"Hey, Cookie Jar, git yurself back here."
I sigh and turn around. The pavement is cracked and dusty and the temperature has soared into the upper reaches of heat stroke. I'm two steps past a bad attitude.
Several houses back, a middle aged man is waving a letter in the air. I set the mail pouch on the ground and crack open a bottle of water. Tired of retracing my steps, I wait.
After a moment, he gives up and lumbers over. "Mr Post Office General, Sir."
I'm wearing a skirt, culottes actually, but what the hell?
"Listen here little girl," his lower lip curls around a pinch of snuff, "you got to stop bringin me the wrong mail. These people don't live at my house."
Recognizing the letter clutched in his fist, I fight a smile and clear my throat. "Um, Resident?"
"Yep, that's right." He thrusts the letter under my nose. "And don't be bringin any more for that other fella, occu, occu ..."
"Yeah, now you just do your job and don't be sassin the people who pay your salary."
Grinning, I pluck the letter from his fingers. "Yes sir, I'll do my best."