My Good Postman
While I was trying to dig-out-the-dirt on why recycling was not a lifestyle in Singapore yesterday afternoon, someone called my mobile. Now, people seldom call my mobile for two reasons. One, I’m not popular at all and two, it’s a very unfriendly guy who picks it up.
"Ya, ello." or "Wat’s up" or "Arh why?" or "Yah, what I’m busy!"
So I stiffened when I heard the unfamiliar male voice, like I always do when I don’t recognise the caller. Which is almost all the time, since I have no caller ID (Why can’t anyone begin with "Hello, this is Robert speaking…").
Was it the police, calling me about some suspicious parcel that had been seized at customs, someone from togo-lala-land calling about buying a bicycle part, or someone responding to my Panasonic bicycle want ad - bless his soul, or a wrong number?
It was the postman.
Wow. How often does the postman call you? I mean, how often does the postman call me? I know he’s my friendly neighbourhood postman, yes, but calling me in the afternoon to say hello? I was beginning to wonder if he was married when I heard the words:
"Hello? Is this Mister Alfonso?" So I say, "Uhm hello" - a sure sign of being unsure - "Yes, this is me." Duh. Of course it is me. It can’t be you, or anyone else.
Feeling a little silly, I hear the magic words, "You have a packet arh." Uh, okay, so I have a packet of what, chicken rice? So as a matter of formality, I say, "Ah! That’s nice!" and he says "… so what do you want me to do with it?"
Deliver it of course, that’s what I want you to do with it. But of course I don’t say that; it might be something expensive. "How big is the packet?" I ask, never once considering that he might interpret "the packet" as "your packet". I’m beginning to wonder if I should have asked how big his packet was.
"Oh, it’s a small one", he replies. Ah ha, that’s because you’ve been sitting on your cutesy little motor scooter for more than half the day, every day but Sunday. Of course it’s gone smaller. But of course, I say nothing about that because thoughts of recycling and the Sarimbun dumping ground are still running around in my head.
"Can you put it in my mailbox?" Now this is really starting to sound funny. I’m asking him if he can put his packet into my mailbox. "Let me see if it is small enough." I wait, tensely. "Yah, I think can, if I don’t kena the dog." Thoughts of cats, Muslim postmen, dogs and big and small packets are now floating around with the trash in my mind (my postman is a Muslim, you see, and dogs are a strict no-no for them - Muslims I mean, not postmen).
"Thanks man", I say.
I think the Dura Ace Eight Speed shifters and Paul’s Thumbies have arrived. I can’t wait to get my hands on them when I book out of this godforsaken camp, where there is no reveille, no 5BX, no life.
I’m definitely looking forward to tomorrow afternoon, when I can start to plan, full steam ahead, how to build up the mixte, the Litespeed, laser engrave the M900 XTR cranks and swap the M730 cranks on to the CB-1. Ho boy *rubs hands in glee* it’s going to be one helluva term break - if they don’t kick me out of school at the end of it.
