Around Two in the Afternoon

A blonde dog


Around Two in the Afternoon
by Robert Aquino Dollesin


At around two in the afternoon the mailbox was not upset that the sprinklers rotating behind him had drenched him. On any other day, he would have been furious. But this afternoon he hardly noticed. He wasn't bothered by the sun's brutal rays baking down on him, either. Why not? Because his troubled mind kept turning over. The woman who occupied the cream-colored house behind the mailbox had already come outdoors seven times, opened him up and peered inside him to see if the mailman had left anything. If he could talk, the mailbox would have asked the woman why she was crying.

A champagne-colored poodle trotted past the mailbox like he owned the sidewalk. He stopped several feet later, returned to the mailbox, sniffed the wooden post that kept it rooted to the ground. Then, with his tongue wagging, the poodle lifted its right rear leg and sprayed a warm stream onto the post. Not even this bothered the mailbox today.

Two blocks away from the concerned mailbox, the postman stepped out of his box-shaped vehicle and snatched a bundle of letters from inside the bag slung over his shoulder. He rifled through the letters, selecting the envelopes addressed for the house he stood in front of. He deposited those envelopes. The back of the postman's neck was soaked with sweat. Before hopping back behind the wheel, he took a rag out of his back pocket and swiped the back of his damp neck with it. He squinted his eyes against the sun and exhaled a long breath. He should have called in this morning. With the weather so brutally hot, he wished he did. It wasn't just the weather that troubled him, though. It was his wife, too. The postman was convinced the bitch had been sneaking off with her lover while he pounded the pavement during the day. Someday he'd catch her, he thought. The bitch. As he climbed back into his vehicle, the postman did not notice the letter slipping out of his bag onto the road. He drove off.

A woman wearing gray sweatpants shielded her eyes from the sun's glare. Where was that poodle? That dog belonged to her husband. But who always got stuck taking care of it? Who else? If something happened to that poodle, or if that dog bit someone, who would be blamed? Who else? As she walked down the shady side of the road now, the woman in the gray sweatpants kept her eyes ahead, looking for any sign of the dog. Frequently, she raised her fingers to her bruised cheek. Her husband had done that to her. He'd do it again tonight, she thought. Smack her around. Even if she managed to bring the dog home unscathed, he'd slap her for some other reason. All she wanted right now was to get her hands on that damn dog and beat some sense into it. For a reason she couldn't explain, the thought of hurting the poodle satisfied her, made her smile while she walked along the sidewalk. She'd just returned from the 'Doggie Style' groomer in midtown when she opened the car door,. Before she could get hold the poodle's collar, the dog bolted. Oh, she hated that dog. And hated that her husband insisted she take the poodle once a week to a place called 'Doggie Style'. While passing a line of hedges, she spotted an envelope poking out from under the leaves. She stooped, grabbed the envelope and studied the address. It was a couple blocks away. She hoped the mailman wasn't that careless with her mail. Stuffing the envelope in the pocket of her gray sweatpants, she scanned the street ahead for her husband's dog.

Inside the cream-colored house, the woman still wrapped in her white terri-cloth bathrobe picked the arm of the record player up, and dropped it so the needle fell onto the edge of the vinyl. The record screeched, then came the lamenting music she'd been listening to all day. She went into the kitchen and poured herself another drink. What was her husband not telling her? He hadn't been home in two weeks and when he called the previous night, he said he wanted to tell her -- But, of course, he didn't finish his statement. Always he'd had a difficult time expressing his feelings. Always he resorted to writing letters instead. He promised the letter that revealed everything had already been deposited at the post office. She suspected bad news. She tried calling his cell phone a dozen times. But he wouldn't pick up. Why not? Raising her glass to her lips, the woman inside the cream-colored house closed her eyes and thought, It's over. After all this time it's over and there's not a thing I can do about it. She set her drink on the coffee table, went to the window, parted the curtains and watched for the mailman.

