The end of the month is approaching and, with it, the never-ending cycle of new phone and rent and malpractice and other bills that must be paid at the office, and phone, electric, gas, cable, and (of course) charge card bills at home.
The bills arrive with distressing predictability and regularity. (OK, we seem to have lost last month's electric bill at home -- unless it's lost in my briefcase -- I'll look later -- but I'm pretty sure we got it, too.)
What doesn't come are checks.
In my mind's eye I see the mail sorting room from Miracle on 34th Street. Letters going to various offices in Chicago's Loop are cheerfully sorted, without much comment. One of the two guys at the end fishes out an envelope from the stream, only it's not a letter to Santa; it's a check for Curmudgeon. "Look," he tells his buddy, "here's another one. Don't these guys ever learn?"
His buddy pulls something from his back pocket, but it's not the newspaper with the story about Macy's Santa Claus on trial; it's an official-looking memo. "Yeah, he's still on the no-pay list."
"Dead letter office then?"
And instead of getting an inspiration to send the impounded envelops to the nice old man with whiskers at the courthouse, the other guy says, simply, "Yup."
I wake up in a sweat.
I know there's no such memo. At least in my more rational moments I know there's no such memo.
At least I'm pretty sure.
Most of the time.
The rest of the time I'm waiting for the mailman.
No comments:
Post a Comment