The doorbell rang.  I got up from my overstuffed chair, put King Lear down on the coffee table and peeked out the window.  It was the mailman.  “Well,” I thought, “service at last.”

     I opened the door. It was quite cool and raining slightly.  To keep the chill out, I immediately invited the mailman in.  He stomped into the vestibule, neglecting to wipe his unlaced army boots, and he dropped his mailbag with a thump to the floor.

     “Sound heavy, don’t it,” he said.

     “Yes,” I agreed, trying to sound pleasant.

     He leaned forward and stared into the apartment.  “Anyone else home?”

     “No,” I said smiling amiably, “I’m all alone here during the day.”

     He put his hands on his hips.  “I understand you been complaining about me.”

     “No, no, certainly not, not about you.  I did call the Post Office because I haven’t been receiving my mail every day.  The truth is, I’ve been getting mail every other day.  You see, working at home as I do–I compile statistics for various magazines–I do a lot of business through the mail, and, you have to admit, it is very irregular, receiving mail every other day.”

     Without responding, the mailman walked over to the fireplace and warmed his enormous hands.  He seemed to be mumbling something, and when I drew closer, I could hear him saying over and over, “every other day, every other day.”

     “Look,” I said, “I just want my mail.  Is that too much to ask?”

     Ignoring me, he began glancing around the house, almost as if he were a prospective buyer, appraising everything.  He wandered into the dining room, opened up the hutch and took out a nearly full bottle of single malt scotch.  He removed the cap, put the bottle to his mouth and gulped the contents down as if he were drinking coca cola.  I started toward him and he put his hand out in front of me in a stop signal.  His palm was about the size of my head.  When he ceased drinking, there wasn’t much more than a few ounces left in the bottle.

      “See,” he said, “I left you some.”  He smiled, wiping off his mouth with his sleeve.

     I might mention that despite his crude manner of speaking the mailman looked anything but.  He was quite tall. He had a high forehead and intelligent eyes.  His smile was wide and even.  I’ll admit I have the usual misgivings regarding mailmen. Like everyone else, I have read of mailmen going berserk and shooting an office full of fellow workers or wiping out a local kindergarten class. I followed him into the kitchen where he suddenly wheeled on me.

     “What you follerin’ me for?” he said.

     “This is my house,” I asserted.

     “That mean you hafta go everywhere I go, do what I do?”

     I didn’t know quite what to say.  I must say that I do have rather an irrational fear concerning the mail.  I often wonder if I’m getting all the mail I’m supposed to be getting.  After all, what’s to stop the mailman from say, dumping half the mail in the dumpster behind the Stop & Shop.  In fact, I recently read of just such a case.

     The doorbell rang again.

     “What now?” I wondered, walking out of the kitchen, glancing back over my shoulder.  I was unaccustomed to being disturbed during the day.  As I opened the door, I could hear the mailman rummaging through the refrigerator.  Before me stood another mailman, letter-carrier, I should say, since it was a woman.  She was short and stocky with long blond hair, not unattractive in a rather athletic fashion. 

     She smiled and said, “J.J. in there?”

     “Yo!” came the reply from the kitchen.

     Without waiting for me to say anything, she entered my house, tossing her bag, which was somewhat smaller and lighter than the big fellow’s, onto the couch.  She stood in the living room, hands on her hips, nodding and looking around.

     “Can I help you?”  I asked.

     She didn’t seem to hear me.  She went to the television and turned it on.  It was the mid-day news. A fan at a New England Patriots’ game had been killed Sunday at half-time, when a drone struck him in the forehead.  There were no charges being pressed against the eleven-year-old boy who owned the drone.

     J.J. poked his head into the room.  “They say how many was killed?”

     “Just one old guy,” Mona said. “It was probably the CIA.”

     “It was a drone,” I said. “A kid was flying a drone and he lost control of it.”

     “How do they get away with that stuff?”  J.J. asked.  “That’s what I’d like to know.”  He strode into the room and turned off the TV.

     I guffawed and they both turned on me. 

     “You think that is funny?” the woman asked.

