To the Artist's Page     To our home page

To Michael Largo's next piece

Mail Call

The squeak to the mailcart was his trademark. A chick-tick-tick, a chick-tick-tick. Didn't want to oil it. Wanted to let them know he was coming. Nothing worse than rolling into an office and catching somebody with their leg hiked up pulling the panties out of the crotch. Or with the compact mirror up close flaking at a buger. These were high-class ladies, a nearly all female firm of power executives.

All kinds of businesses they were doing, he knew, from their letters and from hearing parts of the negotiating and glimpses of the bright graphs on the computer screens. Used to not be all women, him being there for ten years come this June. Went through changes and cycles, but they always kept him, made every cut and disorganization of new managements, Melvin did.

It was his style, he knew, a simple smile, not too flashy, no teeth and a slight nod--not like you need a thank you kind of nod, just all in the natural sway when you picked up the letters in the box and replaced the banded bundles in the appropriate location each one like it put. That was the thing too, remembering where they preferred to have the mail set. In-boxes were a misnomer--because he knew other stuff was mostly put there. Some wanted it left at a corner of the desk, or next to the keyboard, or front and center on the blotter. The bigger, more important ones might have a little table near their office doors, with a house lamp on it or a statue. Had to know the proper side of the figurine to put the mail on, which depended if it was just the standard #10 envelopes or the big manillas. Melvin knew there was more particulars to office mail than was thought.

Chick-tick-tick, chick-tick-tick.

Monday was usually a high-volume day for incoming. Melvin had a stockpile of deliveries arranged in his cart. Had a skill to pyramiding and counter-balancing the short tight bundles against the more weighty, odd-size packages. A deftness his Mama praised him for the other day at the check-out, letting him arrange the groceries in the sack. He liked when his Ma said he did good, called him her big, handsome, baby boy. Melvin was forty-five years old. He unloaded his first run of deliveries, that morning, on the third floor, where five, very smartly dressed, power executive ladies were secretarying. No teeth smile, slight nod (just like his Ma had practiced with him years before)-- and he was off. Melvin recognized a new face and thought of going back to ask where she wanted her mail put. He scratched his head in the hallway, debating.

"Now that's scary," the new hire said.

"Melvin, he's harmless. He's been here forever."

"And he's single," another laughed.

"Yeah, that's the ticket to get my X jealous, start dating a six foot, three hundred pound nut-case."

The ladies laughed.

Melvin had backed-up his cart to the far side of the door. It didn't make any ticking sound in reverse. He didn't know why, but when he looked down he saw his hands gripping the chrome push-rail of the mailcart. It was going into that strong twisting reflex he used to get inflicted with when he was younger. Count backwards from ten, his Ma had told him, until the steam passes.

Ten, nine...those hands that wouldn't listen and kept squeezing at something got him sent to that home, away from his Ma for five years, where they didn't let him watch TV or eat potato chips. Eight, seven...he liked potato chips, the kind in the cylinders, where none of them were ever broken and each one was a perfect shape like a butterfly wing. Six, five...he didn't want them grabbing at things on their own again like when he couldn't catch that big orange butterfly, just kept flicking away, swaying here, jumping off there. Only thing Melvin wanted to do was hold it. Did want to latch onto Ma's hand when she went to lead him away, that same squeezing and twisting he saw his hands doing until he heard the cracking sounds. Four, three...thought Ma was screaming because he broke the fist of peanut shells she had in her hand, but she didn't have no peanuts. Didn't want to grip onto that police officer's stick he poked Melvin with, had no intention of breaking it in half, or turning the other policeman's arm back and away from the shoulder until it just hung. Two. Melvin wished those ladies wouldn't keep laughing. He was very thoughtful when it came to mail. He knew all the particulars to letter-size and textures of all styles and clasps of envelopes. The mail was his friends. He knew where to put it and how to pick it up. One...he knew how to nod and not show any teeth, but when they did, like he felt them starting to do then, people screamed.

Melvin couldn't see anything when people screamed. It made his hands get tighter. That new fancy dressed lady shouldn't have yelped like that one he came in. Just going to ask her where she liked it put, the incoming. Made his twisting hands transfer from the chrome push-rail to those shiny pearls she had there around her neck.

"Okay, sugar, let her go. It's all right, sugar, put her down," the lady who liked her mail near the keyboard said.

Melvin knew Ma didn't want him to have sugar. It made him antsy, she said. He kept hearing sugar, sugar, sugar. He thought he should start soon, trying to count backwards from ten again. Practice makes perfect, his Ma always said. You can do it if you try, Ma said. Just keep working at it until you get it right, Ma said.

Melvin wanted potato chips. He wanted to finish the mail and go home and watch TV. The lady his squeezing hand was lifting off the ground got heavier when she stopped scratching at his face and kicking him in the knees. He saw his other hand going for the one who kept wanting him to have sugar. Ma said sugar makes him antsy. The two friendly guards the new female power executives had standing in the lobby were here now. Melvin liked them and knew they would understand about potato chips in cylinders that looked liked butterflies.

It was heavy holding two ladies in the air. They shouldn't be shouting like that. Melvin thought he should try and count back from ten.

The guards wrote later in the reports that Melvin refused to respond to their warnings. He just kept yelling about butterflies when the rounds sent Melvin reeling down. He landed on his mailcart.

Chick-tick-tick. Chick- tick, tick.

To the top of this page