Monday, July 18, 2016

The Kid on the Plane

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Have you flown lately?
Not a lot of fun. I’m an average-sized guy, and there isn’t enough room in that seat for me; I can’t imagine what it’s like for any plus-sized person to sit on a plane, whether they be taller or wider than the norm. I always like to have my computer bag handy, so I can read or write, and that necessitates sliding it into the storage space under the seat in front of me. Since the seat in front of me is only about one molecule-width away from touching my knees, this is always an exercise in grunting and straining and reaching blindly—picture someone going for something in the back row of the salad bar at Wendy’s, face turned sideways, cheek pressed to the slightly sticky sneeze guard, and making hopeful sounds as their tongs snap-snap-snap a half inch away from that delicious-looking cherry tomato. It’s like that, but with complimentary peanuts.
Little folks have it all over us on a plane. I once sat next to a woman (I was in the center seat, she had the window) who, after watching me grunt, strain, and reach blindly for a while, bent down to remove the boots she was wearing (it was wintertime), slide into some sort of slipperlike shoes, pull a mat out from beneath the seat in front of her, and run through her whole yoga routine shortly after takeoff. Meanwhile I was trying to type with my Chromebook pressed tight against my belly (the man in front of me had reclined his seat) and even with my elbows pressing back into my own seat my fingers were out beyond the keyboard. I was reduced to pecking at the keys with my thumbs, while beside me the tiny woman cheerfully shifted from pose to pose.
T-h-e
Extended triangle.
b-o-y
Twisting triangle.
l-o-o-k-e-d
Bow.
t-o-w-a-r-d
Balancing stick.
I quit, grunted and strained to put the Chromebook away, then turned as far from the woman as I could manage in my ridiculously close seat and actively tried (with moderate success, I might add) to fart for the rest of the flight.
But I digress. My point is that flying isn’t usually a lot of fun—and that brings me to my last flight out of Logan International, on my way to Colorado last month.
There were only center seats left as I walked hopefully down the aisle, and I was looking for two smaller-than-average people to wedge myself between. I spotted a promising-looking spot with a woman in the window seat (is it misogynistic to point out that y’all are, on average, smaller than us? Too bad.) and a fairly skinny youth of around seventeen or eighteen sitting on the aisle.
“Is this seat taken?” I said.
“Oh, no. Here you go,” said the boy, and he promptly pulled his bag from beneath the seat in front of him and slid over into the center seat, giving me the aisle.
Holy shit, I thought in dismay. I’ve gotten so old polite kids are giving up seats for me!
Quickly following that thought was the delightful realization that I would have elbow room on this flight, which is almost as good as having elbows room, which we all of us have until we sit on a plane. I thanked him—to the point of embarrassing myself, I think—and sat, and as soon as we were through takeoff I pulled out the Chromebook and got to work. The Chromebook was somewhat sideways on the tray, and I was twisted a bit awkwardly in my seat, but it was gloriously manageable, and I banged away. I had edited one short piece and moved on to writing another when the conversation going on beside me began to penetrate my focus.
