The Country Mailman

Tune in every week to read about the adventures of Buck Buchanan, fictional country mailman, delivering mail out of Starz, Texas. He takes his job seriously and knows that customers count on him to deliver every piece of mail entitled to them. He is all about customer service. With a willing ear and a helping hand, Buck Buchanan goes the extra mile.

*  *  *

For a week, I listened to the radio in the Post Office without complaining. I love music as much as the next person, but this song had to go. Four steps later I clicked off the button and sighed, glad for the silence. There was three minutes of quiet before I heard the petulance in the substitute postmaster’s voice.

“You could have told me you didn’t want to listen to the radio.”

I scratched my head and kept on sorting mail in the case. “I like music. I just don’t like that song.”

“What’s wrong with that song?” LaSonda asked, still perturbed that I dared touch something of hers. She doesn’t like me to look in the refrigerator, either, afraid I will take one of her precious diet shakes and she won’t have enough to last out her two-week stint.

“It’s about a bird.”

She didn’t respond and I knew she was thinking up an appropriate answer. It might come in the next thirty minutes or later this afternoon, when I returned to the Post Office. She might even write it down and chastise me tomorrow. LaSonda isn’t the sharpest tack in town, but she is the only one willing to sit in the Post Office two weeks out of the year and on an occasional day when the postmaster is sick. All she has to do is sell money orders, stamps, postage for packages and put mail in the local Post Office boxes in the mornings for thirty minutes. Since she’s been doing it for the last few years, she knows the routine.

She has plenty of extra time on her hands and plenty of visitors. LaSonda wears clothes that attract men. Even old Mr. Asaga walks to the Post Office to get his mail when LaSonda works. She has time to visit with everyone and she doesn’t mind sharing most of her private life with whoever will listen. The lady is single, friendly and has curves in all the right places. She also passes gas frequently.

Now, I’m not one to hold things in. I believe in healthy release from any orifice, whether it is air, pain, surprise, anger or just plain joy. Sometimes, I burst into song for the pure pleasure of singing. I have learned to curb my anger responses to Babe, though, as she gets her feelings hurt easily, but that’s what civilized folks do for their spouses and ones they love.

Clearly, LaSonda has no feelings of affection for me as she doesn’t hold back at all. But it’s her life and I’m all about live and let live. Since I only spend two hours in her presence, I can be tolerant, but I keep thinking those diet shakes of hers might be causing the gaseous situation.

Fifteen minutes later, I was out of the Post Office and on my way. The minute I walked out, I heard the radio come on, blaring even louder and I had to smile. If I went back in, I’d see LaSonda dancing. And if I went back during the noon hour, she’d be taking a nap. The lady is one habit after another. Smoke breaks at nine, eleven, noon, and two; diet shake and nap at noon; diet drink at ten and two. I know because she has it written on her portable blackboard with little boxes where she checks herself off every day. She also dots her “I’s” with little hearts.

The lady makes herself at home during the postmaster’s vacation. She has her canvas lounge chair beside the desk and a pitcher of fruited ice water in the refrigerator right beside the diet shakes. From the looks of it, oranges and strawberries seem to be the favorite at the moment. Flowers float in a vase on the counter and three boxes of sugar-free chocolate candy sit on the corner of the desk. The lady does her nails several times a day and uses lotion on her hands like it is going out of style. It is either a habit or a regimen. Probably, a habit because West Texas is so dry.

Edna at the café thinks LaSonda is supported by a plentiful supply of men admirers. It’s a valid supposition as the café sits across the street from LaSonda’s driveway and she sees strange cars, especially in the evening hours.

The lady is a definite curiosity. Ten years ago, she showed up in Starz, Texas, bought a deserted house with cash, had it repaired and moved in. Three months during the winter, she leaves and I hold her mail. Her past and those three months she’s gone are the only two subjects I’ve never heard her discuss. She never gets parcels. She never gets bills, not even from the electric company. She never receives a Christmas card, a birthday card, a Valentine card or any personal correspondence.

I am intrigued by the mystery of her, but we seem to irritate each other and I’ve not gotten past that irritation long enough to ask questions. She passed the Post Office review, though, so she doesn’t have crime in her background. I knew of someone once who was in the Witness Protection Program and I wonder sometimes if she might be as well, but it’s all in my head. I wouldn’t mention it to anyone, not even Jake, the sheriff. He tells me a lot about folks around, but he’d be bound not to reveal that kind of secret, just like I wouldn’t let on to anyone that I know Heidi Owens gets child support checks for three children, even though she only has two. That third child is somewhere, I just don’t know where, doesn’t mean there’s anything fishy going on. It’s not my business to be the mail police. I just deliver – it’s called customer service.