Return to Sender

I don't feel like a regular post today, so fiction it is...


Saturday's mailman was notorious for getting wasted Friday nights. It was a miracle he hadn't lost his license, but residents on country routes like these assumed it was hooligans playing mailbox baseball instead of an intoxicated jeep careening into their roadside receptacles. Rufus Manier didn't mind. Because of the mailman's state, he received more than his fair share of other people's mail. Stealing it was a federal offense, but receiving it via drunk federal employee was no crime Rufus was aware of.

The Manier house was alone at the end of a cul-de-sac, his closest neighbor about three miles away after the brush fire two years ago removed anyone closer. For some unknown reason, God decided to spare his home and he lived there quietly, collecting random catalogs and magazines rightfully due to other subscribers. If it was something Rufus didn't want, he'd dutifully print "Redeliver" across the envelope and let the weekday mailman fix errors.

Maybe it would've been a bigger problem if Rufus expected any of his own mail. Bills were paid online, he hadn't voted in an election since Mondale/Ferraro, and the last penpal he had was released from prison and no longer prolific. Besides, Saturday only accounted for one-sixth of the mail and if it was that important, it would be resent.

Last Saturday, Rufus opened an envelope from the Department of Transportation and discovered a new driver's license belonging to Thurman Hilsmer. Rufus studied it; either "Bald" wasn't an option for Hair Color, or Mr. Hilsmer shaved his head the day of the photograph. Ten years separated their ages, but they shared brown eyes, a square jawline, and a bubble-tipped schnozz.

For the better part of Saturday and Sunday, Rufus tinkered with a box of cosmetics he'd accidentally received a long time before. Though he couldn't quite match their ears, he was confident he could at least pass as Hilsmer's brother. Which gave him the confidence he needed to finally buy that airline ticket to Vegas. If their sales pitch was accurate, then he'd be happy to leave this new identity there.