“So I’ve been working a lot on world building,” said the boy. “I have maps and charts and lists and stuff, and I know, like, all about the political systems and laws and stuff like that. My problem is I can’t figure out how to put any characters in there in any kind of situation people would care about.”
“Have you tried taking a class?” said the woman. “I mean, I’ve never worked with fiction, all my editing has been for the university press—all academic works—but I know they have classes where . . .”
My typing fingers slowed to a halt. Okay, that’s not exactly accurate—I don’t type so much as I hunt-and-peck like a starving chicken: it’s somewhat frantic and I miss a lot. Chickens may swallow a little gravel, I write things like Rhe qwuic; brownm fox jum[ed ober the laxy dogd. But whatever I was doing, it came to a halt. Was I sitting beside a budding writer and a working editor?
Those of you who don’t write might not understand. We writers like to talk about writing. We like to, as much as sports fans like to talk about the recent game or TV buffs want to discuss the plots of their favorite shows. We like to . . . but no one else does. People who know me have learned not to ask about any current projects, or how the writing is going, because they don’t really want to know that much, and to them it sounds a lot like school. I’ve learned not to start one of those conversations, afraid it’ll degenerate into them running from me like I’m the slasher in a horror movie, casting furniture in my path and slamming doors between us as I follow along, an unstoppable force saying things like but it turns out there’s no way that character would do that, and all that is in support of the twist—wait ’til I tell you the twist!
I slowly—tentatively— raised a hand.
“Did you want to say something?” said the woman.
“Ah,” I said, “I couldn’t help but overhear.” I looked at the boy. “You want to be a writer?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, I’m a writer.”
“We can see that,” said the woman, indicating my Horror Writers Association t-shirt.
“Could you give me some advice?” said the boy. “I’m having trouble writing characters.”
I looked around the plane, taking in the fact that not only was there a complete lack of furnishings to topple, he literally had nowhere to run, and hoped he really wanted to talk about writing.
He did.
What followed was, hands down, the best flight I’ve had in the past twenty years. The three of us talked about writing—the boy asking questions, the woman and I answering—until it was time to get off the plane. We talked about both the craft and the business, she from the academic editor’s perspective, me from the fiction writer/editor’s. We got to know a little about the world the kid was building for his fiction, and he walked off the plane with a copy of my book—my copy, incidentally. It wasn’t like I was handing them out or anything.
“It must have been fate,” he said, grinning as he tucked the book into his carry on. “Here I am, wanting to be a writer, and I just happen to sit between the two of you on the plane. What are the odds?”
You have no idea, kid, I thought, remembering my trepidation at even breaking into their conversation. You have no idea.

