3624 Melody Lane
He arrives on Mondays and Thursdays in his pressed, coffee-colored uniform. I have ordered him just so by filling out forms for how-to books, glow-in-the-dark lampshades, automatic toasters, and, of course, fresh coffee. “Order Brown,” I hum while pouring my first cup.

I met him by accident after mistakenly choosing a too-large teddy from See-Through Visions. He came with a smirk and a nod, with shoulders broad enough to carry a returned writing desk. His dark hair covered his eyebrows but not his ears. After I charged some Jowell hairdresser scissors, he trimmed it.

Up by dawn, I listen for his large rectangle of a truck. He leaves his door open, so he can see me in my bedroom window. I smile but do not wave. I take my time descending the stairs. I am the highlight of his day. I let him ring the bell three times before I answer. If he wore a hat, he would tip it coming and going.
Sometimes, he doesn’t arrive until noon, but I forgive him. To solve the problem, I have ordered him three new watches. One is a Rolex knock-off with a tortoise strap to match his tux. Another is from Walt Disney World, Mickey chasing Minnie around a cherub. He can wear this to our private picnics at World’s End State Park. The last timepiece is especially designed for our deep sea diving trips to the Bahamas. He knows they are for him, and thanks me twice when I sign his slips. Timing is important. I wait.

3626 Melody Lane
Every time Postcard, my Chihuahua, hears that gas-hogging truck next door, of course he’s going to yap. Wouldn’t you? The thing is a monster and all rattle. The only thing I can do is take him out. Let him stretch his little legs. It’s hard being so small. It calms him to pee on the tires or go in the neighbor’s garden near her marigolds. Good fertilizer too. But does she thank me? Once she ordered me an aluminum pooper scooper with his name on it—Postcard McKenzie. I sent it back for the refund and got binoculars instead. I’ll let you know what I see. As far as I can tell, he never goes in. With her toothpick legs, who’d want to?

3625 Melody Lane
Though she works odd hours and lives in a small cape cod, that new pretty gal across the street is loaded. I know. At least twice a week, the UPS truck stops near her front walk. I’ve seen packages as large as refrigerators and as small as ring boxes. Her light is always on, waiting. She takes a long time signing the release. Almost fifty, she wears mail-order negligees; gives women a bad name. Not like my Janie, rest her soul. They’re not all spendthrifts, you know. Some of them wait for the mailman for that Social Security check. Now there’s a man you can depend on. I should know, having been one for forty years. That was then.

In my day, you’d get your kisses delivered with a stamp. You had to have patience for love and a good writing hand. The boy would win the girl with words. That’s where the romance was. How could you wrap the world up with a bow? What sweet nothings could a fellow pen to his girl? What would she write in reply? I smelled perfume on many of the letters I delivered, but was one ever opened? Not a one. We respected privacy back then. You can’t buy that by typing on fancy computers. Maybe that’s where she works—that E-Bay place. Must get a discount.

UPS Guy
The job? Well, I could take it or leave it. It’s just temporary until my book gets picked up by some big publishing house and all these lonely old gals and know-nothing yuppies will see my name in the stacks at Barnes and Nobles. Funny thing is, right now I’m the one collecting their autographs, if you know what I mean. I put that in the book. The job has its perks like that. You get to thinking things. Like why did a parent choose the name Syracuse? Or, does your wife know that you’re ordering six fake diamond bracelets? Or, how many times can you ring a doorbell before it wears out?

You can tell which neighbors hate which neighbors on account of how they react when you ask them to take a package. Some are delighted, and you think they might keep the new paisley curtains for themselves. Others whine and complain that it’s a one-way relationship, since they never get to go away themselves and are always looking after the neighbor’s house. They probably pick up the newspapers, too. I tell them to just say no. It’s surprising what they tell you about each other. For instance, I found out this way that a priest on Murray Ave. got cut out of his father’s will, and that a school teacher on Pensacola embezzled from the athletic fund at her school. Go figure.

You also can tell a hell of a lot by the way someone signs a name. Some go all corny on you with hearts and swirls. Some try to make you think they are doctors with their impossible-to-decipher scribbles. Wives sign husbands’ names; husbands sign wives’ names. I even have a few who sign Marilyn Monroe or Bill Clinton—as if I wouldn’t notice, although really, it’s all the same to me, as long as I can leave the package and go my way.

And there are other perks, too. There’s a guy down on Jefferson who saves all his Playboys for me, and a few over-the-hillers who put on a little extra lipstick when I come around. I give them a show, sure; what does it hurt? Some broads are lonely and could use a wink now and then. There’s this one, a divorcee, I think, who must have stock in Victoria Secret. A nice face, but too bad I can’t put some of those Playboy chicks under all that face and lace. It’s a shame to waste the fancy stuff on sag and bones. She tries, though, I got to give her that. All gussied up for someone. She doesn’t say much, but she orders more than all her neighbors put together. Strange stuff, too. Who really wears a Disney watch where Mickey has a hard-on for Minnie? She showed me that one the next week. Hell if I know what to say; I’m just a guy in brown. All I do is nod and keep delivering.

