The Myth of Wile E

A Long Predator Shadow Over My House

The top of the hill where my farm stand once stood, and where my house once stood years before that, was apparently a handy place to park a bulldozer. One sat there looming over me day and night, its loader-scoop peeking over the side of the hill, casting a long predator shadow over my house when the sun went down. And because the mogul (apparently) assumed that if I were to escape my enclosure I would go joyriding in the bulldozer, a security guard was posted up there at all times. I couldn't quite see him pacing the top of the hill at night, but I could see his flashlight beam sweeping through the dark like a tiny searchlight. Depending on the direction of the wind, I could sometimes smell cigarette smoke drifting down the hill. And from time to time I could hear him sing old pop songs to himself, probably to keep himself awake. (He never seemed to know all the words, though, and would just mumble the verses wherever he got fuzzy. I don't know who he thought he was fooling.) Some nights he would listen to baseball games on a little radio. The AM station made odd squealing noises, like it was communicating with its mother ship. I couldn't quite understand what the announcers were saying, but I liked hearing them drone on and on and then yell with excitement as a faraway crowd cheered. When you live way out in the country, a baseball game on the radio sounds like it's coming from another world.

I don't know if it was the same guard during the day, but there was always someone up there. Come to think of it, it probably wasn't the same guy during the day, because I never smelled any cigarettes or heard any off-key love ballads during the daylight hours. During the day, all I ever heard—that is, when the chainsaws were silent—was the constant chirp of some kind of phone or walkie-talkie, and random muffled phrases.

That is, until one day when I heard an argument, live and in person, coming from the top of the hill.

"Excuse me," I heard a woman's booming voice call out. "I'm going to ask you nicely to step out of the way."

"This here's private property."

"Sir, you are interfering with the delivery of the U.S. mail."

"Sign says no trespassing. Can't let you through."

"Billy Joe Jefferson, that's you, right? Billy Joe Jefferson of 73 Valley View Lane? I'm going to ask you one more time to step out of the way."

"Or what."

"Now, I don't think you want to be giving me grief. You keep in mind I know where you live."

"Are you threatening me?"

"How dare you, sir. I am a representative of the United States Postal Service."

"Well, good."

"But I bet you're real fond of your Sports Illustrated subscription, aren't you, Mr. Jefferson? 'Specially that one with all those foolish ladies in the dental floss bathing suits. And I bet you like how it always shows up right on time? And even wrapped up all nice and safe from the snow?"

He gasped. "What are you saying . . . !"

"I'm saying, would you kindly step aside and let me do my job."

A minute later I saw a petite woman coming down the hill, clutching a few pieces of mail. She was so tiny I couldn't believe at first that the booming voice could have actually come from her. It was like she was badly dubbed or something.

"Yo! You 103 Old Mill Road?" she shouted at me through the fence. Again with a voice that could reach the back row of a stadium.

I nodded.

She curled up the envelopes and squeezed them through the chain links. "Just so you know, you're in violation of Domestic Mail Regulation D041 section 2.7, regarding safe and convenient placement of a mailbox. It's not my job to come all the way down here, so don't you expect me to make a habit of it."

"Then how come—?"

"Guy's a tool."

"Aw . . . he's probably all right if you knew him."

"I know a tool when I meet one, and that man is a tool. Anyway, I suggest you go and get yourself a P.O. box if you want to keep getting your mail."

"You mean down at the post office?"

"Right."

"Thing is . . . I'm kind of stuck here," I said.

"Stuck?"

"Like, you know, can't leave."

"You don't say."

She thought for a moment.

"How's your catching arm?" she said.

"Not too bad, I guess."

"How's your throwing arm?"

"I gotta tell you, not that great."

"Well . . . we'll figure something out."