—Talk to you later!

Monday, July 11, 2016

Hunting Bigfoots. Bigfeet? Feets? Uh . . .

Greetings, WYMOP readers!
Some of you, if you’re paying attention, may have noticed I write a monthly column over at Cinema Knife Fight, called (and you’ll find a link over in the sidebar) “Monster Movie Madness.” It’s a little thing where I review—wait for it—that’s right, monster movies. I have a lot of fun with it.
Along the way I've taken a ride in the world's hairiest police cruiser in  Wolfcop, and witnessed a German-style zompocalypse with Extinction: the GMO Chronicles. I've watched a young William Shatner in Kingdom of the Spiders, and an old Lance Henriksen in Harbinger Down. I've watched things come from underground in Cowboys vs Dinosaurs, under the sea in Deep Rising, and down under in Wyrmwood: Road of the Dead. I've even gone so far as to compare two versions of the same movie filmed 32 years apart with Willard, 1971 and 2003.
I've  reviewed zombies, werewolves, and leprechauns. I visited Westworld where I went Buck Wild, then had to Pay The Ghost to get  Uncaged.
Hell, I’ve even watched Paul Bunyan a time or two.
The question was: what was I going to do next? I seem to like zombie and werewolf movies, but I was looking for a little variety: my readers probably don’t want to read about the same thing all the time. So I turned to my son, and said, “Quick, boy, give me a monster!”
Huh?” he said, not quite a high point in teen repartee.
“A monster,” I said. “Just off the top of your head, give me a monster.”
Now, I was expecting something like vampire. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear zombie come out of his mouth. But he gazed at me with a puzzled look on his face, shrugged, and said, “I don't know . . . Bigfoot?”
Bigfoot. To be honest, I can't recall ever seeing a Bigfoot  flick. it would be different, that was for sure. I clapped the boy on the shoulder, thank him heartily, and walked out of his room, leaving  the bewildered teenager gazing after me. He'll figure it out.
Well . . . maybe.
So I started searching for a Bigfoot film to review. Did it have to be great? No, of course not. The column is set firmly in the world of movie monsters, and most of them fit comfortably in with the B-level films. All the same, this is going to be my first Bigfoot flick, so I wanted it to be good. Note: I was spurred on in this quest for a decent Sasquatch movie by SL, one of my fellow Cinema Knife Fight reviewers. SL writes the Trashterpiece Theater column, and she wrote a terrific review of Exists. Now I haven't actually seen Exists yet, but after that review I know there are good Bigfoot films out there.
They’re out there. I know it.
I started to look at Throwback, a film featuring the Yowie, Australia’s own answer to Bigfoot. Strangely, although it is available on Amazon, I can’t find it on the Internet Movie Data Base (IMDB). Hmm . . .
I moved on to Snowbeast. Amazon said it was made in 2013, and I liked the premise: a small town in Colorado, terrorized by a two-legged beastie who eats skiers! I spent almost two hours downloading the movie into my Kindle so I could watch it on a plane . . . and then at 30,000 feet I discovered Snowbeast had only been digitally remastered in 2013. It had been released in 1977, and starred a stiff Bo Svenson.
I fell asleep. So much for terror at 30,000 feet.
Just today I had someone suggest Suburban Sasquatch. I thanked them heartily and checked it out. I found the official trailer on YouTube, and . . . no. Just no. I managed to pause the trailer at just the right time to see the incredible gorilla suit they’d slapped on an actor to use for a Bigfoot, and one of the things I noticed right away was that the nipples were painted on.
Nipples. Painted. On. Badly.
No.
So I’ve come to realize that my quest for a decent Bigfoot film might just be like the cryptozoologist’s quest to find the real thing: filled with frustrating bits of circumstantial evidence and leads that fail to pan out. If you’ve ever seen a halfway-decent movie about the Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti, Yowie, or any of the other incarnations of the missing link mythos, or you know someone who has, please, let me know, would you? Hell, I’m about ready to settle for a decent home movie of your uncle with the hairy back, as long as he’s facing away from the camera.
Yeesh!
Talk to you later!
P.S.—