3624 Melody Lane
For a little extra, you can get Special Saturday Delivery. The first time, I’m not sure if it will be him (he could do the gym weekends, say, or have a second job giving massages. One look at those hands, and I’d sign on.). Plus, it’s raining and the ledge only covers so much, so he has on one of those brown UPS ponchos with a hood that half covers his face. Once I open the door, though, I know. The way he reaches out his arm. Those hands. Though he’s half my age, each of his fingers is twice as long as mine. The fingers of a pianist or a typist. (I confess I’ve written poems about them.) How can I not imagine them entwined with mine?

Lightning flashes and he pulls back his hood and smiles. Just like that. The rain pouring down behind him all romantic like in the movies. “Best service and lowest rates” scrolling across my mind. I’m just about to ask him in when he turns and waves to that widow next door, Mrs. McSomething, the one who won’t control her Chihuahua. She’s out walking the little yapper, even in this downpour, and wouldn’t you know it, she’s got a matching tiny raincoat on his skinny body. She holds an umbrella over him as he pees on my pansies.

3626 Melody Lane
Even under the umbrella, the binoculars fog up in the rain. I wipe the lenses with a tissue while keeping Postcard covered. He catches cold easily, but I need him. Together, we can sniff out the good stories, get close to the real doings. That one next door who claims to have been a model but got fired for getting old, that one, OK, I admit it, sometimes I feel sorry even for her. Not a dog to keep her company. Buys and buys and buys because her heart is empty. I know. She’s still trying to wiggle her hips for the delivery boy. I don’t know his name, but I call him Hank in my Roman de Clef, the one they’ll publish when I die. A real page-turner that will shock the neighbors. I had to make up what I couldn’t see, of course, poetic license and all, but I know exactly how it will end and who the readers will be. I’ve left detailed instructions in my will. I want a cover with one of those grocery-store heroines, slaving over a typewriter, a dog asleep on the floor of a candlelit room. I want my name in red on the spine. Rainy Day Romance, I’m calling it. The proceeds will go to Postcard.

3625 Melody Lane
One day I get so tired of that truck rattling out front and that all-alone curvy gal across the street coming out in little more than her underwear that I decide to write her a letter. I took a calligraphy class at the Forkville Community Retirement Center last March and need some practice anyway. After I get the pen, ink, and instructions sheet out, though, I look a while at Janie’s photo, the one where we are camping in the rain over by Logan. She’s drenched but smiling. When we weren’t loving, we wrote postcards while the rain pattered on top of the guaranteed water-proof tent. What a script she had, beautiful, long letters, and easy to read. She could fit more on a postcard and have it mean something than anyone I know. And her love letters to me—these kids today don’t know the meaning of romance. You got to create anticipation. Let me tell you, those are the days that come back to you in your old age.

I stare again at the black-and-white print, then say, “Maybe I’m being too hard on her, Janie. I know what lonely’s like. Can’t say I don’t. Eats at you. Maybe I’m just an old-fashioned softie like you always said. Maybe I am.” I re-arrange the pen, paper, and instructions sheet three times on my writing desk. Finally, I sit down and begin. Dear Miss, (obviously, she isn’t married.) I am enclosing a copy of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s tender love poems I spill a bit of ink under one of the g’s but turn the smudge into a small heart, make it all swirly.

Looking over what I’ve done so far, I add at the end of tender lover poems the words to her husband with a fancy underline and some curlicues. Maybe that will soften her up a bit, let her know that some of us are the settling down types. I pull my used copy that Jane gave me from its spot on the fireplace mantel. Its cover is worn; some of the pages dog-eared. I run my fingers over the gold trim on the cover. I memorized all the words twenty years back. Still, I take a moment just to hold it. I like how it feels in my hands. Like love. “I’m banking on getting it back,” I say to myself or the photo, I’m not sure which.

Carefully, I wrap it in leftover US Post Office tissue paper that I’ve been saving. Didn’t know why until now. I tuck the ends over, nice like. Then I go back to my writing desk and add to the letter. These poems were given to me by someone I loved very much. Shall we read them together? I’m surprised at myself, but continue anyways. Who says women are the only ones who can change their minds? I decide to go whole hog then and sketch two cherubs chasing each other across the bottom edge.

