Operation Martha

I am not by nature an outgoing person. My wife has accurately described me as “happiest behind a closed door in front of a keyboard.” But with The Book Signing less than a week away, it became apparent that someone would have to go door to door, delivering pamphlets throughout the neighborhood, inviting people to come to Chapters next Saturday.

 

Initially, it was my understanding that my role would be to design the pamphlet, safely barricaded behind a closed door inside my ‘Sanctum Sanctorum’ (also known variously as ‘the eBay room’ or ‘David’s office’ or ‘The Den’) – which suited me fine. The plan, as I understood it (so help me God) was to make the pamphlet, run off a couple of hundred copies of my creation and employ child labor to deliver it.

 

I am not sure exactly what happened to the child labor (ie: the kids next door, who apparently can be bribed with a couple of large Blizzards), but it came as a shock to me when Sheree told me, last night, that she a) had made plans to help a girlfriend out with a project she was working on and b) we still have a shitload of pamphlets that haven’t gone out yet.

 

I nodded and made my very best non-committal sound, because I could tell where this was going. (I only pretend to be dim.)

 

“We have a LOT of pamphlets,” said my wife, who was watching me closely.

 

“Mmmm,” I replied, finding something of great interest in my coffee cup.

 

“They won’t do us any good next week,” she said, in an effort to help me grope and fumble my dim witted way in the general direction of the conclusion she expected me to reach.

 

“Yup,” I said. “You’re right about that. I have to pee.”

 

“What do you have planned for tomorrow?” she asked me. (Sheree gets frustrated when she thinks I am simply not getting it.)

 

“Whew,” I said. I looked around the room, as though needing a moment to list ALL the IMPORTANT THINGS I had planned for the day. “I have a ton of stuff to do.”

 

I shook my head ruefully, trying to create the air of a man with far too many IMPORTANT duties to even begin listing them.

 

“Like what?” she said.

 

I did the rueful head shake again. I threw in ‘pursed lips.’

 

“TONS of stuff,” I said. “Like well…there’s…all the magic props I have to set up and…well…a whole bunch of executive stuff and…”

 

My words trailed off and hit the ground with an almost audible corpse-like thump, laying grey and dead in the no-man’s land between us. The conclusion of our conversation was, of course, already decided. But I continued my little dance just long enough to guarantee some trace of self-respect. Finally I said: “Hey! I have an idea!”

 

“Do tell,” said Sheree.

 

“Why don’t I deliver those pamphlets – all two hundred of them? Walking up to complete strangers’ doors and putting unsolicited paper in their mailboxes all afternoon will allow me to put that college degree to good use! And besides…I can use the exercise!”

 

“What a wonderful idea,” said my wife, not even trying to be convincing. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

 

“You CAN be a little thick, my dear,” I said with my most charming smile. “That’s what you have me for.”

 

She said nothing to that, but proceeded to tell me where I had decided the most effective places for delivery would be.

 

Midway through our evening last night, the phone rang. We’ll call the man on the other end of the line “Big Bird.” B.B. wanted to join Sheree and me for brunch the next day and bring…well…we’ll call her “Chick-a-Dee.”

 

I explained that I would be delivering pamphlets ALL FREAKING DAY and that while I appreciated his kind offer, that I would have to decline.

 

“We’ll help you,” said B.B.

 

“Have you asked Chick-a-Dee?” I asked.

 

“She’ll come,” said B.B. “What time do you want us there?”

 

God bless friends, who come alongside to help you do pamphlet deliveries, thought I.

 

True to their words, B.B. and Chick-a-Dee arrived right on time. We coordinated our mission like a finely tuned military operation.

 

“Okay.” I started the briefing looking at both of my troops. “So…we’ll go out there and deliver stuff.”

 

They were both looking at me, as though I was supposed to say something else.

 

“We’ll put them in mailboxes,” I added helpfully.

 

They were still looking at me.

 

“The mailboxes…on the houses,” I said.

 

“This is what I think we should do,” said Big Bird, handing me a walkie talkie. And he laid out several helpful suggestions – with which I concurred. (It’s always good to surround yourself with helpful subordinates.)

 

“And we could ring the doorbells and give it to them,” finished Big Bird with a smile on his face.

 

“That’s a good idea,” said Sheree, shooting a sly smile my way, knowing full well that my entire spirit recoils at the very thought of interaction with strangers.

 

“That’s a terrible idea,” I sputtered, grasping wildly for a reason…any reason.

 

They all looked at me.

 

“It’ll take a looooooong time,” I said. “This has got to be a guerrilla operation. In fast. Hit hard and fade the hell back to the bushes…as quickly as possible.”

 

So off we went. "If B.B. wants to ring doorbells on a Sunday morning...well...good for him," I sniffed as I walked away, suppressing a shudder at the very thought.

 

I approached each house like a cow approaching an active volcano. I just wanted to drop the paper and get out as quickly as possible, hopefully avoiding detection and any interaction whatsoever.

 

My deliveries were going well. I’d been telling jokes on the walkie talkie…insisting that we maintain radio silence twenty or thirty times…(although I seemed to be the only one who found that funny), dubbing my companions “Big Bird” and “Chick-a-Dee” – primarily for my own entertainment.

 

They dubbed me “Mother Goose,” which is fraught with cross-dressing and a bunch of other potentially icky connotations. So I tried to sell both of the troops on calling me “Father Goose.”

 

I was down to two pamphlets, when I arrived at a run-down house. We’re talking broken sidewalk tiles, chipped front steps and a predictably beat-up looking mailbox. There was a pickup truck in the driveway and I would not have been surprised to hear the strains of Duelling Banjos coming from inside.

 

But the house was silent.

 

I stood and gazed at the house from the safety of the sidewalk. I looked down at the two remaining papers in my hand and then back at the house. Drapes closed. Then I squared my shoulders, girded my loins (you just shush) and walked up to the porch.

 

When I lifted the lid on the decrepit mailbox, it came off the wall.

 

It came off. Just…came off…and I stood there with the mailbox in my hand, looking at it dully. I started trying to put it back on the wall. Two little nail nubs were all that secured it and the holes in the back of the box were tiny.

 

So there I stood with the box in my hand, rotating it slowly, when the door opened and an old guy stood there, regarding me with an understandably strange expression.

 

We stood silently, frozen, for about ten seconds.

 

“What are you doing?” he asked me finally.

 

“It came off….” I said.

 

He didn’t respond.

 

I showed him mailbox. “Your mailbox. I was putting something into it and the mailbox came…y’know…off. Your wall.”

 

I cleared my throat.

 

The old guy stuck out his hand and I put the mailbox into it.

 

I handed him a pamphlet also.

 

 

 

My deepest thanks to Big Bird and Chick-a-Dee. While I have used cutting edge technology to keep their identities secret, you guys know who you are. Thank you.

 

And to the rest of you: NOVEMBER 20th. At the Edmonton Terra Losa Chapters store between 12:30 and 4:00 p.m. you will have an opportunity to have Sheree Zielke sign your copy of Martha’s Vine.

 

Consider your mailbox stuffed, okay?

 

And if it came off the wall…well…I’m sorry.

Done