It was a sweet awakening.  Albeit a wet, sloppy one.

“Good morning, Buzz Nuts.”

            I wiped the saliva from my mouth and squinted out the window. Blue skies. No clouds. There was no way this massive mutt of mine would forgo a good run in Central Park just because I was tortured on the squash court.  

            Bend your knees! Turn your body! Step into the shot! Get back to the T! Keep that racket up! Don’t just stand there. Move!

Ever so slowly I maneuvered myself out of bed and into an erect position.

“Son-of-a-bitch!” I cried, massaging the cheeks I hoped someday would develop into a shapely, defined, muscular, J.Lo-class posterior.

I also hoped someday I could actually play the game of squash without looking like a blind orangutan having a spaz attack. Me, a woman who had never held a racquet before let alone hit a ball. What was I thinking? 

All right, all right. Yes, there was a man involved in the equation. And yeah, my capacity for rational thought was severely compromised.

So there I was. A vision of beauty. Bundled up in layers and prepared for what the weatherman promised was another “mighty frigid day.” A ski jacket which, despite many washings, reeked from of eau de chien mouillié. An alpaca Chullo hat with a missing pompom. Oversized mittens. A Burberry cashmere scarf I swiped from my mother when she moved south. And a pair of hirsute boots from the Censoic era.

I fetched a stack of bills off my desk and turned to Buzz Nuts.

“Ready to go to the Park?”

An effusive response followed as she ran to the door.

“Hold on a minute. Lemme pee first. And we’ll be on our way.”  

Not so fast as it turned out. The keys to my apartment had gone missing. I found them after an extended search.  Still protruding from the keyhole of my front door.

I was in worse shape than I thought.

UNFORCED ERROR

Buzz Nuts ejected herself from the elevator at warp speed. With me and my compromised musculoskeletal system struggling to keep up. The lobby mailbox was bypassed. As were morning salutations. This was a dog on a time sensitive mission. No sooner had we exited the building than she relieved herself. We then crossed the street where she conducted more serious business. I, in turn, as a law-abiding citizen of the great city of New York, whipped out a plastic bag and made a collection.

Funnily enough, after so many years, I had never found it odd that on the corner of First Avenue, a garbage can and a United States Postal Box stood, centurion-like, within inches of each other.

Until that fateful sixth day of February. When, at precisely 7:03 AM, a deposit was placed into the wrong account!

“Oh…My…God!”

I pressed a hand to my mouth to muffle my scream. As I listed in the direction of the crime scene like some Edvard Munch-inspired ice sculpture gone bad. 

There was no doubt that I, Tallulah Greene, a forty-eight year old woman of some intellectual competence had unwittingly committed a federal offense.

I couldn’t exactly snake my arm into the bowels of the postbox and conduct an extraction. That might attract some unwanted attention.

What the hell was I going to do?

HIT AND RUN

Buzz Nuts yanked on her leash as if to suggest a swift departure might be the best solution. Given the time and the weather, the pool of witnesses to my crime was indeed sparse. I could actually turn on my heels and, like nothing had happened, head for the Park. Without looking back.

Who was I kidding?  It was totally against my nature to do that. I considered myself to be one of the more honest people I knew on the planet. Well, maybe in America. How about New York? Would you believe, the Upper East Side?  My block?  My closet?  So perhaps I had engaged in behavior these past six months that might be construed as, well, a bit underhanded. But those transgressions certainly did not give me a free pass to walk away from responsibility.

THE CAUSE AND EFFECT OF SHOTS

The time had come to request an audience with The Wise One…

Alberto Luis Santiago. My doorman. Who, lucky for me, had just begun his shift.  

Popular among many of the single women in my building, Alberto dispensed dating and relationship advice like a pro. He was also considered to be veritable oracle of urban wisdom.

“Oh, no, you didn’t!” he said, bursting into laughter.  “I’ve heard a lot of things, but this one, man, it’s a classic.”

I grabbed my skull as if to prevent a spontaneous combustion of gray matter. “It was a stupid, idiotic mistake.” 

“Quite a shitty one, I’d say!”  

The thought of my dog’s turds landing atop someone’s birthday greetings or even worse, a sympathy card, made my stomach turn. 

“Can you please try to be serious, Alberto? I need your help here. Should I call the Post Office?”  I didn’t wait for an answer and kept babbling.  “No, they’d probably think I was just some crazy person or something. 

“That’s a distinct possibility.” He looked at me as if to confirm I was, indeed, some crazy person. Or something. 