Just so you know what I’m dealing with, here’s a quick little clip I found on YouTube that was titled Suburban Sasquatch—the Best Part.
Feel my pain.


Monday, July 4, 2016

Lines and Whines. And Orange Chicken.

Greetings, WYMOP readers!
So, Sunday night I came back from Colorado, and as usual my trip through the airport was . . . eventful.
If you’ve never been to Denver International Airport, you may not know what their security checkpoint looks like. Well, it’s big. Recently I’ve really only seen Logan International in Boston and Orlando International inyup, you guessed itOrlando, Florida, but compared to those two the setup in Denver is huge. Rather than having a security point at each terminal (which makes five in Boston, terminals A–E), they have a single point every passenger for every airline funnels through before moving on to their terminal. It gets really crowded sometimes, but it’s a terrific system, and one you can actually watch in action.
The area where they have the security setup is also huge, and you enter it on the second level. That second level forms a balcony, kind of an immense square 8, with a shopping/food court to keep you occupied while you buck up the nerve to stroll through the body scan machines. Can they tell I’m sucking in my gut with those things? Does anybody know?
Also, I almost always go to Panda Express for their orange chicken before I get on the plane, and I’d like to apologize right now to anyone who’s wound up sitting next to me in that little flying tube for three or four hours. And to anyone who I sit next to in future . . . look, that little air nozzle blows pretty hard, right? I’d make liberal use of that if I were you. Especially if I’m actually moaning and rubbing my stomach.
Anyway, you can look down from this double balcony, into the “holes in the eight” as it were, to watch the goings-on in the two security areas on the first floor. Each area is autonomous and not connected (publicly) to the other, but can only be reached (again: publicly) by the escalators at the top and bottom of the eight. From the balcony/shop court you can gaze over the railing and right down at the zig-zagging line of people waiting to shuck their shoes and jettison their jewelry—I don’t even want to tell you what they do with their belts—and go completely high school on them.
“Look at that bald spot!”
“Check out that hat. No . . . wait . . . strike that: it’s a rug. Holy crap, check out that rug.”
“Did her mother let her leave the house dressed like that? Oh, that is the mother? You’re kidding.”
Another fun—and useful—thing you can do up there is run back and forth and look from one security area to the other, counting noses and estimating numbers to see which side has the shorter wait in line. After a good round of orange chicken it’s more like mediocre jog back and forth, unless I’m moaning and rubbing my belly. Then it’s a slow walk. And there’s whining involved.
So there I was on the night of my return from Colorado, slowly jogging back and forth, though there was no actual whining or moaning (Remember: air nozzle!). One side looked to be about average busy, but the other looked almost vacant. I didn’t even try to lug my big, fat, orange chicken-filled ass back to double check (besides, it was so far!) I waved SB over and brought her down the escalator to the mostly empty TSA security checkpoint, rubbing my hands with glee.
Okay, occasionally my stomach, but mostly my hands.
“Look at this,” I said, gesturing toward the nearly empty lane leading toward the scanning machines. “This looks like it may be my quickest trip through security yet!” I was already dreading having to suck in my gut, though I wasn’t actually moaning yet. I turned to SB to say goodbye, and I swear I only had my back turned for a few seconds. Ten at the most. Maybe twelve. Okay, it could have been fifteen, but I’m telling you it wasn’t long. But when I turned back . . .
 . . . when I turned back, the space leading up to that empty lane toward the machines was filled with children. Dozens upon dozens of children, all Asian, all around nine or ten years old. Obviously on a school trip to the United States, some were speaking English while others spoke in . . . something else. Cantonese? Mandarin? Japanese? How the hell should I know? I was busy watching them still coming around the corner in a long, long line.
“Wha . . .?” I said, followed quickly by, “But . . . where? . . . I thought . . .”
This was as far as I got in my intelligent commentary before the woman at the head of the Asian invasion (tall, thin and nasal), walked up to the TSA agent womanning the mouth of the path between the ropes (short, cornrowed, and less than thin—though shouldn’t that really be more than thin?), and sort of shouted at her in a flat, and yes, stereotypically Asian, accent.
“I have one hundred children. That okay?”
The agent replied, but it was drowned out by a shout from just behind me.
“Jesus! I thought this one was empty—what happened?”
I turned to see a group of four twentysomethings who had just come down the escalator, all gaping at the now full line ahead. I opened my mouth to tell them that Hell appeared to have broken open and it was populated almost entirely by children, but I was too late.
“Let’s go back to the other side,” said the original speaker. “This side’ll take forever now!” Then they all moved off at a jog—rapidly increasing toward a run—heading for the stairs back up the balcony to go all the way over to the other escalator.
Yup. Stairs. The bad kind: up.
I looked at the short army assaulting the TSA agents. I gazed after the rapidly retreating twentysomethings. I put my hand to my belly and moaned. I hugged SB once more, picked up my bag, and shuffled dejectedly to the end of the now long line.
The whining began.


Talk to you later!

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

Things to Remember When Traveling Through an Airport:

Greetings, WYMOP readers!
So I flew to Denver today, and anyone who’s kept up with my adventures for any length of time can probably tell you that my trips through airports tend to qualify as misadventures. As a result, I compiled this short list of things to remember when traveling through an airport. Perhaps, somewhere down the line, this list will help someone smooth their way through their own travels; I certainly wish someone had given me this list, way back when I was but an untested youth.


