Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Stupid Bag!

Note: Please don't forget about my Reader's Poll up there in the upper right corner of this web page. For more information about the poll, the 'why' of it, so to speak, please read  my post explaining the whole thing by clicking  HERE.  

...and on with the blog!

As I approached I saw the inner door was open, to allow the breeze passing through the outer screen door to flow unimpeded the apartment.  I smiled and folded the mail in my hand into a sort of flattened tube. Pulling the screen door open I said "Mailman!" as I slipped inside the sweep of the outer door to hold it open with my hip, the door-closer doing its job admirably, pulling the door tight to my backside. I leaned into the apartment to push the folded tube of mail through the slot in the open door, intending to leave it sticking half-way through. Better that than leave it splashed across the floor right in front of the door, right?

"I'll take that from you," said one of the women inside.

I handed the mail over with a “have a nice day” attached and a smile along for the ride. She accepted all three with a smile and wave of her own, then turned back into the depths of the apartment. I, for my part, having done my duty — better yet done it in a personable and cheerful manner— also turned from the door to be on my way.

And that’s as far as I got.

A half-step into my first manly stride off in a different direction I was brought up short, like a small aggressive dog at the end of his leash, lead foot hanging an inch or so above the ground. Something had a hold of my mail bag, and the strap over my shoulder had a hold of me, and I was quickly losing control of the situation. Surprised at being brought up short like that, I said the first thing that came to mind.


I tried to twist around to see what I was hooked on, or possibly even release myself. I immediately found the bag to be too filled with mail to give me a lot of slack; with my head through the strap, set up to carry it cross-wise as I do, I had no chance of turning around while still wearing the bag. I could twist just enough to catch a glimpse of the problem.

Mail bags are designed to have detachable shoulder straps. Each bag has a pair of hard-points sewn on, each with a large metal D-ring run through it. Each end of the shoulder strap has a clip that you simply attach to the D-ring. From the corner of my eye I could make out that one of those D-rings had caught on the long, thin, curving inner door handle, and was now nestled right down onto the base of the handle, the entire curved handle holding me back.

I was trapped.

I looked around, checking to see if anyone was out side catching some sun or working in the yard, hoping to walk away with my dignity intact, though this was a pretty foolish predicament. Seeing no one, I tried wiggling the bag a bit, which required me to do a little wiggly jiggly dance on the stoop. I was wiggling pretty well, and had just started to bump the bag upward a bit with some rump-thrusts, when I heard the voice from inside the apartment again.

"S'matter, you stuck?"

Shame, thy name is Robert. I stopped jiggling about like I was hanging on to an electric fence and slumped, defeated, leaning back on the bag which was still stuck firmly in place.

"Yes, Ma'am, I believe I am."

She reached in between the bag and the door and, with a grunt, wrenched the D-ring, and thus me, free.

"Thank you."

"Good thing I was here," she said with a smile. "You might have been stuck there all day!"

I smiled back, but it felt a little wooden. I couldn't help thinking that being stuck there all day did have some appeal...


Talk to you later!

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