me vs. the mailman

WWKD?



my life is divided into two halves:

one half pulls the curtains closed whenever he is not home, because he lives in a small single-floor bungalow in a charming, tree-lined but ultimately crimey city filled with what he imagines to be peeping thieves. he also generally closes the curtains in the evening, since the warm glow of open lighted window panes at night doesn't translate well when one's house is a mere gym-class-shoulder's-width-apart from his neighbors' homes. he understands the importance of this kind of squirrelly separation, and even relishes it at times.

the other half is a sucker for the metaphoric openness of allowing the sun and the green and the outside world into his home, and he leaves his curtains open during his weekday afternoons at the house. he even moves his home office out into the living room just so that he can have a little mini yoga/meditation studio to honor the idea of this openness and receptivity. almost every day, he can be found there practicing his kooky little "quiet calm and unobstructed beauty" exercises, usually dressed in his boxer briefs, because they're the closest thing he has to the "yoga shorts" the guy on the "yoga for athletes" tape wears. it's not his best look, as even at his most athletic physique, the whole thing plateaus somewhere around the level of a shirtless captain kirk kind of thing. but this half doesn't care about that because yoga and meditation and open receptivity is about getting the mind to let go of that which truly does not matter.

recently, the two halves collided when, just as one half finished some afternoon yoga, the other half began to panick about whether or not he had sent his mortgage payment this month. so he walks into his living room/office capatin kirk style and kinda sweaty, and sits down in his mesh office chair to quickly check his on-line bank account for the payment. just as he logs in, the mailman shows up at one of the living room windws with some letters and a small box.

with his sweaty naked back to the mailman, bare legs perched on the feet of the chair, hunched in front of his monitor in frozen terror, his eyes shift back as he tries to assess what his next step will be. any movement might attract the mailman's attention, whereas sitting still will afford the cover of the chair and possibly allow his presence to go unnoticed. "stay put" he thinks.

"knock-knock", he hears.

"the small box. he wants to give me the package. he sees me. just stay still and look like you're reading the screen."

(knock-knock-knock)

"oh my god he's still here. and he probably thinks he's busted me masturbating to my on-line bank statement. which is neither true nor plausibly deniable given my current situation. oh please just leave the package on the porch."

(shuffle-shuffle. knock. shuffle. fading foot steps...)

"stand up and walk away slowly at first, then quickly. don't look back...i wonder what's in the box..."