“I could just go over there. To the post office. You know, in person. And speak to somebody in charge.  And just tell them what happened. What I did. That it wasn’t intentional and I screwed up and…”

“You gotta calm down girl,” said Alberto, interrupting. “No disrespect here, but, I gotta tell ya, most everybody, they’d just walk away and forget about the whole damn thing.”   

“I can’t do that.” I didn’t confess that I had for a moment considered that route. “Really. I need to come clean.” 

In more ways than one. 

“Let me think about this.” Alberto smoothed the hairs of his mustache as if in slow motion, one side at a time. Checked his watch and nodded. “Yup. Look, every morning I see the truck stop by on the corner for a pick-up. Around 8:30. Dude hangs out for about five minutes. Sometimes more if he gets a coffee at the bodega. So you’ve got just enough time to run out there and…”

“Plead my case. See, I knew you’d come up with a plan.  Thank you,” I cried, hugging him.  

“Appreciate the love but let’s just hope this don’t earn you no extended vacation at Riker’s,” he said, chuckling.  

 I forced a smile. “Do you think they have squash courts in the joint?”

RALLY FOR POSITION

“Excuse me, but what do you think you are doing?”

My dog seemed equally as perplexed.

“Thought it was pretty obvious,” I said, taking a seat on the lobby. “I am going to watch for that truck, silly.”

“But you got more than an hour or so before the truck shows,” said Alberto.

“That’s okay.” I did not sound in the least convinced it would be.

“Seriously, you’re gonna to drive yourself and me frickin’ nuts if you hang out here.  Go upstairs, girl.  Chill.” 

“Yeah, right.  Like I could actually relax.”

“Throw down a shot of Tequila.”

“Alcohol at this hour? On an empty stomach, too? I need to stay sharp and alert for my day of reckoning.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for the dude. I promise. Go. Vamoose.”

“Come on Buzz Nuts. I’m afraid it’s no park for you today.”

These were clearly not the words she wanted to hear.  Which left me with the lousy job of coercing sixty-pounds of dead weight into the elevator. 

“Shit”! I bitch-slapped the tenth floor button, turned and shook a fistful of un-mailed bills in the air. “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten me into!” 

Her tail dropped and she backed into a corner of the car.  I felt like a complete and utter cad.

“Way to go, Tallulah! Blame this poor, defenseless dog!  And, while you’re at it, why don’t you hold her personally responsible for each and every one of your stupid human tricks!”

Storming into the apartment, I kicked off my boots -  - nearly knocking over a lamp on the table - and peeled off my outerwear. In a most uncustomary move, I left everything strewn over the floor. I waited for exactly sixty seconds but failed to resist the urge to return each item to its proper place in the closet.

I don’t do the waiting thing very well. Which could explain why I incessantly go for a squash ball before it gets to a place where I am supposed to hit the damn thing! 

Keep calm, I told myself.  But the pressure to avoid pressure had the potential to really stress me out.

Standing vigil by the living or bedroom windows served no purpose. Every room faced east. Affording one impressive sunrises with plenty of morning light but alas, not a peek of First Avenue.  Or, more importantly, Pandora’s box of scatological delights.

I couldn’t pace the floors. My apartment was limited in space and knowing my luck, I’d end up walking into furniture, a wall. Or worse.

I wasn’t about to send a blow-by-blow, guess-what-I-did group email to friends and family.

Nor could I call my mother. She would detect something was amiss from even the slightest vocal aberration and then, before I could explain, would spend the entire time talking about herself. And I certainly couldn’t speak to my Dad. He had no respect for my ability to make the right decisions. About anything.

There was The New York Times. But reading required calling upon the powers of concentration whilst in a seated position. No such luck.

I walked into the bedroom where Buzz Nuts had made a nest in the down comforter. The perfect spot for a pity party. She resisted eviction but I eventually managed to strip and change the sheets.

And then, as if with perfect timing, I got a text:

About to get on plane to NY. Missed u so. Can’t wait 2 c u. Hope lesson went well. Keep that racket open and wrist cocked. J. Love you.

“How about I keep my racket closed and your shaft out if it!” I snapped out loud, knowing very well where he was the previous evenings.

ADJUSTING YOUR GRIP

I downed a glass of orange juice. Resisting the urge to add two cups of vodka. I could not however, bypass that homemade chocolate banana walnut loaf sitting on the kitchen counter.  Drifting into a mindless haze of gluttony, it was destroyed until all but a few crumbs were left.

Twenty agonizingly long minutes to go.

I stood in the middle of my living room. Hands on hips. My cozy apartment now felt more like a holding cell of some forgotten prison in the furthest outreaches of Siberia. With nobody to talk to save a yak with limited conversational skills and a gas problem.

