Page 58 of Big Sexy Love
Seth shrugs. ‘I forgot, Iguess.’
I wonder how someone can just go through life not being prepared for anything. I bet he thinks he can just charm his way out of any trouble he might get himself into. Jumping queues because he didn’t charge his laptop, getting under other people’s umbrellas in the rain, avoiding getting kicked in the goolies by women he publicly humiliated for alaugh.
Above us a huge roll of thunder booms out of the sky. I decide to begenerous.
‘Well, you’ll be no use to me with hypothermia,’ I say, handing the umbrella to Seth so he doesn’t have to crouch, and getting under itwithhim.
‘We’re about five minutes away from the Post Office,’ Seth shouts over the sounds of the rain spattering onto the brollyaboveus.
‘Cool,’ I reply, feeling strangely self-conscious as we try to walk in sequence under the umbrella, our arms bumping up against eachother.
Eventually we reach the Post Office building – a big tan-coloured structure that looks like it was airlifted in straight from the nineteen-seventies. Seth pushes open the glass door and holds itforme.
The décor inside is beige and drab – a bit like how Donna decorated the living room at our house in Saddleworth. Thankfully it’s pretty quiet and we don’t have to wait too long to see someone. My balloon is popped, though, when I realise that the man assigned to help us is a real jobsworth who doesn’t seem to want to helpatall.
‘You posted an unaddressed letter?’ he says for themillionthtime.
‘It was an ACCIDENT,’ I reply for themillionthtime.
As the man rants and raves about the amount of stupid people in New York who don’t send mail correctly, I make a kind of snarly noise. Beside me, Seth laughs, which doesn’t helpatall.
‘Well, of course you will need to submit a formal request in writing,’ Jobsworth says, running his hand up and down his tie. ‘And then that will have to be processed. Could take a week. Could take a month. You nevercantell.’
I put my head in my hands. ‘Dude, can’t you just go into a back room and search through the lost and found? I only sent ityesterday!’
The man folds his arms. I think he’s getting madatme.
‘Do you watchSunday Night Live?’ Seth asks suddenly, leaning his elbows onto the counter and smiling at the man in achummyway.
I roll my eyes. He’s so arrogant. Expecting that he can just charm his way around any problem, like he did with the check-in assistant at theairport.
‘Of course,’ the man says, as surely as if Seth had just asked him if he hadanose.
Seth lowers his voice. ‘I work onthatshow.’
The man frowns. ‘I don’trecogniseyou.’
‘I’m not a cast member – not yet at least – I’m a writer for the show and if you can get me this letter, I have two tickets for you.Frontrow.’
The man studies us both with an expression of deep distrust. ‘I don’tbelieveyou.’
Seth reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a worn, childish-looking wallet. It looks like the kind of canvas wallet Alex had when he was about thirteen. Seth slides out a lanyard. I peeratit.
Seth Hartman Senior Writer – Sunday Night Live. RockefellaCentre.
The Post Office man goggles. And immediately disappears into abackroom.
Twenty minutes later, he returns brandishing the letter like it’s the golden snitch. I grab it off him and immediately burst into tears, hugging the letter to mychest.
‘Thank God, thank God, thank God!’ I whisper, kissing the letter, my hands shaking. I hadn’t quite realised how terrified I’d been about losing ituntilnow.
‘Thanks to you!’ I say to Post Office guy, reaching up to give him a kiss on thecheek.
‘Thanks to you!’ I say to Seth, not kissing his cheek but holding my hand out to formally shake hisagain.
Why the floop do I keepdoingthat?
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