A few years ago, on a hot Saturday in May, I happened to be out in the yard when Steve, our mailman, came by delivering mail and collecting bags of donated canned goods.
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| This is Steve, our long-time mailman. |
Steve has been our mailman for 15 years, and I was already indebted to him for jump-starting the dead battery on my van with his postal Jeep one morning when I needed to make an emergency trip to the doctor because four-year-old Caleb had wiped out on his bicycle and needed stitches in his chin. But that's another story, and one that Steve made me swear I'd never tell. Apparently the U.S. Postal Service frowns upon mailmen using their Jeeps to help stay-at-home moms in distress.
Anyway, Steve frequently visits with us, and always has a funny or sarcastic comment. This day, as he lugged the heavy canned goods to his truck he happened to mention that the food drive was actually not his favorite event. I tucked that little piece of information away in my brain.
The next year, I had a plan for the perfect prank: I would get a bunch of big food-service size cans to donate for the food drive. Then Steve would have to haul them all to his truck. The only problem was that our house is right by the corner where he parks his Jeep--the last stop before he unloads. So I got my neighbors involved.
I bought a dozen huge cans of corn, beans, and peas. The Friday before the food drive, I knocked on the doors of neighbors up and down the street who I thought I could convince to join me in my prank, and asked if they would set the large can out along with their donations the next morning. All of them agreed. My elderly five-foot tall neighbor, Eleanor, giggled mischievously. I couldn't wait to see Steve lugging all of those canned goods all along the street.
I had several large cans left, which I set out on my porch early the next morning, and I waited. And waited. We normally get our mail around 10 a.m., but 11 a.m. came and went--still no sign of the mailman. We left and came back--still no mail, and the cans were still there. Then it was afternoon. We left again and came back to an empty mailbox and my same pyramid of cans. Where was Steve?
Finally, around 5 p.m. a substitute mailman showed up. Through the curtains of my picture window I saw him take one of the food service cans. I watched him go down the block and work his way back to my house. By the time he got to my place, he didn't even bother to pick up my canned goods, or even drive his Jeep back by to collect them that way.
After a few weeks, I got the nerve to ask Steve if he'd heard anything about the food-service sized cans. He hadn't, but he enjoyed the joke, especially since he'd taken the day off and the joke was on me.
