|Posted on May 15, 2010 at 3:14 PM|
I'm sitting at work on an especially gruellingly slow Saturday -- I've already plowed through my book "Know It All," listened to several albums on Napster, cleared out 4 separate spam e-mails for "medications you want"" surfed a good portion of the Internet, posted a blog entry, virtually finished my review of Russound's Collage system and done a bit of *actual* work, all by 3 PM leaving a seemingly unending 180 minutes left to fill until my parole -- when our store's front door opens. In walks our postal lady, who worldlessly sets a box on the floor, and then departs.
Now, I love the mail. Getting it is one of the highlights of my day both at work and home. There is just something magical and mysterious about it. What am I gonna get? Who's it gonna be from? Does Publisher's Clearinghouse call before your giant check arrives? Stephen King has a short story titled "The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet" which is NOT at all about the mail, but ever since reading that story, it's title makes me think of a letter; the flexible bullet being an envelope. You write it. You seal it. And then you fire it off, and it goes out into the world, flexing its way through the mail system until it arrives at its destination. Now clearly, not EVERY letter is a "bullet" but I'm sure we've all sent (or received) some over the years. Even if it is something "good" but just a shade daring. Like professing your love for the first time. You "fire" this sentiment off, not knowing how it will be received.
(Ummm, kind of tangential...that part has nothing to do with the rest, just got me thinking.)
So, here is this box sitting on the floor of our showroom. I go and retrieve it (a fishing something or other from Amazon for my partner) and return to my chair. But then I start to think, "Is that it for the mail?" Then I *really* start to think about it. (Look, I'm alone and bored. If you want to come and buy a TV today, you could probably have it for the price of some interesting conversation.) So, as I'm riddling it out, I boil it down to this conundrum:
1) It seems odd that we would ONLY receive a single box in the mail. Generally we get a fairly regular mixture of bills, checks and credit card offers. (If you think that banks are tightening their credit card issuing policies, I invite you to go through my trash can.) One box would be highly out of the ordinary.
2) However, it seems *equally* odd that the mail lady would make the effort to drive up to our front door, get out of her battered white Honda and place a single box in our showroom without bringing ALL the mail. In the past, when she brings things in, she brings in EVERYTHING.
Soon, the suspense is just killing me. (Plus, some mail would mean something to do, so....) So, I tore myself away from Entertainment Weekly's Lost coverage and headed out to the box. The flag was down to start, so it still being down isn't offering me any Holmesian bits of deduction. But, it's a fine, spring-right-before-summer day, and I figure I can use a break from the dry-cool showroom air, and can *certainly* stand even this modicum of exercise following the compettitive eating which was last night's meat-filled dinner.
So what do you think? Is it 1 -- hey, you get your own mail from the box -- or 2 -- all you got was a box?