going postal

At work, we have a mailman who was nicknamed “Papa Smurf” for his uncanny resemblance. The beard, the stature…he even wears all blue. I thought Papa Smurf was a harmless lonely old man, so I would chit chat with him each day while signing for our certified mail.

And then, a co-worker moved into my office with me.

That’s when the creepiness went from 0 to 60 in 5 seconds.

One day, he pulled out his phone and fiddled around with it for a full minute before holding it out at arms length and saying, “smile.”

The next time I saw him, he said, “your co-workers probably all thought I was creepy because of the picture thing – I just wanted you to know, I didn’t really take her picture, it was a joke.” When I asked what the joke was about, he said, “in case she ever turns up missing, I can submit it to Robert’s Dairy to put on their milk cartons.”

Then, on Friday, he brought in roses. One for my co-worker, one for me.

Suddenly, Papa Smurf went from harmless to having a medicine cabinet full of roofies. He was no longer asking us to sign for certified mail, but saying, “it puts the lotion on the skin.”

So my boss called the post office. He said under no circumstances is the mailman to talk to the young girls who he brought roses to. He’s to go to the accounting manager to have anything signed, then drop off the mail, and go on to his next stop.

I saw the post man after that, said a casual “hello” and he nearly growled at me.

If I stop posting for more than two weeks straight, call Robert’s Dairy, see if my picture is there, then plaster it on every milk carton you can find.