Things to Remember When Traveling Through an Airport:
  1. Arrive early enough to have time to publicly strip down to your underclothes and unpack, do the shameful shuffle through your security checkpoint with  minimum of trouble, then dress and re-pack on the other side of the magical machines.
    1. Actively noticing a TSA agent laughing at you during this process will both lengthen said process and make it more uncomfortable—unless you think Agent Feelyhands is cute, of course.
  2. You can only check a bag through within four hours of your flight. Go through that line any earlier and you just have to carry your bag away with you and come back . . . and through that line . . . again. Ladies: stomping feet and copious weeping doesn’t do you a bit of good. Gentlemen: stomping feet and copious weeping might get you a visit from Agent Feelyhandsy’s friend, Agent Kindbutfirm. Agent Kindbutfirm will escort you off to a quiet corner of the airport where you can collect yourself—and Agent Feelyhands can give you the thrice-over (like the once-over, but—oh, you know what I mean), cute or not.
  3. There is free wifi in the airport, but it can be, at times (read: all of the time) balky and difficult to get to work. Apparently, Boingo, the name they have given this so-called “hot spot,” is apparently some form of pig-latin for “smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” Watching travelers lose their minds as they struggle to use the wifi featured on signs plastered all over the concourse (holding their phones high and shaking them with both hands as if throttling the thing, while shouting “Why won’t you @#$%ing work?” for example) is a major form of entertainment for airport staff.
    1. Regarding the consequences of being too obvious in noticing their mirth, please see points 2 and 1a.
  4. Parents traveling with small children can apparently buy a day pass from responsibility. Those in possession of these passes are easily identified by their tendency to read, talk on their phones, play Angry Birds on their phones, eat huge amounts of overpriced food, and talk loudly amongst themselves about the difficulties of traveling with children, while the toddlers in question are busily running about, screaming, crying, either hitting, flinging toys at, or vomiting on other travelers, or dropping trou and taking a quick, greasy dump beside the small device charging station.
    1. For information regarding the consequences of speaking to bearers of this Responsibility Vacation Pass and requesting they pay some attention to their child(ren), please see points 2 and  1a.
    2. For information regarding the consequences of getting right in the Pass bearer’s face and shouting for them to “control their @#$%ing hellspawn, and do it right @#$%ing now!” please message me privately. I . . . I don’t want the public to see me cry, but my therapist says it’ll be good to get it off my chest.
  5. Speaking of the charging stations, these are tall, narrow fixed counters scattered about the concourse with both regular outlets and USB outlets built into them “for your convenience.” If you are lucky enough to find a station without the aforementioned steaming pile of used food (see point 4, above), please remember to check and make sure any devices you plug in are actually charging. Just because the charging station is there and not marked Out of Order doesn’t mean it’s not out of order. Besides, apparently “for your convenience” is some sort of code meaning  “for their amusement,” and the airport staff will have loads of fun watching you realize the phone, tablet, and/or laptop you’ve had plugged in for the better part of an hour has been slowly draining, rather than charging.
    1. Making a stink about it so the other travelers will know the station is out of order is spoiling the fun, and will get you a visit from Agent Kindbutfirm (see point 2)
    2. Getting up in airport staff’s grill and asking “what kind of asshat @#$%weasel refuses to put up a @#$%ing Out of @#$%ing Order sign?” is a sure method to invoke a visit from Agents Upagainstthewall and Spreadum, and your cell phone will be dead so you can’t even call for help, or a lawyer, and from there it’s just . . . just . . . please message me privately.
To sum up: don’t count on anything and don’t bitch about anything. Just sit down, shut up, and let them fly the plane. And invest in some good earphones/earplugs. They’ll help filter out the screams. Of the children. Yeah . . . the children . . .

Talk to you later!

Monday, June 20, 2016

Naked Deliveries (Recycled)

Greetings, WYMOP readers!

Well, the name of this blog is While You're Making Other Plans, as in life is what happens while . . . you get the idea. Well, it happened. Life, I mean. And I even had other plans.

I had planned to write a blog post for this evening. I had planned to make it pithy and entertaining . . . and then Life stepped in and said "No, no, you have to spend time doing this over here instead." So I don't have a new post for you this evening. Instead, I decided to revive a post from this very same week, back in 2011.

It's pithy. It's entertaining. Screw you Life, I'm getting my way after all! Sort of.