The poodle strutted, its clipped tail bobbing behind him. Free. He'd never felt so free. Free to jam his nose into the dirt. Free to search scents out from the other dogs that had passed this way. He stopped to leave his mark on every tree, hedge, mailbox, car tire, and fire hydrant he came across. Proudly, he held his head up and shot a stream of urine on a car tire, grinning as the rubber grew moist. He resumed his trot, moving at a casual, confident pace, slowing only when a car drove past, slowing to make sure it wasn't someone -- especially the bitch -- chasing after him. Irritated dogs barked from behind wooden fences. He barked back and laughed. Those trapped fools, he thought. Not me, though. Not today. Not ever again, perhaps.

If he were able to scream, and if he had arms he could raise up in the air and flail, the mailbox would have done so. He would have shouted out a warning to the postman, told him to watch where he was going! He couldn't do that, though, so when the postman's truck crashed into him, the mailbox fell backward onto the grass. He could do nothing but lay there and stare at his splintered wooden post. He stared up at the big hot sun and felt the laughing sprinkler's spray continue to splash over him.

An instant before the postman's truck smashed into the mailbox, the postman glanced up from the batch of mail he'd been gathering. Then -- BANG -- the wooden post of the mailbox was against the grill of his truck. Damn, he thought. Damn, damn, damn. His cheating wife was still on his mind, the images of her bucking in bed with someone wouldn't leave. He looked at the broken post in front of him and hopped out of his truck. Reprimanded. That's what he could expect. Reprimanded for being so careless. But maybe, he thought, and glanced around. Maybe no one had seen him hit the mailbox. Of course, there would be no such luck. Not for him. Why should there? The day was destined to be bad. He should have called in. Here he was working on the hottest day of the year and he was sure his wife was inside an air-conditioned hotel room, romping naked with her lover under cool clean sheets. The postman sighed when he spotted the woman come out of the cream-colored house and hurry his way.

The woman crossing the lawn held her robe shut at the throat. When she reached the postman, she said, "I'm looking for a letter." She did not pay attention to the toppled mailbox. "Do you have a letter for me?" she asked, worry in her red-rimmed eyes. "It's very important."

The postman ran the back of his arm across his sweaty forehead. "Ma'am," he said, trying to explain. "I'm terrible sorry about the mailbox. I just looked away from the road for a second . . . "

The woman bit her lower lip. "Please. Do I have any mail?"

The postman dug through the bundle of letters in his trembling hands. He shook his head. "Nothing," he said. "I'm sorry." The woman sighed, whirled, and started back to her porch. The postman shouted after her, "I'm gonna call the office, get this fixed for you. I promise someone will be right out. We'll get this mailbox standing again." He watched her open the front door, them slam it shut behind her. He got back behind the wheel of his truck and backed off the sidewalk. For a moment he stared at the mailbox lying on the grass. Before driving off, he mumbled, "She's probably fucking her lover right this minute."

The Doggie Style? How humiliating was that? What people must think when the see me go in and out of that place. The woman in the gray sweatpants stopped in front of the splintered mailbox post. Where the hell was the dog? She suddenly remembered the letter she'd found beneath the hedge. She dug the letter out of her pocket and was about to walk around the sprinklers to the front door of the cream-colored house when she spotted the poodle. There you are, she thought. She glared as the dog strutted boldly ahead on the sidewalk, his groomed ass shifting side to side as if mocking her. She bore her teeth and hollered out the dog's name. Then she jammed the letter pack into her pocket and started running in the direction of the dog.

The dog stopped and half-turned his head. Someone had called out his name. Who? Oh, crap, he thought. How'd she find me? He stood frozen as the woman in the gray sweatpants closed the distance between them. The poodle's heart jumped and without looking, he bolted into the street.

The postman's mouth went wide. He pounded his brake pedal and winced when he felt the thump under his tires. Crap, he thought. Not again. Not again. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel and pounded the dashboard with a fist. Not again. Not again. Slowly, he raised his head and got out of the truck. Instinctively, his right hand hovered over a can of dog spray that was attached to his belt. Just in case. When he came around the hood of the car he saw the dog lying there with its eyes wide open. He knew. He knew he'd killed the poor thing.

Panting, trying to catch her breath, the woman in the gray sweatpants whose dog had just been run over reached the front of the mail truck. She covered her mouth with her hands. The postman paced back and forth, his hands in the air above his head, the words, Oh, man. Oh, man, repeatedly escaping his throat. The woman in the gray sweatpants said nothing. She just stared at the road where the poodle lay motionless and unblinking. Then she started to laugh.

