The Interview by Eric Weule

later.”
    Half hour down and not a piece of mail had stirred on Route Eight. I
needed a cigarette. I took a break.

CHAPTER NINE

    THE POST OFFICE’S POLICY ON air conditioning in the workplace
is crank it in the winter and leave it off during the summer. It
makes us sturdy and impervious to the elements. It also makes me a
cranky bitch. When nine o'clock rolled around and Graciella dragged
her fat ass over to my case. I was well past the bitch phase.
    She tapped me on the shoulder. I popped an earbud out and listened to
her say, “I need to see you in the office, Kelly.”
    “Can't”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I can't. I'm working. I have an OTDT that requires me to be
out of here in thirty minutes.”
    “That doesn't concern me.”
    “Doesn't concern me all that much either, but it gives me a
good excuse.”
    “In the office. Now.”
    I looked at her and smiled the most irritating smile I could come up
with. Judging by the way her eyes caught fire, I nailed it. “Jimmy's
off today. No union rep. No office. Those are the rules. Anything
else?”
    She flared her nostrils, then walked away.
    Thelma popped out and said, “She's their spy.”
    “And there's a probe stuck up her ass.”

    THREE HOURS LATER I SAT on the back bumper of my truck, smoked a
cigarette, and watched two potheads try and take their Christmas
lights down.
    It was the middle of July, over a hundred degrees out, and for the
life of me, I could not imagine what their motivation was. The lights
had been up this long, why now?
    Mr. Allen came out of his garage.
    “Kelly,” he greeted me.
    “Mr. Allen.” I handed him a cigarette and my lighter. He
lit up, thanked me, and handed the lighter back. We stared at the two
geniuses as they tried to decide how to get the lights down.
    “Why today?” he asked.
    “I know, right? I was just thinking that. We're on the
downhill slide to Christmas. Why not just leave 'em up?”
    “They're probably decorating the garage. Kid plays drums till
three in morning.” Mr. Allen is pretty hip for a retired
Boeing engineer. He's in his seventies, but looks really good. Better
than I do on some days. He comes out a couple times a week and smokes
a cigarette with me. Never says much, just smokes. His wife gives me
a fifty-dollar Target card every Christmas. She promised she'd make
it a hundred if I stopped giving her husband smokes. I don't really
shop at Target.
    “Yeah, I've never seen his parents.”
    “He's never around. Got a girlfriend out in Palm Springs. Comes
home every couple weeks to make sure the kid hasn't died on the lawn,
then goes back.”
    “Huh.”
    “It's a shame. The kid's got some talent. He wastes most of it
on the front porch, smoking bud.”
    “Dude,” the kid on the roof called down to his buddy.
“How am I going to get down?”
    “Should I call the ambulance now?” he asked.
    “I don't have a cell phone so it's going to be you.”
    “Liar. Everyone has a cell phone.”
    “What happened to the ladder?” The kid on the ground
spun around in circles. I could see no ladder. The kid fell down
laughing. “We lost the ladder!”
    “That's not cool, man. How am I going to get down?”
    “Genius climbed out the window behind him five minutes ago.
There is no ladder,” said Mr. Allen.
    “Do you think I can jump?”
    Oh, this should be good. It was a good ten feet down.
    “Oh, yeah. You could totally make it.”
    “He's going to break his neck,” I said.
    “No. Look, he's going to build his courage up first.” We
watched as he popped a joint in his mouth and fired it up. “You
really don't have a cell?”
    “Nope. No wife. No kids. I don't have anybody I want to talk to
that badly. People know how to find me.”
    “I remember when I used to go for walks and no one bothered me.
Now, I go for a walk and my wife calls me every five minutes to make
sure I didn't get lost. We were on our way up to the Hollywood Bowl
last week. We're already halfway there, right. My wife starts doing
this