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 Holly Winter Living The Life Of Holly May 31, 2003 “Tell me something I don’t know.” He challenged. I repositioned the phone. Mark always starts his calls atypically. “Hot brown rice tastes great with a little jam mixed in.” “You don’t know that for a fact.” He said, disgusted. “As we speak.” I mumbled with a full mouth. “No wonder you are on medical leave. You should be eating steak and French fries. I bet you would be back to work tomorrow if you would eat real food…” I didn’t need to respond. I was used to Mark- abuse. “Tell me something I don’t know.” “The weather in Cairo is ninety two degrees, sunny and I want to go swimming.” “Man. International geologists live a rough life, don’t they?” “Hey. I got beat up today. Today was not a good day.” “Oh. That’s right. Meeting day.” “Yeah. Big boss meeting day.” “How did they take it?” “Oh. I have been doing this for years. I told them that it looked like it didn’t look like it would look like it would look like it would look good.” “So... In-between the translation and all…” “Oh. They aren’t happy.” “You would think that after all these years, you would have found a way to pour some oil into those holes that you are researching.” “Nope. No way. Ok. My van driver is here. So you are going to hear sounds that will sound mysteriously like me climbing into a van.” “Nope. I don’t believe it. Sounds like a limo to me.” “Tomorrow I fly back to London, then rest for a day. Then run up to Scotland for a meeting. Then London for two days. Then Norway for a meeting before I get to come back to sunny Cairo again.” “Have you ever considered starting a stamp collection? Really. I think that you would be great at it. I mean. All these places you travel…” “Ok. I get the hint. I GET IT. Don’t ever let anyone say that Mark did not get a hint.” He whimpered. “What hint?” I asked, innocently. Hey. It’s not my fault I like post cards. God knows I send out tons of them when I travel. “Ok. I will be sure that you get a postcard. But. Don’t you think that a phone call from the back of a van is better than a postcard?” “Nope. There isn’t a stamp on a phone call.” “You mean… You mean…” He was laughing. “You mean all this time I thought that it was the WORDS I was writing that you were collecting?” He howled with laughter. “You like the stamps? Girl. I could get you stamps!” “Well. I like the pretty pictures on the front and the message on the back. And. I compare how you write your signature. And. Yes. I do notice the stamps. Even Ralph likes the stamps.” “Holly. You are the only one on Earth who notices stamps.” “You know that I once dated a postmaster.” “Now. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He laughed. “Was he your supplier?” “Well. He got tired of me using his phone card. The stamps were more of a practicality than a gift. You know. Sort of like getting a vacuum cleaner for your birthday.” “Oh. I need to hear about this guy. What a romantic!” “I think that I have some Elvis stamps around somewhere that he gave me.” “YOU KEPT THEM?” He yelled. “YOU KEPT THEM?” “Well. I wasn’t sure who to send them to. Who would you send Elvis stamps to?” “Girl. You sold everything you owned, your house, your art, your clothes, even your shoes. And you think that you might still have those Elvis stamps around?” “I might.” Hmm. I wasn’t sure. Were they still in my file marked, “everything?” I bet they were. Cause. You know how it is when you are scaling down your life. The files get thrown in a box, with the hope that when you get to your new destination, you will be stuck by the organizing bug. Um. So far that mood hasn’t entered this apartment. “Does Darlin-man know about your obsession with postcards?” “Not yet. I’m breaking him into the important stuff slowly. Why?” “If he knew… Man. If he knew. Man. He would run.” “No. He wouldn’t run. Because if he ran, he would have to send me a postcard from wherever he ended up.” ------------ About the author: Holly Winter is a teacher and a writer and a flight attendant living in Denver, Colorado, USA. She can be reached at her website or email: Holly@livingthelifeofholly.com Comment on this column in the forum. ------------ |
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