The postman quit pacing. He said, "The dog came out of nowhere. It just shot out of the bushes or something." He studied the woman whose hands were still covering her face. "Is this your dog?" he asked. She nodded. She was laughing. The postman thought, She's going to make trouble. "Look, lady," he said. "You can't blame me for this. There's a leash law in the city, you know." He waited for her to respond, but she said nothing. Her eyes were wide and glassed over, and she kept laughing.

Inside the cream-colored house the woman emptied the bottle into her glass and carried the glass into the bathroom. She set the plug in the bathtub, ran the hot water. While she waited for the tub to fill, she opened the medicine cabinet and removed a bottle of tablets. She twisted the cap off and with the last of her gin she swallowed the bottle's contents. He got what he wanted, she thought. It wasn't her fault that she couldn't have sex with him. The doctor had told them both it could kill her. But it's all right. It's all right. He's happy now. She slipped out of her white robe and stepped into the steaming tub. She laid down in the water and watched the steam curl around the bathroom before she shut her eyes.

There would be no escaping a beating tonight. Still, she believed she'd never seen anything so funny as the poodle lying there with its snout in a growing pool of blood. She touched the bruise on her cheek again. Then she checked her watch. She didn't need him, anyway. She had more than enough time to pack her bags and get out of that miserable house. No more beatings. No more embarrassing visits to the Doggie Style. No more following the pampered poodle around with a pooper scooper. She continued to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to swipe her eyes.

The postman murmured, "I've got to stay focused. Too much bad stuff is happening." The laughing woman bent over the dog. Her hands dropped from her face to cup her knees. She continued laughing. What the hell? the postman thought. What's going on today?. First the mailbox, now the dog. My wife is screwing her lover. This lady in front of me can't stop laughing. What's going on? The postman took a deep breath and pulled his cellp hone from his pocket. He called his supervisor. Oh, he's got troubles now. Real troubles. He hated his wife. He hated her.

Still laughing, still crying, the woman whose husband's dog lay splattered on the road reached into her pocket and came up with the letter she'd found earlier. She shook her head, handed the envelope to the postman and smiled. "This was on the ground," she said. "I found --" But she couldn't finish. She started to laugh again.

The postman took the letter. He noticed the address and wondered if it was the letter the woman in the cream-colored house so desperately wanted. He began laughing, too.

In a midtown hotel room, a man laying naked in bed stroked the hair of the woman beside him. He scooted closer against her naked body. "My wife should have the letter by now," he said. The woman beside him closed her eyes. "I told her I wanted a divorce," he said. But this was a lie. He never could speak his thoughts. Always he wrote letters. What the woman beside him didn't know was that on the following day she would receive a letter. A letter that said goodbye. The letter he'd written to his wife was one asking for forgiveness. She needed him more than he imagined. He realized that now. How could he had been so blind. Even now, with his lover in his arms, he missed his wife more than anything.

The postman's wife sat up in bed suddenly and said, "My, God! What time is it?" The man next to her looked at his watch and replied, "A little past two." "Lordy," the mailman's wife said. "Oh, Lordy. I have to get going. My husband will be finished with his route by now. He's been acting strange lately. Been asking a lot of questions." She quickly stepped into her jeans and yanked them up. She snatched her blouse of a chair next to the bed and as she slipped her arms into it, she went to the window. Across the street, faint in the sun's glare, a neon light flashed on and off. She squinted, trying to read what it said. And while she buttoned her blouse, she asked her lover, "What the hell is a Doggie Style? A restaurant or something?"

The man who did not yet know his beloved poodle had been run over by the postman came out of the Doggie Style. He raised the paper bag he was carrying and peered into it. He grinned. His poopsie would love the red silk ribbons and the tinny poodle sweater. Walking with his knees high and his arms swinging, the man couldn't wait to get home and bury his face in his baby's fur.

On the lawn in front of the cream-colored house, the mailbox felt the sprinkler spit droplets of water over him. He felt the sun's hot rays burn into him. Even if he could get up on his own, he probably wouldn't bother. Something was wrong inside the house. He felt it. And a heavy sadness fell over him. As the sun traveled from one side of the sky to the other, he simply lay brooding under the sprinkler on the soaked spongy lawn.