"You've Got Mail...But You Wouldn't Know it"

Dear Dad,

Thanks so much for your caring package. Even though I would have loved some new ceramics to place on my mantel, considering the state of the package's arrival I am glad you chose to mail used copies of books I mostly don't want to read instead.

As I waited for my change at the post office this morning, having already had to run across the street to the hotel to make smaller change for the clerk to make even smaller change from, I thought I might as well inquire about that package you mailed me over a month ago. I took the usual path to the parcel area, walking behind the counter and weaving through the stampers and shufflers, until I reached the stackers, and, primarily, the sit-arounders. I pointed at myself and announced my name, my address, the color of my skin and the word 'parcel.' After several repetitions someone took note and pointed to the legally blind guy over in the corner who always seems to be rubbing his glasses as if they are the cause of his blindness, otherwise known as my neighborhood postman.

I walked over to him, placed my face inches from his face, and began repeating the same phrases as before. A few moments later he realized someone was talking to him, replaced his glasses, and said something like, "Ah, patouti package." Pretty soon everyone except me began repeating "patouti package," a bit like that scene in "Being John Malkovich" where all the Malkovich heads repeat "Malkovich" in different intonations. Someone advised me to take a seat and a few people began moving things around.

Eventually a cabinet adjacent to my blind postman was opened, and there on the top shelf sat my package, looking as good as the day it first emerged from the dumpster. A man made a few apologetic gestures and then showed me a piece of paper describing the poor conditions of the package, which seemed unnecessary since I could clearly see for myself.

I guess if your parcel is "patouti" they don't need to notify you of its arrival, they can just wait for you to come and claim it, or you can just never come, whatever really--when you're a blind postman it's not really your job to over-analyze these situations.

So, as I was saying, thanks for the package dad. It finally arrived and I can now reread "White Fang," just like I always wanted.

It's good to know you care though, seriously.

Your estranged son,
Ari