Without further ado, I give you "Naked Deliveries"!

Again.

~ ~ * * ~ ~

There's a certain kind of person I have a hard time delivering the mail to. There are the rude ones, like Mr. Crabbypants, but I can generally deal with those. They make me mad at the time, but it usually passes. There are the super-uber-friendly people, and they tend to get on my nerves a little, sometimes more, depending on my mood, but they're not that bad either. I don't look upon their deliveries with dread. No, there's a special kind of customer for whom I look upon deliveries with dread, especially if I have something they're going to have to sign for.

Naked people.

Now, when I say naked people, I know what happens in your heads: you picture some hottie, either male or female depending on what you like, naked. Hard upon the heels of that thought is the Hey, that's not so bad thought. And I agree. If the person you reflexively imagined was the one to open the door naked, I wouldn't have such a problem with it. Less of a problem if you were imagining a woman, to be honest with you, but still, if it was a good-looking man I'd still have less of a problem with it than I do now. It would be less . . . shocking.

Old people. It's always old people. Why is it always old people?

I have nothing against old people. According to my son I am an old person, and it's getting to the point where I can't really say no. But I recognize that I'm older now, and I tend to cover up more. Sure, I'm naked in the privacy of my own home, in the shower, getting dressed, etc, but when someone knocks or rings the bell, I know that they are expecting whomever opens the door for them to be dressed. Or at least covered up decently. And I strive to meet that expectation. Pants are a must, and a shirt if I can get one in a relatively short time. But naked? Oh, hell no!

The people I'm talking about are substantially older than me, no matter what my son says, and they seem to be more relaxed about their clothed state. And when I say relaxed, I mean relaxed. There are parts on these people that are quite obviously relaxed that I didn't even know you could relax!

So here I have three examples of mail deliveries gone awry. Mail deliveries with a side order of yeesh!

Naked deliveries.

Judge for yourself.

Mrs. P.
Mrs. P. lived in an old-age housing community. Small, squat houses set out in a grid. I don't know why, but Mrs. P. got certified mail all the time, and I'd ringing her bell looking for a signature or two. Now, I also don't know why, but apparently whenever Mrs. P. was home, she took off all her clothes. Every week I would ring the bell, and every week she would call out “Who is it?”
“Mailman,” I would answer. “I have a certified letter here I need you to sign for!”
“Just a minute!” she would reply, and she would answer the door. It didn't matter if it was summer or winter, early in the day or late: she would answer the door holding a blanket up in front of her, blinking at me standing out there in the sunlight.
“I need to sign for this?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Okay, don't look.”
And she would turn around. Still holding the blanket in front of her. Not wrapped around her. In front of her. And her naked septuagenarian fanny would meander off across the room in search of a pen.
I had a pen. After that first time, when she said “Don't look” and I said “What, ma'am'?” and looked right at her, I always made sure I had a pen; right there, handy, and in full view. And I would tell her “I have a pen right here!” But usually I was telling it to a set of small, ancient, naked buttocks as they made their way across the room away from me.
Every week.
Why?
I don't know.
I'll never know!


Mr. M.
Okay, this one actually made me nervous. There's a house on my route with a very old fashioned outer door. It is made entirely of wood planking with no windows or screens. There's no way to see through to the inner door, and no way to see out without opening this outer door. The inner door is also solid wood, with no windows, but there is a mail slot in the center of the door. It's a medium-sized slot, and at the time the people who live there were getting an awful lot of mail. I couldn't usually get it all through the slot in one go. What I would do was take one magazine, usually the biggest they were getting, and I would stick it halfway through the slot and use it like a funnel. 3-4 big hunks of mail would go through this way, and then I'd shove the funnel piece through. Easy as pie.
Until . . .
One day I put the funnel piece in and started to push the rest of the mail through. Just as I was shoving the second handful in, that inner door opened. Mr. M. was standing behind the door, reaching around to take the mail from me directly, rather than letting me funnel it through the door slot.
“Whoops! Sorry, pal, you caught me without a stitch on!”
It was true, he did not have a stitch on. As he leaned around the door I saw bare skin from armpit to  knee. It was just a strip, the outer edge of him so to speak, but when he leaned further to take the mail, more of him was exposed-and that exposed portion of him was getting precariously close to his own personal danger zone.
What was not true, was that I “caught” him. I didn't open that inner door; he did! While I was in the act of pushing mail through the slot! Obviously someone was out there when he was opening the door! He was all smiles about it, but I was slightly creeped out.
It hasn't happened again, but I whenever I approach that solid outer door I can't help but wonder what might be waiting for me on the other side!