     “Forget it, Mona,” J.J. said, “his kind don’t get it.”

     They both walked into the kitchen, and I went behind them.  On the table were a number of open jars:  mayonnaise, ketchup, relish, chutney, three kinds of mustard.  J.J. had located the Rumanian pastrami in the refrigerator and had added all of the aforementioned condiments to the Russian pumpernickel bread that lay in shreds on the kitchen table.

     “All he got is dark bread, and it ain’t even sliced,” he said, biting into his sandwich.  It must have contained close to a pound of pastrami.  As he masticated, mayonnaise seeped out of the corners of his mouth.  I had to laugh.

     “You think somethin’s funny laughing boy?”  Mona asked.

     “She asked you a question,” J.J. said, his mouth full.

     “Well,” I ventured, “that pastrami costs eight dollars a pound and there you go, covering it up with every condiment in the house.  I mean, you have to admit, it is a little amusing.”

     “We don’t have to admit nuthin’,” Mona said, reaching over and grabbing the last few strands of pastrami.  “He’s a real smartass,” she said to J.J. She turned to me and said, “you make me puke.”  The odd thing was she was smiling as she said it–strands of pastrami poking out between her teeth.

     “You think we’re real funny folks, don’t you?”  J.J. said.  He put a huge hand over his eyes and ran it slowly down his face.  “I was gonna let you know where you can get pastrami for less than half what you pay, but now, I ain’t talkin’.”  He hit the table with his fist and the whole house seemed to shake.

     “Happy now?”  Mona asked me.  “Proud of yourself?”  She began pacing the floor with her hands on her hips.  “He was in a good mood when I first got here, but if you keep this up, he’s more than likely to have one of his fits.”

     “Fits?”  I looked incredulously from one to the other.

     “That’s right,” Mona said.  “The guy happens to be an epileptic.”

     “An idiot,” I whispered, not quite softly enough.  I was thinking of Dostoyevsky, but I immediately regretted using the antiquated term, particularly today in this hothouse “pc” atmosphere.  As a reader of the classics this often happens to me.  I’ll say to someone that I’m feeling rather queer, meaning odd, but of course they’ll take it entirely the wrong way. Or I’ll mention that I had a gay time the previous weekend and someone will titter.

     “An idiot?”  J.J. cried.  His hands went to this throat.  He tottered back and forth and toppled to the floor.  From his mouth came horrible, gasping noises.  Mona just stood there with her arms crossed, glaring at me.  I got down on my hands and knees to try to prevent him from swallowing his tongue when I realized he wasn’t gasping.  He was laughing!  I looked up and Mona was laughing too.  Was this all some elaborate hoax?

     J.J. leaned on one elbow.  “We really had you goin’ there, eh?”

     I had to admit, he did have an infectious grin.  Standing up, I took his outstretched hand to help him to his feet.

     “Thanks,” he said.  “See, Mona, he ain’t so bad a guy.”  He looked at me and burst out laughing.

     Mona was peering into the refrigerator.  She took out a small, white bag.  “What’s this?” she asked.

     “That’s what my wife and I are having for dinner tonight,” I said.

     “What is it?”  Mona asked.  “Rib-eye?”  She had opened the bag and was holding two small pieces of meat in her hands.

     “Not exactly,” I said, “tournedos.”

     Mona and J.J. stared at each other.  “What?” they both asked at the same time.  They seemed to be offended.

     “Filet mignon,” I said.  “You know, steak.”  I realized I was sweating, and I dabbed at my forehead with my handkerchief. 

     “Why didn’t you say steak before?”  Mona asked.  “Were you tryin’ to fool us with them foreign words?”

     “Tryin’ to show us up,” J.J. said.

     “No, no,” I said.  “That is simply what they are called.”

     “That is simply what they are called,” Mona mimicked.

     She walked over to the stove and turned the heat on the left front burner up to “high.”  She took a frying pan off the rack above the stove, and tossed the little tournedos into the pan.

     “See here,” I said moving toward the stove.

