Isaac
Iupdated the Cat Advisory Text Thread on the state of affairs while Sunny used the restroom.
Judy:Sorry to call in the boy band cavalry, but we were worried.
Me:I can’t believe you’ve known who I am this whole time.
Judy:Well, it took us a few months after you started posting.
Dee:You’d be shocked to learn that there are only a handful of widowers in their thirties in Malibu with platinum records on their wall.
Me:When have you seen my WALL???
Betty:Don’t be mad, dear. You posted a picture of you holding up a hand-drawn map, and we could see a reflection of the records in the nearby window.
Dee:And for what it’s worth, the map really did further the discussion on D.B. Cooper.
Goddamn.They were really good at this.
Me:Well. Thank you. For calling in the cavalry.
Judy:Anytime.
Betty:We accept payment in cat pictures!
We were able to call Bee and tell her that we were okay and that everyone was welcome to stay at the mansion for the night, and then we managed to get a hold of a harried dispatcher for a tow company, who told us someone could meet us at the cabin in the morning.
And even that started to feel like a nebulous hope as the wind picked up and battered the little house. I could tell that the ancient radiators and the fire weren’t going to cut it, so as Sunny finished texting Bee the full account of how we ended up at Blitzen’s, I went to the hall closet to find some extra blankets. And I was a little grateful for the space away from Sunny, because now that the terror and dread I’d felt while tearing up the mountain on the snowmobile was fading and I knew she was safe and warm, I had to keep from flinging myself at her feet and professing my undying affection until my voice gave out.
There was indeed a stack of blankets in the closet, a mix of ragged quilts and cheap throw blankets that looked like they were purchased at a gas station, and after I grabbed some, I found Sunny at the foot of a steep staircase leading up to the loft of the A-frame. A light glowed from somewhere above.
“We should go up and turn that off for her,” Sunny said. “Blitzen is normally very energy conscious, you know.”
“Right,” I said and started climbing the stairs. “Stay down here where it’s warm, and I’ll take care of it.”
But as usual, Sunny didn’t listen and was on the steps right behind me.
I didn’t mind though. It gave me an excuse to hold her hand as I helped her off the ladder and into the narrow loft space.
She pulled it free as soon as she found her footing, and I wanted to whine like a hungry dog.
“Ah, this must be Blitzen’s whore-drobe!” Sunny exclaimed as we took a look around and saw racks of very small, very colorful clothes. A plastic tote had been left open nearby, showcasing an impressive collection of Lucite high heels.
“My whore-drobe is one of those big IKEA bags,” Sunny said. “And you might ask, ‘Sunny, wouldn’t that mean that you’re constantly losing the bottoms to your two-pieces? Wouldn’t this mean that your fishnets are constantly getting snagged on the hooks from your bras?’ And the answer is yes, yes, it would mean those things. But the alternative was letting Luca impose his needlessly complicated system on me. It involves a filing cabinet! Color codingandfabric coding! I could never maintain a system like that.”
I could listen to her chatter for hours. It was my favorite sound. Just whatever thoughts came into her head... I wanted to hear them. Every last one.
I was already stepping behind one of the racks to reach the light switch, which is when I saw the open trunk pushed against a knotty pine paneled wall. A trunk decidedlynotfull of polyester and mesh.
“Is that a police hat?” Sunny asked. “Man, Blitzen is really going for range with these costumes.”
I lifted up the hat to read the metal plate. “US Post Office Letter Carrier.”
“Apostal worker?” Sunny practically lunged at the trunk. “Oh my God, there’s a cape here too.” She was pulling it from the trunk and shaking it out. “Vintage!”
I picked up the large leather bag that had been tucked neatly under the cape. It was cracked and worn and decorated with the weirdest fucking stick figure I’d ever seen. “Look at this terrifying cartoon mailman,” I said, willing to unpack this entire musty trunk if it meant I got to spend more nonantagonistic time with Sunny.
“Uh, I think you meanMr.Zip,” Sunny said as she looked at the bag. “He only helped the American public navigate the brand-new zip code system in the 1960s. Show some respect. And yes, before you ask, the history of the US Postal Service has become a micro ADHD fixation over the last few weeks, okay?”
