“That too.”
“I do worry about you, George.”
“So does May.”
A woman came through the front door, bell jingling. “Did someone just say my name?”
“How do you do that?” George asked, then glancing back at Ralph. “Speaking of Grace Adler.”
“Don’t. You. Dare,” said May Fischer, scolding. “I am nothing like that ridiculous woman. But you are Will Truman. Of that, I’m convinced. Hi, Ralph. When’s your nextMillion Dollar Listing?”
Ralph chuckled. “This afternoon, actually.”
“How did you know we were here?” George asked.
“These walls are thin. You’ll see.”
Ralph held up his hands. “I know you two are close, but sharing a house isn’t enough? You had to put your businesses next door to each other?”
“I’m the one that brought this vacancy to his attention—so, you have me to thank,Realty-Man. Besides, I’m grateful to have my BFF next door now. No more nasty Chinese food. Only classy shit.”
“Classy,” Ralph repeated, eyeing George, who just shook his head. “Well, I’m off. I have a big meeting after lunch. Oh, May—I’m glad you’re here. Trixie has hairballs. It’s pretty bad. She’s a tabby, if it matters.”
“Not really. How old is she?”
“Five, next month.”
“Have you tried anything so far... one of those hairball remedies? You know, the malt-flavored goo in a tube?”
“I tried. Treats, too. She won’t eat it. And if I put it in her food, the bitch won’t eat that either. It’s like she knows.”
May laughed. “She thinks you’re trying to poison her. Whatdoyou feed her?”
“I don’t know. Store brand—dry and wet.”
Her eyes grew wide. “Are you fucking kidding me? No wonder. We need to get her on an organic maintenance formula with natural fats and oils, not all those preservatives. Come with me, I’ve got something that she’ll love.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She pulled Ralph toward the door, and George opened it for the two of them.
“It’s not that expensive and she’s—"
But they were quickly silenced by singing.
Across the busy street, a bearish mailman was sashaying down the sidewalk. He was wearing the typical postal uniform, but tight all over—the tailored cuffs to his shorts and shirt snug to his respective biceps and quads.
The song wasAin’t No Mountain High Enough—the Diana Ross version—and he spoke-sang the lyrics to passing pedestrians individually, as if conversing with them.It was a favorite of George’s and he could hear the swell of the music even though the man had no audible accompaniment.
The mailman saw them watching and stopped, raising both arms high and wide—one fist with letters in it—and began spinning like the diva Diana herself, absent a long trailing chiffon boa but unaware of it. He wore a ball cap turned backward on his neatly cropped dark hair. He was bearded, furry, and portly, but as light as a feather on his feet.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, ahhhh.”
George was mesmerized, captivated. He knew cities had their quirks and crazies, often unfortunates off their meds. This, however, was no lunatic. This was a uniformed government employee entertaining the masses—similar to a drag queen, sans sequins, and singing respectably. But there was something else about him, a remarkable sense of pure...joy.
The mailman stopped, lowered his arms, and pointed directly at George, giving him a wink and a smile before continuing down the sidewalk, again melodically conversing with passersby.
“What on earth was that?” George asked, his eyes still following.
