You can tell a lot about a person by the quality and frequency of their mail. Mrs. Harris at 186 Saxon gets Cat Fancy and circulars from the insurance companies that advertise on television. I’ve seen Mr. Pibbles before, so the Cat Fancy isn’t a surprise. I also know her husband is dying. How come? Because I know insurance companies. Where there’s the promise of death, they circle, every now and then swooping down to test the meat with their greedy little beaks. Mr. Keene at 184 Saxon gets unmarked cardboard boxes four times a month, usually on Mondays. Unmarked boxes are either catheters or dirty toys. Mr. Keene is in his seventies, so I figured it was catheters. Then again, it could’ve been toys. He might not pee so good, but he’s still a man.
Saxon Drive is my route. The houses on my route are the good houses. Tiny yards. Wood fences. American flags. My friend J.B. calls it “Stepford Drive”, but J.B.’s just jealous. He delivers south of Saxon where he has to carry pepper spray and drive a special van instead of the open buggy. I walk Saxon Drive. Everybody waves at me, too. On the days when it’s hot enough to wear shorts, Mrs. Harris waits for me with a cold juice box. “Booker, darling,” she’d say. She has a weird accent like Frasier from the T.V. “Booker, take a juice.” After I thank her, she waits for me to stick in the straw. After the first sip, she goes back inside.
155 Saxon received mostly Piggly Wiggly flyers and scam refinance offers addressed to Kat Jacobs. Kat was an uncommon name so I figured it was short for Kathleen or Katherine. Katherine Jacobs was my favorite name. She did get regular Roamans catalogs, so I figured she was somewhere between size fourteen and thirty. Not that it mattered. Even though I’ve never had a girlfriend or been on a date, I knew what I liked. Kathy Bates or that black lady from The View. Roamans women. Like J.B. always says, “Bone is for the dog. Meat is for the man.”
If Katherine had a car, I never saw it. Sometimes I’d catch a tiny blue sports car parked in 155 Saxon’s driveway. It was a foreign job- so teeny that it looked like a toy. I half expected to see a humungous silver key sticking out the back. Once, I saw a man come out of the house. He threw open the front door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. His clothes were rumpled like he’d slept in them. Before he jumped in his toy car, he yelled something and stuck up his middle finger at the house. Was he Katherine Jacobs’ son? Maybe. Or maybe he was her lover. I didn’t know but I knew that nobody in the pre- oatmeal hours deserved the finger. Especially not my Katherine.
Katherine and Booker. That’s me- Booker. I used to hate that name. Before the greasy cool dude on 21 Jump Street, the only other Booker on TV was the janitor on “Good Times”. Or maybe it was Bookman. But sixth graders don’t care. Bookman was fat and so was I. Homeroom was up two flights of stairs, so first bell would always catch me in the hall. After Mrs. Robles gave me a talking to, she’d let me in. As I walked to my seat, Jimmy Finn would fake-whisper, “Booger Bookman’s late again. What’s keeping you, your friends or your fat?”
I didn’t have many friends, but my fat wasn’t gonna make me late this time. This time, I had a plan. It was Friday and I was feeling lucky. I’d march up to Katherine’s door and ring the bell. When she answered, I’d hand her the catalogs and say something smart about “door to door service.” She would laugh and try to tip me and I would tell her that postmen don’t take tips. That’s when she would put her hands on her hips and joke, “Well, I have to pay you somehow.” And that’s when it would get good.
That morning, I combed my hair extra nice. I’d run out of Dippity Do, but lucky for me, J.B. let me borrow his hair stuff. It was called Royal Crown and it came in a red cardboard can with silver lid. He called it “grease”, but when I put my fingers in, it felt more like cold bacon fat. But it smelled sweet and since I’d also run out of my favorite soap, I counted that as lucky, too.
My lucky streak continued when I found Saxon Drive deserted that morning. Even Ms. Harris with her juice box and funny accent were absent. At 155, the wind-up car was gone. Yesterday’s mail was still on the mat. I walked to her door- head up, shoulders back. J.B. always says confidence is key. If Mrs. Harris were watching, she’d just think I was offering a friendly reminder for my customer to take in her mail. I knocked on the door. No answer. All the curtains on the windows were drawn. My hand touched the doorknob. If Mrs. Harris were watching now, she’d probably call the police. But I’d come too far. I’d borrowed Royal Crown and pressed my good uniform. Booger Bookman wouldn’t be late again. No sir. Booger Bookman would be right on time.
