That old house was an eyesore. Broken down cars in what passed for a backyard. An old travel trailer, with the door falling off its hinges, slumped back there too, crammed full of who knows what with all of it subjected to the Pacific Northwest weather. That same weather nourished the blackberry bushes that engulfed an entire side of the place.
The owner had at least one dog. I knew that because I had to thread my way through its creamy piles on the sidewalk in front and along the walkway leading to the porch as I made my way daily to the mailbox. The front door was often open, at least in the summer, but the interior was too dark to discern much. I imagined the inside was just as unkempt as the outside. The one redeeming quality was that the dog never made an appearance.
Though there hadn't been much activity there, things got really quiet a couple months later. What little mail I delivered, regular bills and the junk everyone gets, stacked up. After a few weeks it was apparent no one was around anymore. The resident hadn't turned in a change of address form, so I didn't know if he skipped town or what was happening. Then a "for sale" sign appeared in the yard. I found out the owner had died. Out of curiosity I looked at the real estate company's listing on-line and learned that the place was "not for the faint of heart," "a real fixer-upper." The few accompanying photos (why would they show those?!) confirmed my suspicions as to the condition of the interior--deplorable. The asking price was about one-third of what comparable homes in the neighborhood would command. And even that was too much in my estimation.
But about two weeks later the for-sale sign was gone. Someone had the courage to buy the dilapidated place. In another week I began to see action there. A giant dumpster replaced the wrecks in the back, and it steadily filled with debris from inside and out. As I passed one day I paused to talk with the new owner, an older guy. He had to pay $50 thousand over the list price in order to best seventeen other offers. That stunned me, but he figured that if he put in twice that amount in restoring the house he'd still be ahead if he chose to flip it. But he intended to give it to his daughter after the extensive renovations.
Over the course of the summer, hardly a day passed when I didn't hear hammering, sawing, or some other racket as workers gutted the inside, tearing it down to the studs. Everything that could be replaced was. As fall neared, repairs to the exterior began: new windows, siding, and porch. Finally, a mini-backhoe re-landscaped the lot, and a new lawn was seeded. It was an amazing transformation; from something that should've had a match tossed into it, to a very respectable domicile.
One lucky woman was getting an almost new home.
I expected her to move in right away, but that didn't happen. Days became weeks and then months. It wasn't until the calendar showed spring's near arrival that vehicles jammed with boxes appeared. As I was only in that area for several minutes each day while walking my route, I seldom saw the folks who were unpacking the goods and moving them inside. But there was one woman, occasionally seen and from at least half a block away, whose shape stoked my imagination. Hers was an hourglass figure with a little more padding all over, smoothing the contours.
Not that I expected anything to happen. I didn't even know if she was my new customer. Or if she was, if she was in my age range--maybe I could be her grandparent for all I knew. But "what ifs" livened my mostly mundane days when I hit her street.
And then it happened. Whenever someone moved in they started buying new stuff, which meant I had to deliver those packages. That takes time. The managers don't think so, and still expect me to finish my route "on time." She was getting several a week, and while none of them were of the hernia-inducing variety, I began to resent the extra effort needed.
So it went for another few weeks. I'd get a long-distance look at her from houses away as she entered or exited, but never a close-up as I was putting a package on the porch, though I caught movement through the window. These sporadic views were enough to suggest, at least in my mind, that she was not so young as to be completely out of bounds for someone my age.
One day when I was swamped, really hustling to make my time, I had a parcel for her. Just as I topped the final step the door swung open and we were face to face, each surprised to encounter the other and momentarily speechless. After untangling my tongue, I managed a lame "Here's your package."
"Oh, thank you sir."
I really didn't like being call "sir," so replied with "My name is Sam."
"Okay, Sam it is. Mine's Maureen."
"I know."
"You do?"
"That's how the mail is addressed anyway."
"Of course," she said with a sheepish smile.
The conversation stalled there. I stumbled down the few steps as she followed toward her car parked on the street. I pretended to fiddle with the mail in my satchel so I could check her out some more. I liked what I saw. She gave me a toot on the car's horn as she pulled away.
Despite the need to get a move-on, I lingered. That smile! It highlighted her full lips and had my mind racing abut what else that mouth might be capable of. Shoulder length brown hair framed her face perfectly. I think her eyes were brown, too, but was too flustered to be sure. I judged Maureen to be near fifty, certainly someone I could consider fair game.
Then my Mobile Delivery Device, the scanner, started beeping. That damn thing betrayed my every move, letting the boss know if I was on the move, or heaven forbid, stationary. Being stationary for more than a couple of minutes was tantamount to goofing off and could lead to a minor headache.
The flow of packages slowed, but often when I stepped onto the porch Maureen was behind the window with a wave and that dazzling smile. There'd been only a few occasions when we'd had a chance to chat a bit, and those moments always made my day. Somehow it took me awhile to notice that she had an ample bosom. Normally that wouldn't escape my attention for so long, but I guess my eyes were drawn to her face and that ever-ready smile. And the fact that she was easy to talk with, once I'd gotten over my shyness and being somewhat intimidated by a good-looking woman. But once those boobs were on my radar I had another reason to ponder every mailman's fantasy.
It was an unseasonably warm October afternoon. That day I had a parcel for Maureen that needed her signature. That would allow me to have some time to visit with her. I knocked and half a minute later the door opened, but just a crack. Maureen's sweet voice said, "Who is it?"
"It's Sam."