     “Back off, Jack,” J.J. said, insinuating himself between Mona and me.  “I likes my steak well done,” he said to Mona.  “How’s about you, little lady?”

     “Burnt,” she said, shaking the pan as if she were cooking popcorn.

     “Excuse me,” I said, heading for the office where there was a phone.

     “Forget about calling the cops,” Mona said.  “We know them all.  Don’t we J.J.?”

     I turned around.  It wasn’t who they knew that stopped me.  It was just that they have so much power over us–these letter carriers.  They know what we read.  They know when we’re home and when we’re away.  It would be a simple affair for a mailman to arrange a break-in.  And if they ever decided not to deliver my mail, my business would go to pieces.  I shuffled back into the kitchen. To my amazement, Mona was actually “twerking” for J.J.!  She stopped when I entered the room.

     I decided to try a new approach:  “Don’t stop on my account,” I said.  I smiled at both of them.

     They both started laughing wildly.

     “By the way,” I interjected in a last attempt to save my dignity, “my wife will be home soon, and I really think you should be gone before she arrives.”  Suddenly I noticed that the kitchen was beginning to fill with smoke from the frying pan.  J.J. waved his hands to clear the smoke.  As he did so he backed into the master bedroom. 

     I opened the back door to let the smoke out but the smoke alarm in the kitchen went off anyway. I pulled a chair under it, climbed up and disconnected the battery. I suddenly wondered what J.J. was up to.  When I walked into my bedroom, he was rifling through my bureau.  “Just what are you after?”  I asked with as much disdain as I could muster.

     “I ain’t the one complained, pal, if you git my meanin.”

     “No, I don’t,” I said, “and get your paws out of my drawers.”

     “Paws out of my drawers!  Whoah, that’s a good one.  Hey, Mona, you hear that?  Mr. Brown here say, get your paws out of my drawers.  Man, I ain’t gonna get into your drawers though maybe Mona will, if you get lucky.  I been tryin’ to score her for a long time, but I ain’t had no luck.”  J.J. looked over at me.  “Know what I think?  I think she goes for you. I really do.”

     Mona came walking into the room rubbing her breasts and the tops of her thighs.  “Like a little of this?”  she asked, taunting me.

     “I’d like some,” J.J. said, reaching out for her.

     “What about the steaks?”  I cried, running into the kitchen.  Smoke was billowing from the stove. I turned off the flame and, without thinking, picked up the iron skillet by its handle.  The handle was so hot, I yelped, and dropped it to the floor.  The filets rolled out onto the tile floor just as J.J. and Mona entered the kitchen.  I got down on my knees to pick them up.  I looked up at them.  J.J. had his hands on his hips and Mona had her arms crossed.  J.J.’s eyebrows went up as he looked at Mona.  She shook her head in disgust.

     “Look,” I said, “it wasn’t my fault.”

     “No?”  Mona asked.  “Whose fault was it?”

     “Don’t even bother,” J.J. said.  “Nuthin’ is ever his fault.  Is it pal?”  He glared at me.

     I took the filet mignons over to the trash receptacle we keep in a cabinet under the counter.

     “What does he think he’s doing now?”  Mona cried.  She wrenched the filets out of my hands.  “They’re still good,” she said.  She turned on the water at the sink and rinsed them off.  She tore off a couple of hunks of what was left of the pumpernickel, wrapping the blackened pieces of meat in the dark bread.  She handed one to J.J. and kept the other herself.  They both bit ravenously into their tournedos sandwiches.

     “Look,” Mona said to J.J., “he’s doing it again, staring at us.”

     “Ever think the guy might be hungry?”  J.J. asked Mona.

     “No,” I never thought of that,” Mona said.

     “You want some?”  J.J. asked, holding out what could not have been more than one bite of the ravaged sandwich.

     “No, thank you,” I said, trying to maintain some sense of politesse.  I realize that manners are in a state of crises in our country and I often feel that it is the province of persons of my bearing to hold the fort, toe the line and not give in to the savage hordes who threaten to overthrow everything we hold dear.  I suppose I’m merely indulging in a grand illusion.