My couch beckoned me to burrow deep amongst its pillows. And I obliged hoping it would offer solace. The couch was the first major purchase I made as a newly single parent. (Jesus, was it almost a decade ago?)  The kiln-dried hardwood frame coddled Kate and Marcus throughout their teens and continued to support me, as I ploughed through my extended adolescence.  A litany of memories and smells were embedded in the upholstery. Fortunately, the sweet out-numbered the effluvial. I missed having them close.

I sighed and instinctively reached for the TV remote. Flicking through the channels one after another with increasing velocity.  Sounds and pictures soon melded into a high definition, mind-numbing seduction into the Land of Nod where I managed to unwittingly escape. 

“Eight-twenty-eight?”

There was a very brief pause before panic struck.

“Eight-twenty eight!” I shrieked.

Nearly tripping over Buzz Nuts, I jumped into my boots and was out the door. Minus my sweater, hat, gloves, and jacket. And, my keys.

Alberto was on the house phone when I appeared at his pulpit.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“What do you think I was just trying to do?”

“Oh my god, is he here?”

“Just pulled up.  You better run, girl!”

 

KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BALL 

Sprinted was more like it.  After nearly losing my balance on a frozen latte puddle, I made it safely across the street.  And there, double-parked at an intersection I would never again view in the same light, was an official, blue and white vehicle of the United States Postal Service. 

“It’s f-f-fah-freezing out here!” I exclaimed, pulling the sleeves of my turtleneck over my fingers. I struggled to inhale a deep cleansing breath and exhaled a slushy.

Step by step, a half-inch at a time, I approached until the truck was right in front of me. I raised a fist, put it down and raised it again. You can do this, Tallulah.

There was no response when I knocked at the door.

I tried again.  This time planting my feet with more power behind the backswing.   

Not a peep.

I rose to my toes and tapped on the window.

“Hello! Is anybody there? Hello!”

I figured it might work to my advantage to sound cheery and upbeat.

“Who the hell is god damn bothering me now?”

Although slightly muffled, the force of the voice caused the walls of the van to vibrate. This guy’s mood was clearly less than sanguine.  If I thought I was screwed before, the odds of my acquittal plummeted when the face of my adjudicator appeared in the window.

Spit-roasted skin.  Tightly pursed, cracked lips.  Greasy salt and pepper hair. Squinty eyes separated by a cavernous furrow in his forehead. Your basic poster boy for a government employee on the edge.

I forced my shivering lips into a toothy grin and waved. 

The door was slid open.  Leaving nothing but a burst of stale air between us.  The man glared at me with such incendiary rage I felt the blacktop melting beneath my feet, sucking me down, down, down into the bowels of Manhattan.

LET PLEASE!

“Sorry to bother, but I, well, a little while ago, you know, I was walking my dog and ah, you know, I went to throw out her, well, you know, because I always, always pick up after my dog and, oh god, this has got to be the biggest blonde moment ever!  Too much peroxide I guess, huh? Ha, ha.”

The postman just stared and said nothing. 

“Anyway, I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, you know how it is.  Major boy friend problems, my job sucks, blah-blah-blah, I realize this is too much information but well, you know how that garbage can,” I said pointing. “Is so close to…”

“You went and mailed the shit didn’t ya?” he said, interrupting.

I was taken aback for a second.  “Unfortunately, yes. I did.  I totally confess.  I’m so, so very sorry.  I really didn’t know what to do. ”

His face suddenly softened. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

“Seriously?  You mean, I’m, I’m not going to jail?”

His laugh reminded me of Santa Claus.

“Well, this has gotta be a first!  Been at this job for over twenty years,” he said shaking his head. “The truth is you wouldn’t believe the disgusting crap we find in these mail boxes. Used condoms. Puke. Bottles of beer.  Slices of pizza.  I found a finger once. Nothing fazes me anymore. Why do you think I wear these rubber gloves when I do pickup?  All these people, they got no sense of remorse. So relax, lady. I appreciate your honesty. Really. You’re a good person.  Enjoy the rest of your day.” 

GAME BALL

Jane Moss was born in Providence, Rhode Island.  Currently lives and works in Southampton and New York City. Mother of two children and three grand kiddies.

Books:

 Abbeville Press: 1988, My Trip to the Beach; My Trip to New York; My Winter Vacation; and My Rainy Day Adventures.

 Kensington Publishing; 2006:  Doggy Style:  A story of a couple’s relationship as seen through the eyes of their dog, a New Yorker with a bad attitude and trust issues.

 Kensington Publishing, 2007: Hooked: A retelling of a Grimm’s fairy tale set in contemporary Miami.