Mr. and Mrs J.
One day I had a certified for Mr. and Mrs. J.. I had never rung their bell before, never seen the inside of their house, I just knew that an elderly couple lived there. I rang the bell and heard a faint holler in response. I opened the door to find that the front room in the house was actually the porch; it had been enclosed and made into a kind of foyer room. There was another storm door setup to go through before you got into the house proper, and it had that big coming-in-from-the-porch step. I heard a television turned up loud coming in there, and someone yelled “Hello." I unlatched that second storm door and pushed the inner door open.
Inside was a sort of long, narrow room, almost like a hall. There was a door at my end and one at the far end. The television I'd heard was right next to the doorway I was standing in. A pair of easy chairs bracketed the far doorway, set so the occupants could watch the TV. The chair on my right was vacant, but the one on my left was occupied. Mr. J. was seated there, leaned back in the chair with one leg up, the ankle resting across the opposite thigh. Over his lap was spread the newspaper, and he was obviously using his own lap as a kind of desk as he read and watched the news. He was also stark naked, and saying “Hey there! Can I help you?”
Now, you may think that, spread out like that, the paper was essentially keeping him decent. He may have thought so. But remember that I was at the other end of a long room from him, and down a step. Down a tall step. The way he was sitting, kind of slouched back, both knees high, one ankle lying on the opposite knee, meant that the paper was held as high as the knees. From my position, in front of and slightly below him, I saw that he wasn't the only one sprawled in that chair. Between his thighs, beneath the paper, lying all spread out on the cushion in front of him and staring back at me with its one good eye, was his constant and lifelong companion, whom I'll call Johnson. Johnson was, as I said, spread out and taking the air, actually protruding a bit off the front of that cushion, a bit like a lion looming off the edge of a promontory and ready to pounce. An old, wrinkled, sagging lion, with not an ounce of pounce left.
And kind of . . . purpleish.
He asked again, shouting over the television, if he could help me. I'm pretty sure I stammered when I said they had a certified letter requiring a signature.
“Hold on” he said,  the called out loudly for his wife to being him a pen. It took a couple of tries for her to hear him over the television, but eventually she came through the door behind him with a pen.
A pen. And nothing else. Not. A. Single. Thing.
Apparently my mind was unable to cope with the very old, very naked Mrs. J. after having to deal with purple, non-pouncing Johnson.
My mind shut down.
The next thing I remember is being out of the house on the sidewalk again, blinking in the sunlight. I'm not sure how long I was in there, but I have the impression that they were a lovely couple. Just naked. It kind of freaks me out that I can't recall exactly what happened.
I hope I didn't eat any home-made cookies or anything. Who knows what could fall in the batter!


Well, that's it for me and my naked deliveries. Well, that's it so far. No pretty girl answering the door accidentally nude, no hunky guy just being buff in the buff and taking in the mail.

One old girl who would tell me not to look and then show me anyway, again and again.
One smiling old guy giving me the old “Whoops! You caught me naked!” while he practically flung the door open at me.
One old couple who seemed very comfortable with my discomfort, and actually caused a little blackout.

If it wasn't what you were expecting, hey, I'm sorry, but I wasn't expecting it either!




Talk to you later!