Stupid Bag!

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...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.


“Urk!”


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...

*Sigh*

Talk to you later!