I want to pick up a young girl from school in a stolen Post Office jeep.
Show her how obsolete her world has become. Love is now emailed. Man was once seen through his handwriting, but is now measured by the texts he types. That scratching on paper is passing. Spell-check now corrects his errors. “Send” is pressed to deliver his message.
Bills, men’s magazines, postcards are all dwindling from postal delivery like a hand-mixed cherry coke. All is canned. Everything is bulk mail or packages from Amazon.
No one waits by the curb.
I want to show her, speeding in circles around cul-de-sacs, and the boxes beyond the sidewalks that it is sad nothing of importance is left in these postal truck to deliver. Even dogs no longer bark or chase the mailman.
Only Grandma is left in this battle against the future. Maybe the grandkids will pause, noticing her elderly scrawl of sending her love and by experiencing an occasional postal rejoice of, “Look what I got in the mail from Nanny.”
Young boys are no longer enticed by the comic book ads. They have lost the anticipation of the mail. They do not send away for X-RAY SPECS looking for a super human vision upon the world. Sea Monkeys are delusional. No one wants brine shrimp in the future. No wonder is left for magic tricks. Seahorses eat their young.
We have all gone postal and what hands had delivered, became a machine hum, and faded to the artificial intelligence of smarter machines.
She pays no attention to my theft of this jeep. She is texting to her boyfriend that as soon as her crazy old grandfather drops her off at home from school, she will be free to text some more. She will read my letters from prison for stealing this jeep to show her, do not marry a man till you see his handwriting, will wait by the curb for you, believes in magic, sends letters in the mail, and wants X-RAY SPECS.