     “I think he’s paranoid,” Mona said.

     I glanced at the clock.  My wife, who is a Vice-Principal at a local elementary school, would be home soon and might know how to handle this situation.

     “What I can’t get over,” Mona said, “the guy is supposed to be this big brain, reads all those snobby magazines we have to lug around, but he don’t even clean up after himself when he drops food on the floor.”  She pointed to the grease marks where the tournedos had fallen.

     I opened up the cabinet under the sink to get the Fantastic and a sponge.  I turned around to find Mona in a Kung Fu stance.

     “What you got there, pepper spray?”

     “I’m just trying to clean up,” I said on the verge of tears.

     Mona kicked the plastic container out of my hand and, with the same foot, got me with a heel to the solar plexus.  It knocked the wind out of me, and I dropped to my knees.

     “Oh, come on man,” Mona turned to J. J. imploringly, “Do you believe this dude?”

     “You barely touched him,” J.J. said.

     “They guy is such a wimp,” Mona said.

     J.J. reached out his hand to help me up, but when I was halfway, he let me go, and I fell back to the floor.

     Mona was bending over, holding her stomach.  “Stop it,” she said, “I’m laughing so much I’m gonna cry.”

     “Hey,” J.J. said, “we gots to get outta here.  We got all that mail to get to.”

     “It’s pretty obvious,” Mona said when she got her breath, “Brownie here don’t care much for our company.”

     “You don’t think so?”  J.J. asked.

     Mona’s eyes suddenly filled with tears.  She turned to me:  “Was it something I said?”

     J.J. put his arm around her.  “See what you went and did?”  He helped Mona get her jacket on.  “She’s very sensitive,” he said.  She was weeping.  As they went into the living room, I could hear him say, “Oh come on, Mona, we was having such a good time.”  He called back to me:  “We’ll just see ourselves out, thanks.”

     I had regained my feet and I staggered into the living room.

     “Who needs friends like you?”  Mona sobbed.

     J.J. picked up his bag and handed Mona hers.  He smiled.  “Don’t pay her no mind,” he said.

     “Wait a minute,” I said.  “Don’t go off like that.”  I was beginning to feel sorry for Mona.  Perhaps I had been too harsh with her.

      “The reason we came by,” J.J. said, “was to tell you there’d been a mix-up in the routes.  We’ll make sure you get your mail every day from now on.”

     I couldn’t believe my ears.  Maybe I had misjudged them.  My confusion must have shown on my face.

    “Somethin’ wrong?” J.J. asked.

    “Forget it,” Mona sobbed.  “let’s just go.”

    “Well,” I said to J.J., “I guess I owe you an apology.”  I proffered my hand.  “Sorry about Mona,” I added.

     “Oh, she’ll be OK.”  J.J. said smiling.  He took my hand and practically crushed it.  The pain caused my eyes to well up with tears.

     “See,” J.J. said to Mona, “Mr. Brown is sad too.”

     Without looking at me, Mona gave me a quick hug. I felt her hands on my buttocks, pulling me toward her. Then she released me and was gone, out the door, before I could say anything.

     “Maybe we come again sometime,” J.J. said as he stepped outside.

     Without thinking I found myself nodding as I closed the door.

     By the time my wife arrived an hour later, I had the place pretty well cleaned up. My wife asked if there was any mail.  I started to say no when I noticed a pile of letters and magazines on the mantel of the fireplace.  Apparently, my fears had been entirely without merit. Among the letters was a check from one of my clients.  I suggested to my wife we dine out at that new Caribbean restaurant which had recently opened in the mall.

     On the way home from the restaurant I stopped at the liquor store for a bottle of Glenfiddich just in case J.J. and Mona should happen to drop by again.  Not that I’m trying to patronize them–not at all.  It’s just that, well, isolated as we are these days, it’s pretty hard to find new friends.   I looked askance at my wife.  Sometimes, I don’t know, she seemed like kind of a snob.  I decided not to mention J.J. and Mona.  I mean, the mail was my problem and I thought I had handled it pretty darn well under the circumstances.