• a christmas goose •

• a christmas goose •
Just got back from the Post Office. Mailed a last-minute package successfully.
When I arrive at the counter there is no one in attendance, but I can hear voices in the back. Someone, a man, from the sound of it, shouts, in apparent alarm, “Aaaaaaagh! What the heck?!!”
And then a lady, wearing a crisp Postal Service uniform, turns the corner, with a laugh, and addressing me, convivially, says, “Good day, sir. What can I do ya’ for?”
I pushed my package across the counter to her. “Three day Priority, please.” I said. She deftly slid it onto the scales, and began processing my package, still grinning, to herself, magnificently.
Cherokee style, gesturing with my chin, I ask her “What’s up”, nonverbally.
“Oh, him?” she said. “He’s Canadian.”
‘Oh?’ I respond, silently.
“For days on end, he’s been bugging me. Day in, day out, on and on, you know what I mean?”
I nod.
“Asking when he was gonna get his Christmas goose. What’s all this with the goose? Must be a Canuck thing.”
“Oh.” I said, shrugging noncommittaly.
“So, this last time, the minute he turns his back, I give him one he’ll never forget. Right in the patooty.”
“That was the sound you heard, I expect.”
“Good one.” I said. “He got his Christmas goose, I guess.”
“Oh, yeah, you betcha!” she said. She grinned, reflexively.
She took my money, and with a wink, gave me my change.
“Can I get’cha anything else?”
She squirted some Purell on her hands, from a pump bottle, and rubbed it in. A little late, for my tastes, but still.
“That’ll do, thanks. Merry Christmas.” I said.
“And you, have a very merry Christmas, okeey? Now, you come back, now, y’hear?”
~ Tim Burchfield



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