Waiting for the postman

      Where is that mailman? Doesn't he know that the sanity of a writer depends on him? I count on getting the rejections of my poems, articles and stories at a regular time each day, but does he care?
      No, he doesn't. He is completely uncaring. Right now he's eating a doughnut or perhaps rescuing someone from a burning building or something else equally unimportant.
      I think I'll get my binoculars and climb up on the roof. I can see him as he passes the Mortons' place. No, I guess I won't. I had a hard time explaining what I was doing the last time I was on the roof and Mrs. Morton called the police.
      She thought I was a Peeping Tom as if I -- who sold a complete devotional guide to The Divine Messenger -- would stoop that low.
      Come to think of it, why would she care if I was peeping? Mr. Morton's at work. Why does she care if someone spies on her? Just what is she up to?
      Maybe the next time, I will peep -- merely as an objective writer, of course. I might even be able to sell an article to True Confessions.
      WHERE IS THAT MAILMAN? Doesn't he know that I expect my mail at 1:00 sharp?
      Maybe he does know. Perhaps he's evilly enjoying my suffering. He could be a failed writer who resents my obvious genius. Or some editor who was fired because he rejected my brilliant work and now seeks his nefarious revenge.
      Or maybe he's not coming. Maybe in the mail today was a huge check for my novel, and right now he is in some bank presenting false ID so that he can cash it and run off to Aruba, never to lift a finger again as natives cater to his every whim. Oh, there I go, thinking like a Republican again.
      Perhaps I should just stop looking for him. Maybe it's like a watched pot which doesn't boil. That is not true, though, because I have watched pots boil, which is a sad commentary on my social life. But the point is that I should just stop waiting for him. I should do something productive, like write another poem or clean my house or stalk Pamela Anderson.
      And then, when I was totally involved in cleaning my tub (What is that green stuff around the drain and why does it wink at me?) he would arrive with my mail.
      That, however, takes a better person than I want to be. WHERE IS HE?!!
      I would walk up the block and look for him, but I might miss him. Besides, that's exercise, and I've taken a vow against that. Getting hot and sweating and increasing your heart rate -- sounds like a heart attack to me.
      There he is! My hero, my knight in postal uniform. Wait, don't stop to talk to her! She doesn't need her insulin shipment! Oh, fine, now she has to sign for it. Here I am, eaten up with anxiety and anticipation, and he stops just to give her some life-saving medicine. I'd write a letter to the postmaster, but who knows if it would ever be delivered?
      Finally, I snatch my mail from his hand as he goes off muttering about some "loony" on his route. Just bills, mailers, a plea for money for the Republican presidential campaign -- must have the wrong address on that, more bills, a plea for money for former President Clinton’s presidential library -- definitely have the wrong address on that, two ads for Hairclub for Men (including a gift certificate for a hair fitting sent by 'someone who cares') and a three-month- old magazine which belongs to the woman next door. Why did he even bother?