Welcome readers, old and new, to my new and ultimate blog, the Ultimate Blog. You won't find musings or rants here; for those, head on over to my Rentsy Journal (rated R...for Rentsy! And heavy profanity.)
This blog is, simply put, the place where I am going to post what was at one point my magnum opus, The Ultimate Book. In the words of one of my dearest friends, Will Colton, "it's kind of funny, actually," and if that doesn't make you want to read, I don't know what will.
If you like what you see, comment. If not, comment, but lie, please.
It was a Tuesday like any other. John Morgan, a postman, was finishing up his daily route. He passed the usual people, delivered the usual letters, received the usual thanks and went on his usual way. John lived a comfortable life and was perfectly content.
“I’m going to kill myself,” he muttered happily.
As it turns out, Tuesday was not John’s favorite day of the week. In fact, it was his least favorite, and he made a point of telling everybody he met just that. John didn’t have many friends. People found him disturbing for some reason.
He was neither tall nor short, neither attractive nor unattractive. He didn’t keep in shape, but he wasn’t out of shape either. His hair was black as night, his eyes brown as pinecones, and his face wore a permanent scowl, as if to emphasize the fact that he considered himself superior to everyone.
“Ah, the last letter. It’s about damn time; this day’s taken forever. Whoops!” said John, accidentally dropping the envelope.
Blaming his mishap on fate, which he asserted was constantly plotting against him, he bent down to pick the letter up but noticed that it was already open. Disgusted, he stopped his truck abruptly, cursing loudly.
“Who could be so stupid as to forget to seal his letter? I swear, everyone on the planet is a complete idiot except me. Well, this person obviously doesn’t care much for security, so I guess it won’t matter if I read the letter,” he said.
John picked up the envelope and, tremulously, took out the letter inside. John received a visceral thrill every time he read someone else’s mail, but the Postman’s Code (a desultory combination of his own twisted ethics and federal law) prevented him from opening a sealed envelope.
He unfolded the single sheet of paper and lifted it to eye level, beginning to read, when all of a sudden –
“JOHN!” someone shouted, making John drop the letter for the second time.
The man who’d yelled was Bill Williams, the town’s blonde-headed garbage man. Bill and John crossed paths twice a week, every Tuesday and Thursday. Every time they did, Bill tried to initiate a conversation, only to be brutally snubbed by John. Last Thursday, Bill had gone home with a broken nose and a slight concussion.
Bill was not an intelligent man. Unlike John, he was humble and obsequious, but that was probably less a sign of maturity than it was of general obliviousness. He was stout in both heart and stature. His bright blue eyes alight with enthusiasm, Bill waved to John.
“Hey John! What’s up? I haven’t seen you since Thursday! Boy, what a day that was, huh? I remember…well, I don’t remember much, actually, since you gave me that concussion, but the doctors say I might make a full recovery! Isn’t that great?” asked Bill.
“Go away, Bill. I’m not in the mood for your shenanigans,” said John bitterly. “I just need to deliver this letter so I can go home.”
Bill, whose supervisor no longer trusted him with a vehicle, had to haul his garbage bags in a wheelbarrow. He set it down and trotted over to John’s truck smiling, clearly having misinterpreted John’s words entirely.
“Deliver a letter, huh? That’s real cool. I wish I had a cool job like that. I even took the mailman test last week! I failed though. Mom took away my X-Box,” lamented Bill.
“Took away your…aren’t you a grown man?” asked John.
Bill just grinned, staring blankly at John. After a very awkward pause, John started the truck up again, driving to the next house. Bill didn’t move.
“Sometimes I wonder why I still do this job,” said John to himself. “I’m clearly overqualified, what with my degree in hyperbotanical engineering. Oh well.”
He dropped the open-but-unread letter into the final mailbox and turned the car around, heading home. He passed Bill, for whom he then inexplicably felt a surge of pity.
“Hey Bill…” he began.
“Yeah John?” responded Bill. “What is it? Do you wanna talk? Wanna come over and play? I got a new water gun. We can have a water fight! Except I can’t get wet, or Mom’ll be mad at me.”
“Err, no, that’s all right,” said John. “I was just wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me sometime. I know a good Mexican place.”
“Mexican?!” exclaimed Bill. “I’m not allowed to eat Mexican food. Mom’s allergic.”
“But why does that have any bearing on what –”
“She swells up like a balloon. I tried to pop her with a pair of scissors once. She didn’t like that. I got grounded. I don’t wanna get grounded again,” stated Bill.
“Well, suit yourself, then,” said John, already driving away.
When he finally reached his house, Bill was standing in his driveway, grinning and waving.
“How the –”
“Hey! John! Ready to go to dinner? I’m ready! I asked Mom, and she said, ‘Bill, anything that gets you out of the house is fine by me. Go, please. Just…just go.’ And so I went! And here I am! Here, at your house. In front of it, anyway. In your driveway, really. So let’s go!”
John gaped at Bill for a moment, then shook his head, “Tuesdays…”