Eric Dimbleby - White Out

Suddenly, I feel real close to the cats.

I kind of respect them, even though I hate their fucking guts.

I go into the bedroom so I can take a nap.

The cats don’t follow me, cause they’re too busy nibblin’ on Marianne.

As I try to fall asleep, I keep going back and forth about the cats, wondering whether I’m going to exterminate ’em or not. I need to sleep on it. They don’t seem too rotten now that I seen the Devil inside them. I might even get used to the pissy smell if I stick around long enough.

The snoopy bastard has been coming around for a couple of days now, but I think the snow is getting too deep for him. I watch him struggle, trying to force his way up to the mail slot, tossing some inconsequential bullshit in—ads for supermarkets that nobody could even get to anymore, coupons for one-toppin’ pizzas, and bills from the state or the city or whoever the hell else wants to ram something painful up my asshole.

It would cause some suspicion if the mailman disappeared, but maybe not much longer. The world is going to shit, one squeeze at a time, and a mailman could go missing anywhere in the goddamned arctic tundra outside. If there is one thing I’m sure of, it’s this right here: when the shit really hits the fan, people stop pretending to care about each other.

Sure, they put on a nice front. They smile and offer help. Oh boo fuckin’ hoo for you… let me lend you a hand. They just wanna go the fuck home though, ya hear? They wanna watch TV, see what their sports team is up to. They wanna play violent video games and bitch about the government. They wanna eat a hamburger, then jerk off into a sock or maybe even their wife’s tuna can, if they’re lucky enough to be married to a woman who puts out. Zing.

Nobody wants to help you.

Got it?

Nobody’s going to help you except your own damn self. Yep, if you got a family they’ll stick up for you real nice, but even they’ll screw you over the first chance they get. You’re all alone, buddy, just like me. Except that I have the balls to admit it.

He’s knocking at the door now. The motherfucker wants something. I wait for a short while, hoping that he’ll go away but he keeps on knocking, louder and louder each time. Cocksucker! The United States Postal service can lick my taint.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I say, smiling at the man that stands before me. Gusts of wind push some flurries of snow through the door, makin’ me shiver a little.

The mailman nods, looking cold and a little pissed off. He’s got a mustache, a thick black one that looks like he takes good care of it. I can respect a clean lookin’ mustache, but it doesn’t quite work on this dope’s face. His big round eyeballs look like he’s got about four workin’ brain cells, and the fourth one is just about to sizzle out of business for good.

“Good afternoon. Didn’t you hear me knocking?” the man asks. The balls on him!

“Sorry, I had m’television turned up kinda loud cause my hearin’ isn’t so good these days. I was watching an action movie, a real fun flick with that Bruce Willis fella.” A fun flick. You hear me talkin’ like this? Your old pal Edgar is the best liar who ever lived.

The man looks shocked at this revelation, and then I realize why. Stupid me.

“You have electricity in there?”

“Generator.” Smooth as silk, motherfucker.

His face gets all twisty-like as he hands over a stack of envelopes. “Funny, Marianne never mentioned having a generator.”

Because Marianne is a goddamned twit, that’s why, Mr. Postal Dude. This shit better stop asking so many questions. That’s a dangerous thing to do, whether he knows it or not.

“Well, that’s cause its brand new. Just put it in after the storm started up, before it got too nasty to drive. It’s hummin’ around the back.”

He puts his finger to his ear, as if he is listening for it. The bastard doesn’t believe me. Sure, I’m a liar, but I’m a damned good one. I try not to look offended, even though I am.

“Can’t hear it, what with all the wind,” I say. He smiles at me, finally giving up on his interrogation. For now, at least.

“The name’s Skipper,” he says, reaching his hand out to shake mine. I take it. His hand feels like a wet fish, all floppy and slick and cold as hell. The snow is still gusting in from outside, and I begin to wonder how long all these fuckin’ formalities will take. It’s blinding out there. I hope he doesn’t plan on staying, cause he certainly ain’t invited to.

Skipper. What the hell kind of name is that? Obviously a nickname, but who the fuck would pick that for a nickname? If I knew a kid named Skipper when I was a kid, I probably would have put snakes in his locker. Probably would have ripped him a new one.

“They call me Edgar,” I say as I pull my hand away from the flippy-floppy mackerel. “Much obliged,” I say, holding up the mail he is delivered to me and pretending to look through it as if it is very important to me. It’s all about living the lie.

Skipper says, “I came knocking because I just wanted to let you all know that we won’t be delivering any more mail until after the storm ends. It’s going on a couple weeks now. We just can’t do it any longer.”

“No problem. It must be a pretty rough job with all this weather.”

Skipper nods, grinning as he says, “You don’t know the half of it. I used to do my route in about five hours. Now it takes me eleven. Only reason you all are still getting mail is because we got ourselves a couple of snowmobiles.”

“I’m surprised anybody is even sending mail anymore.” Suburbia, I think to myself, is the only place in the world where anybody actually gives a shit about the mail. There ain’t nothin’ good about the mail. It’s another trap we set for ourselves, makin’ it so we can’t leave. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Gotta check the mail. Fuck that noise.

“I expect it to stop altogether pretty soon. Storm’s gonna end eventually, like all these storms do, but it’s coming in at a slow trickle now. Marianne used to get twenty or so things a day, mostly those cat magazines and advertisements, but now she’s only getting like two or three.”

Oh, what a loyal fucking mailman. He even knows all his customers by name, even knows how much mail they get. He’s a creep, that’s what he is. He’s a creep and he’s probably got the hots for Marianne. I sort of want to tell him what I did to her, to see if he starts cryin’ like a little girl.

“Speaking of,” he says, and I already know what he’s gonna drop on me next, “is Marianne home? If you don’t mind, I’d like to tell her in person that we won’t be delivering for a bit. I know she’ll be really upset about it, what with all the stuff she gets. She gets real excited when her magazines come, I know she looks forward to them all month.”

“Marianne’s in the shower.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I bite my tongue. I swear to my savior the lord Jesus Christ that I’m a way better liar than this. I’m just having an off day. All these mangy cats are gettin’ my allergies in a tizzy and makin’ me think funny thoughts. This ain’t typical, ya’ hear?

Then he asks the question that I know is coming next. “You guys have hot water still?”

“No.” But really, I should have said yes. “Yes,” I say. He’s got me scramblin’ and I hate that feeling.

Skipper looks mighty confused. “All the pipes in my house are frozen. It must be the electric you get from the generator, right? Shouldn’t you be conserving though?”

“I need to—,” I start to say, but then the Skipper interrupts me.

His moustache sort of dances as he makes a mean looking face. “Let me talk to Marianne,” he says, “right now.”