How to sign? That’s always the question. I stumble over that a bit, then simply put Henry. Straightforward. I know I’m twenty years her senior, but I’m as dependable as the mail (literally), and you couldn’t get much closer. Just thirty steps to cross the street. No way of getting lost. I put both the tissue-wrapped book and the note in a brown box (another leftover from my route days), then slip that into a plastic grocery bag. Every one knows you can’t trust that UPS. I’ll deliver it by hand, later when she’s not watching. A little bit of mystery makes the romance, I always say.

UPS Guy
The rain’s coming down like cats and dogs now (how do those old fogey mailmen deal with this shit year after year?), and I oversleep and am only now starting my Saturday deliveries. Already an hour behind. The extra cash is good, yea, but I’m drenched from the first few stops. They can’t wait two days and save the dough? Every woman who’s just bought something wants to chat, tell you all about it. My mouth is sore from smiling. I’m up for the role play most days, but who in his right mind can be in a good mood in this weather? Can’t they hear that thunder? What do they think, I have time to stand in the rain and giggle? Twenty houses to go. I swear, once the snow hits, I’m outta this gig. No life-long postal vow for me. That truck is a drunk skunk on skates.

3624 Melody Lane
An hour after Mrs—what’s her name again?— distracts my guy and postpones everything, I hear her Chihuahua making another ruckus. At first, I think he’s right outside my door, but by the time I get off the computer and to the front of the house, both the dog and that snoopy neighbor are up on the sidewalk. It’s just drizzling, but the dog still dons that silly raincoat. He probably keeps the old gal happy, though, I say to myself, and am surprised to find myself smiling. I shiver a bit and pull on a terry cloth robe from the hall closet.

I clear off a circle of fog from the front door window and watch them, a perfect pair, really, as they step together under her large, black umbrella. Both skinny and nervous. The books are right; owners and their pets do resemble each other. Maybe there’s something to having a dog, curled up there on the floor while you’re typing away on your computer. Keeping you company. Maybe.

I start to turn back to my coffee and my own half-written novel and catch a glimpse of something on the front step, just under the small overhang. It’s a plastic grocery bag, and for a moment I think I’ve forgotten that I’d ordered a delivery.

When I take it inside, though, I discover a plain brown mailing box. Inside, wrapped neatly in postal tissue paper, is a book by my favorite poet. I can hear myself taking three deep breaths. Then again. I pull my robe tighter and back away from the door. How could I not have heard him? Sometime in the last hour, he’d come back.

3626 Melody Lane
Postcard is taking her time: first eating her brunch of Purina Dog Chow and my leftover toast, then nursing a mailbox chew toy. I get a good hour in on Rainy Day Romance before she nips at my ankles, tries to put her paws up in my lap. It’s a wonder I ever get a page done. Turns out, though, she’s done me a favor. With our umbrella and matching raincoats, I take her back, the way she likes, to the neighbor’s flowerbed. But this time she’s not interested. It’s then I notice the plastic bag hung on the neighbor’s doorknob, half-on, half-off like it’s going to splat in the small puddle below. Naturally, that won’t do. Postcard and I pitter-patter our way over there. I’m about to ring the bell when I happen to notice the brown mailer inside. Book sized. A note card has fallen out of the box and is loose in the plastic. Just as Postcard and I guessed. Of course, I tuck it back in. While I’m doing that favor, I can’t help but notice the name Henry in fancy script.

Soon, I think to myself, he’ll shorten it to Hank.

And because he is young and should know better but doesn’t, I put the bag safely under the small front overhang. “Don’t they teach them anything at that UPS?” I whisper to Postcard.

3625 Melody Lane
Of course, I expect a reply by mail. Did I mention that I included a stamp? That will take at least a day but, really, it’s worth the wait. All that mystery just to end up right across the street. It’s exciting, sure.
After my second cup of coffee and three chapters of Dickens, I check again and, yes, the bag is gone and a back light on, at least I think that’s where the glow comes from. Of course, it will take a while for her to compose a reply, but not long to guess the sender. I introduced myself when she first moved in, tried to help her with that computer of hers (though the writing desk was too heavy for this old heart. That doesn’t mean it’s not alive and well in the ways that count. Right Janie?).

O Dear God, I hope she’s not typing her answer.

# # #

Sage Graduate Fellow of Cornell (MFA) and Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lock Haven University of Pennsylvania, Marjorie Maddox has published eleven collections of poetry—including True, False, None of the Above (Poiema Poetry Series); Local News from Someplace Else (Wipf and Stock); Wives’ Tales (2016 Seven Kitchens Press), Transplant, Transplant, Transubstantiation (Yellowglen Prize); and Perpendicular As I (Sandstone Book Award)—the short story collection What She Was Saying (2017 Fomite), and 460 stories, essays, and poems in journals and anthologies. Co-editor of Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania, she has published two children’s books. Please see www.marjoriemaddox.com

Photo credit: Terri Malone