I grew up in a small community that was relatively quiet, nice and peaceful. Its homes were filled with nuclear families and senior citizens. Nothing really exciting ever happened there and that didn’t really bother us. Everyone liked it that way.

But a few years ago one Wednesday afternoon something controversial happened: The mail was a hour late.

In most communities this isn’t a big deal. But in our community with it’s dense senior citizen population desperately waiting for pension cheques and catalogs to arrive the late mail became a big talking point among the community’s older residents. As far as any of us under 60 were concerned it was hardly scandalous. But it was aggravating to the senior citizens, who could drop dead at any minute, so it was critical that they got their mail as early as possible. Even an hour early. Who wants to die and leave an amazing two-for-one coupon sitting in their mail box?

The next week Wednesday came and once again the mail was an hour late. Again, it became a talking point. The Wednesday after that it was late again. By this time the local post office received a barrage of complaints from senior citizens demanding answers. A few days later we had a new mail man and the old one was presumably let go.

I didn’t know what was going on. I couldn’t care less. If my porn magazines and credit card bills arrived an hour late on Wednesdays it hardly mattered.

Mail started arriving on time with the new mail man and everything went back to normal. Time passed and I had completely forgotten about the senior citizen’s revolt over late mail.

A few weeks ago I ran into an old friend. We both used to live on the same street in the old town. Over a drink of beer we started talking and he asked me “Remember when all the old people revolted against the post office? Do you know why?”

“Yeah, the mail was late.”

“No, no, the mail man. Do you know why he was late?”

I didn’t know, I never really thought about it.

“Remember the Shirer’s down the street next to the convenience store? Mrs. Shirer, she was really hot. Neither of them worked because they were rich as fuck off his inheritance? The mail man was stopping at their house to fuck her while Mr. Shirer watched and whacked off!”

I told my friend “That’s crazy.”

So he went into more detail.

“No, it was Mr. Shirer’s thing. All three of them would go into the bedroom. Mrs. Shirer would be all dolled up, probably in that sexy dress she used to wear on Sundays and the mail man would have a go at her with his uniform on. The uniform was the big thing. Mr. Shirer’s wife would lay on the bed, spread her legs and the mail man would give it to her!”

His attention to detail was suspect but I suppose he could have been embellishing the details a bit.

At first I didn’t believe it. The Shirers were very quiet people and it seemed highly unlikely they would be that adventurous in their private lives. Now, there’s nothing wrong with letting the mail man bang your wife if she enjoys it and it’s your thing. But the Shirers? I couldn’t believe it.

The other day I was talking to my sister Rebecca on the phone and I brought up the mail man and the Shirers.

“I was told the mail man used to bang Mrs. Shirer while Mr. Shirer watched and masturbated.”

“Oh yeah, it’s supposedly true. She even married the mail man after Mr. Shirer passed away,” she informed me.

That was the most amazing thing I had ever heard. Not only was the mail man making an extra delivery to the Shirers, he shacked up with Mrs. Shirer after her husband died and they’re still together to this day.

I wonder if he kept the uniform?