**
The heavy curtains made the house dark, so I had to feel my way through the entrance. Duran Duran was playing from the back of the house. I don’t know which one; I’m not a fan. If Katherine Jacobs liked 80s music, she must be younger me. My school years were more Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Then again, we could be the same age, but she likes all music. Either way, it would be fine. Maybe we would even catch a Duran Duran concert someday. I heard they’re still touring. Strong relationships are built on compromise. All these thoughts were tripping over each other when my foot hit something. As soon as I looked, I wish I hadn’t.
She was face down, arms and legs twisted. I knelt down and touched the back of my hand to her cheek. Her face was still warm. It was also a mess. But even through the blood and the purple, twisted nose, she was an angel. My angel. I used my thumb and index finger to stretch open one of her eyes. Just above the whites was a half moon of green. At that moment, I became aware of two things. Number one, that stupid Duran Duran song was on repeat. Number two, her air conditioning was broken. Sweat bubbles popped up on my nose and at my hairline. Suddenly, J.B.’s hair grease didn’t smell comforting anymore. It smelled like it was making fun of me. “Booger Booker,” it sneered. “Late again.”
But I wasn’t late. I was the very first to see Katherine Jacobs lying dead in her kitchen. I don’t think she had a heart attack. She was a Roamans woman, but certainly not what J.B. called “heart disease thick”. Whatever had stolen her had done before I got there. My finger traced the outline of her full bottom lip. It was still pink and moist. My own lips closed as I bent closer. Nothing open-mouthed or dirty, but a kiss just the same. As I leaned down to kiss her again, something caught my eye. It was her phone. It was blinking with an unread message. Now that I was Katherine’s protector, I could read it, right?
Srry about last night. Idk what got n2 me. U got time today?
It was Mr. Tiny Blue Car. Suddenly, I forgot about the kiss. My fingers flew.
Sure. Dinner at my house?
But I wanted to be sure, so I said:
Ur driving the blue car, right?
Yikes. I should’ve kept it simple. Anybody with half a brain would see through that. When the phone buzzed again with my answer, I had to smile. He didn’t have half a brain, after all.
Then I kissed her again. A final goodbye to my favorite customer. I put the phone in my pocket and left boldly through the front door. The street was bright, quiet, and deserted. was halfway to Mr. Keene’s when Mrs. Harris appeared on her front porch. She smiled and waved. I smiled back. And why shouldn’t I? It was Friday and, for the first time ever, Booker had a date.
Saxon Drive is my route. The houses on my route are the good houses. Tiny yards. Wood fences. American flags. My friend J.B. calls it “Stepford Drive”, but J.B.’s just jealous. He delivers south of Saxon where he has to carry pepper spray and drive a special van instead of the open buggy. I walk Saxon Drive. Everybody waves at me, too. On the days when it’s hot enough to wear shorts, Mrs. Harris waits for me with a cold juice box. “Booker, darling,” she’d say. She has a weird accent like Frasier from the T.V. “Booker, take a juice.” After I thank her, she waits for me to stick in the straw. After the first sip, she goes back inside.
155 Saxon received mostly Piggly Wiggly flyers and scam refinance offers addressed to Kat Jacobs. Kat was an uncommon name so I figured it was short for Kathleen or Katherine. Katherine Jacobs was my favorite name. She did get regular Roamans catalogs, so I figured she was somewhere between size fourteen and thirty. Not that it mattered. Even though I’ve never had a girlfriend or been on a date, I knew what I liked. Kathy Bates or that black lady from The View. Roamans women. Like J.B. always says, “Bone is for the dog. Meat is for the man.”
If Katherine had a car, I never saw it. Sometimes I’d catch a tiny blue sports car parked in 155 Saxon’s driveway. It was a foreign job- so teeny that it looked like a toy. I half expected to see a humungous silver key sticking out the back. Once, I saw a man come out of the house. He threw open the front door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. His clothes were rumpled like he’d slept in them. Before he jumped in his toy car, he yelled something and stuck up his middle finger at the house. Was he Katherine Jacobs’ son? Maybe. Or maybe he was her lover. I didn’t know but I knew that nobody in the pre- oatmeal hours deserved the finger. Especially not my Katherine.
