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All The Trouble At The Post Office
Late Friday night, Br'er Juan braved the mean streets of Jacksonville Beach to visit the Post Office. As he drove into the parking lot, he noticed a shape furtively moving to a spot near the door. He climbed out of his truck and walked to the entrance, keeping an eye on the dark shape. "Help a Wietnam Wet," said the shape. "Hello, Stumpy," said Br'er Juan. "I thought the cops had run you away." "Thir, thith ith Federal Property, and I am a Wietnam Wet. The polith have no thay over me here." Stumpy rattled the cigar begging box he carried. Br'er Juan pushed past. As he approached his post office box, Br'er Juan noted an orange glow through the little glass window. When he opened the box, he found a day-glow orange key to one of the aisle way lockers. That meant he had a package. Maybe Artcraft Chemicals had mailed his amidol rather than UPS it. Br'er Juan opened the locker. Instead of a large package of chemicals, there was a small, flat package. Scuzzydog Books in Houston was the return address. Stumpy pushed the post office door open. "What the matter, fool?" "I've got Alzheimer's," shouted Br'er Juan. "I've bought something from eBay and don't remember doing it." He pulled the package from the locker as Stumpy slid over to look. "Open it," said Stumpy. "Maybe it drugth." Br'er Juan carefully slit the package open. "All The Trouble In The World," by P.J. O'Roark. "Ah, ha. This is what Mahone sent me. I'm not senile after all." "Don't be tho thur," said Stumpy. "That a wonderful book. I read it while they thill let me in the library. Read the part about Wietnam. It great."
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