hiked through the neighborhoods I know better than any other resident. I know the small yellow cat who peers out from the datura bush, the way one ear turns when he hears me coming. I know the broken tiles in every wall, the one cushy Pakistani woman who cooks garlic and cumin at midday, how many fishtail palm trees frame the lagoon, which neighbors get electric company disconnect notices two weeks after the bills are due. I know all this stuff, and no one knows I know it. I'm the secret neighborhood historian.
I walked up the big hill to the fancy street where every house has an ocean view. I remember when this hill hurt my legs, when the backpack pulled my shoulders from my body, but now I almost run to the top, I can't feel those books against my back.
I did something bold and unusual at the home on top of this hill. I did something a little crazy. I took one of those new slick dark Avon Men's Brochures and I stuffed a note inside, between the first two pages. Hello, says my note. Hello! I like telling stories about my Avon Life. I have so many stories to tell. I like to hear stories too. Maybe we can swap stories and drink tea at that French cafe with the fire pits that never stay lit in the ocean breeze. Doesn't that sound like fun? I promise not to throw samples at you! I signed the note with a simple "Birdie" and drew a smiley face beneath my name. It looked naked, alone, so I colored in the pad of my thumb with that black gel ink pen and left a thumbprint next to the face.
I grabbed the iron handle of the gate in front of me and yanked but it wouldn't budge. Locked. So I did what any other strong Avon Lady should do. I scaled the fence, scraped legs against iron spiked rods, fell to the ground on the other side in a tumble, still grasping that Men's Brochure. I took the pen out of my kilt pocket and added a postscript to my note. P.S. Please leave gate unlocked for unfortunate Avon Ladies, and should you accept the invitation herein, please do not comment on scraped up legs.
6:44:23 PM 
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