Katherine and Booker. That’s me- Booker. I used to hate that name. Before the greasy cool dude on 21 Jump Street, the only other Booker on TV was the janitor on “Good Times”. Or maybe it was Bookman. But sixth graders don’t care. Bookman was fat and so was I. Homeroom was up two flights of stairs, so first bell would always catch me in the hall. After Mrs. Robles gave me a talking to, she’d let me in. As I walked to my seat, Jimmy Finn would fake-whisper, “Booger Bookman’s late again. What’s keeping you, your friends or your fat?”
I didn’t have many friends, but my fat wasn’t gonna make me late this time. This time, I had a plan. It was Friday and I was feeling lucky. I’d march up to Katherine’s door and ring the bell. When she answered, I’d hand her the catalogs and say something smart about “door to door service.” She would laugh and try to tip me and I would tell her that postmen don’t take tips. That’s when she would put her hands on her hips and joke, “Well, I have to pay you somehow.” And that’s when it would get good.
That morning, I combed my hair extra nice. I’d run out of Dippity Do, but lucky for me, J.B. let me borrow his hair stuff. It was called Royal Crown and it came in a red cardboard can with silver lid. He called it “grease”, but when I put my fingers in, it felt more like cold bacon fat. But it smelled sweet and since I’d also run out of my favorite soap, I counted that as lucky, too.
My lucky streak continued when I found Saxon Drive deserted that morning. Even Ms. Harris with her juice box and funny accent were absent. At 155, the wind-up car was gone. Yesterday’s mail was still on the mat. I walked to her door- head up, shoulders back. J.B. always says confidence is key. If Mrs. Harris were watching, she’d just think I was offering a friendly reminder for my customer to take in her mail. I knocked on the door. No answer. All the curtains on the windows were drawn. My hand touched the doorknob. If Mrs. Harris were watching now, she’d probably call the police. But I’d come too far. I’d borrowed Royal Crown and pressed my good uniform. Booger Bookman wouldn’t be late again. No sir. Booger Bookman would be right on time.
**
The heavy curtains made the house dark, so I had to feel my way through the entrance. Duran Duran was playing from the back of the house. I don’t know which one; I’m not a fan. If Katherine Jacobs liked 80s music, she must be younger me. My school years were more Bad, Bad Leroy Brown. Then again, we could be the same age, but she likes all music. Either way, it would be fine. Maybe we would even catch a Duran Duran concert someday. I heard they’re still touring. Strong relationships are built on compromise. All these thoughts were tripping over each other when my foot hit something. As soon as I looked, I wish I hadn’t.
She was face down, arms and legs twisted. I knelt down and touched the back of my hand to her cheek. Her face was still warm. It was also a mess. But even through the blood and the purple, twisted nose, she was an angel. My angel. I used my thumb and index finger to stretch open one of her eyes. Just above the whites was a half moon of green. At that moment, I became aware of two things. Number one, that stupid Duran Duran song was on repeat. Number two, her air conditioning was broken. Sweat bubbles popped up on my nose and at my hairline. Suddenly, J.B.’s hair grease didn’t smell comforting anymore. It smelled like it was making fun of me. “Booger Booker,” it sneered. “Late again.”
But I wasn’t late. I was the very first to see Katherine Jacobs lying dead in her kitchen. I don’t think she had a heart attack. She was a Roamans woman, but certainly not what J.B. called “heart disease thick”. Whatever had stolen her had done before I got there. My finger traced the outline of her full bottom lip. It was still pink and moist. My own lips closed as I bent closer. Nothing open-mouthed or dirty, but a kiss just the same. As I leaned down to kiss her again, something caught my eye. It was her phone. It was blinking with an unread message. Now that I was Katherine’s protector, I could read it, right?
Srry about last night. Idk what got n2 me. U got time today?
It was Mr. Tiny Blue Car. Suddenly, I forgot about the kiss. My fingers flew.
Sure. Dinner at my house?
But I wanted to be sure, so I said:
Ur driving the blue car, right?
Yikes. I should’ve kept it simple. Anybody with half a brain would see through that. When the phone buzzed again with my answer, I had to smile. He didn’t have half a brain, after all.
Then I kissed her again. A final goodbye to my favorite customer. I put the phone in my pocket and left boldly through the front door. The street was bright, quiet, and deserted. was halfway to Mr. Keene’s when Mrs. Harris appeared on her front porch. She smiled and waved. I smiled back. And why shouldn’t I? It was Friday and, for the first time ever, Booker had a date.
