A gyal-pal just been here to visit, and she stewing ‘til she burning up.
She eyes them dark and hot with vex. She lips them curl up with rage, and she pale skin red, red like tomato paste.
"Is what happen to you?" I ask.
She give me one blazing look. "I goin’ postal," she say.
"Y'know...I gon donate a frightening, screaming jumbie to we post office staff and put a big sign on it saying, Lose This."
"A jumbie? Ghost? You can't do that, you can go to jail. What happen?"
"Well! I gon give them one bucket full o' farts and put a big sign on it saying, Lose This."
"I think that gon send you to jail too. What happen?"
"Well! I gon get a elephant from Africa or India, a real, live elephant with real, live diarrhea, and give it to them with a big sign on it saying Lose This."
"What happen, what happen? I gon tell you what happen.
The post office lose me package, that is what happen.
One big, brown, obvious-noticeable envelope. How they can lose that I don't know.
I want to ask you a astronomical favour.
Put it on your blog for me, nah? Ask people to ask people who they know, who working in all them post offices all over the world...especially in Trinidad and Barbados and Florida...ask them to look for a big, brown envelope for me, from Greater Georgetown, Guyana, to Miramar, Florida, registered receipt number 147771.
Ask anybody who know anybody who does work on whichever airline that does deliver mail from here to Florida, and all them people working in airports, Timehri, Piarco, Grantley Adams, Miami International, ask them to look for it for me, nah?
It ain't have no value to anybody but me, is written material. Writing. Words. They can't even steal it 'cause I copyright the original and send it to me, and it lock up in a box in the bank with dates and stamps on it and so on."
Me friend start to blaze so much that thick, white steam puff out from she ears.
Poor thing, I know how she feel, is the same way I would feel, I know how she suffering with she precious material missing, precious words she went into long, painful labour for; words that she nurture, stroke, cuddle, sing to sleep, and feed when they wake up again.
I give she some water on the rocks. She drink and drink and drink and sigh.
Then she look at me and ask, a li'l calm now, "Gyal, what going postal mean?"
And I, with me wicked self, couldn't resist.
"I think is when you post youself to the post office with a big sign on you that say Lose This."