Was it a cruel gag gift or did she order it herself?

Tune in 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.

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When I entered the Post Office, I smelled it immediately. The mail truck arrives about six in the morning so I knew whatever was dead had only been in the building for an hour. The gurney sat in the corner of the back room so I wheeled it outside and left the door open, surprised that the truck driver had not separated the offending package from the rest.

Gus arrived right behind me and the postmaster immediately wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow as he passed by the gurney. We both tackled the job right away, hoping the parcel emitting the foul odor was close to the top. Gus found it and quickly tossed it out onto the grass, leaving it until we could determine the contents. I’ve delivered smelly cheese. I’ve delivered packages where perfume bottles broke and the cardboard reeked. I’ve delivered dirty laundry that smells of body odor. The box out on the lawn tops them all. I can’t remember smelling anything like it, not even the dead mouse that got caught under the refrigerator and wasn’t discovered for a month.

Gus and I both sorted our mail for the next hour, but all I could think about was the contents in that box outside. He must have been thinking the same because I watched him go outside and look at the box, turning it on all four sides. He came back inside, sat at the computer, and began mumbling to himself.

“You will never believe what is in that box,” he finally said.

“Something dead.”

He nodded slowly. “Sort of. From the address on that box, I found the website. This company ships…..elephant dung. It’s a gag gift company.”

   I groaned and hung my head briefly, wondering about the sanity of some people. Then I shrugged…and the ingenuity of others. “Did you happen to notice the recipient?”

“Ellen Shapiro.”

After staring into space, I recollected the woman. She moved to Starz three years ago to teach in the high school. That explained everything. Teenage boys have no boundaries when it comes to tormenting teachers. Ms. Shapiro wasn’t attractive. She wore old lady clothes and drove a Smart Car. I heard she was a tough teacher.

“It’s your choice, Buck. You don’t have to deliver it. According to the guidelines, anything foul can be refused. I’ll back you up on this one.”

Gus thought he was doing me a favor, but he wasn’t. I always thought the Post Master made decisions like that, but he merely put it in my lap. It would have been easy for him to drop that box into the dumpster, but there it lay outside in the grass for me to make the choice. There was no choice. I wasn’t about to put that rank-smelling box in my car, much less put it in Ellen Shapiro’s mailbox. But the U.S. Postal Service is not discretionary when it comes to delivering mail. Our job is to get the piece to the person whose address is on the package. I knew I'd put a pink slip in Ellen Shapiro's mailbox. Even if I suspected the entire senior high school class of tricking the teacher, my job is not to judge, only deliver.

I did leave the box where it lay in the grass outside the back door and I did fill out the slip before slipping it in the circular addressed to Ellen Shapiro. Then I went out to do my job.

The Ennis' weren't home. After three hearty raps at the front door, I put the certified letter back in the pouch and filled out a pink slip letting them know they could pick up the piece of mail at the Post Office after three o'clock. The letter was from the oncologist. Mr. and Mrs. Ennis were regular visitors to the Cancer Center every week, had been for the last seven months and were expecting news that the cancer was beat. Mr. Ennis didn't mention the alternative, at least not to me. He just let me know the letter was coming. His wife, Cleo, had breast cancer and religiously, Mr. Ennis bundled her into the car every Tuesday morning for the treatment in Lubbock and brought her home to rest at her sister's house until he picked her up after work.

There's a sadness when the word, cancer, is mentioned. In this case, the emotion goes even deeper. Kent and Cleo Ennis are newlyweds and were looking forward to starting a family when the doctor discovered the mass. The letter I had in my possession would change lives, but it was just as important to deliver as the circular from the local grocery store. That's what I do and even when I don't particularly care to have that responsibility, my feelings don't alter the fact. My job is to deliver mail.

I stuffed the large parcel in Kyla Ballister's mailbox, making sure it fit before I did. She wasn't happy with me for shoving a previous package into the metal container - said I smashed the edges. The contents were not damaged, but she likes to keep the boxes and reuse them. I didn't roll my eyes when Gus relayed the message from the phone call she placed to "my supervisor." I wonder if Kyla Ballister was confronted with breast cancer if she would be so concerned about the edges of mailed boxes.

When I strolled through the back door after finishing the route, Gus didn’t look up from his standard position at the desk. I deposited the incoming mail in the appropriate sack, recased the undeliverable mail from the route, placed the pink slips in the slot and put the matching parcels in the tub. I then reached for the red book and went to a spare desk where I could clearly see the counter.

“I’m going to update the line of travel.” Gus only responded with a grunt but I knew he would be grateful. Changes made to the Red Book were painful.

When the door opened in the foyer, I waited in anticipation. School was out and I expected Ellen Shapiro at any moment. But it was only Mrs. Anton getting mail from her box. Moments later, when the door opened again, Cody Black strolled through both doors and I nodded.

“My mom sent me to get her package.” When he held up the pink slip I had put in the Black’s mailbox earlier during the day, I went back to the Red Book while Gus dug in the tub for the appropriate parcel.

At four fifteen, I gave up. I put the Red Book on Gus’ desk for him to send to Ft. Worth with the changes and picked up the pen to sign out. The door opened in the foyer and then the door to the office, but I signed my name, not expecting Ms. Shapiro.

“I came to get my package.”

Gus and I both looked at the small woman standing at the counter, both wondering if she was ready for the trick someone played on her.

I held up my hand. “I’ll be right there with it.”

I retrieved her property from the lawn where it had been ripening all day in the sun and held the offending box at arm's length, trying not to inhale deeply. When I put it on the counter, she stepped backwards.

“Oh, heavens! Now I know why you didn’t put it in my mailbox.” She looked at me with a half smile, took it and held it loosely, struggling with a grimace of distaste. “Thank you.”

When the door closed and the Post Office was silent, I knew without turning around, that Gus had questions in his eyes. I also knew he wouldn’t voice them. He was that kind of man, not wanting to know any more information than necessary. Ms. Shapiro's reaction did not answer the question I had been thinking all day - was the box a gag gift or did she order it herself? Some questions aren't answered in the Post Office and that's just as well.

I don't need to know if the gag gift was truly a gag or if the Ennis' certified letter from the clinic was good news or bad. Somewhere along the line, I'll find out. News gets around in a small town and Starz, Texas is definitely a community of folks who keep up-to-date on neighbors. I make it my business to keep quiet about my customers, though. I don't even tell my wife that the packages Kyla Ballister receives every month are from sex toy manufacturers. Nor do I report to anyone whose cars I see parked in her driveway during the day. That's Kyla's business, not mine.