THE NINETY-EIGHTH PAGE

Perhaps it was the solitude of the road trip or the crisp autumn air with its promise of winter or maturity’s increasing usefulness that clarified my senses. I had been playing myself a fool with the conventions of the commonest householder. This I acknowledged upon my second return from the post office.

When I arrived at the post office the staff very quickly broke into loud applause. Other patrons looked at me queerly; the jubilation was clearly directed at me, a bespectled nondescript in clothing randomly mounted on a lank frame. They probably thought the quiet creature of pacific presence had gone to town and picked up a Grammy or an Emmy. Hail the conquering hero. If I had come back encrusted with a Booker or a National Book Award, there’d be no applause here in Mudville.

There was no waiting on line for me. I was moved right on up to the counter, where I was told they would be unable to bring me my mail. I’d need to pull my car around to the loading dock, where my mail awaited me. Did I perhaps have a truck? It would save me trips. No, I’d have to employ the car on several trips.

Later several mail sorters helped me load the cartons. They asked if I was opening a business. I said that I was not and that I’d simply ordered in a few provisions for the winter.