Vacation

What’s up with postcards anyway?  I mean, who likes getting postcards?  They’re just pretty pictures of places where you’re not, and a few meaningless words scribbled on the back, usually something like “Having lots of fun!” or “Wish you were here!”  They’re just rubbing it in, really.  That’s exactly what they’re doing.  They’re just rubbing it in your face that they’re on vacation and you’re not.  The whole purpose of postcards is just to give rich vacationers a way to make all their friends and anyone whose address they have feel awful about being stuck in a dingy apartment.

This morning I’m going through my mail, and right between my electric bill and an ad for some pizza place, I find a postcard.  I look it over: crystal clear water lined with snow-white sand, and a palm tree for good measure.  It says “Maui” in the corner.  I look out of my window: streets lined with mud-black snow, and a homeless guy for good measure.  At this point it takes some effort to convince myself I have to finish reading the postcard before I move on to my electric bill.  Several bracing sips of coffee are needed.  I manage to collect myself and turn over the postcard.  It reads, in that characteristic old-lady scrawl, “Dearest Rebecca, Maui is so lovely, I hope you are in good health.  Regards, Aunt Martha.”  I haven’t talked to Aunt Martha in years, not since my parents lost their ability to drag me to family reunions.  It’s not like we were close then or anything.  I never even talked to her much, mostly because she smelled kind of funny.  I did appreciate the obligatory birthday check she would send every year.  But I haven’t gotten a single birthday cent from her since I was sixteen, and she feels the need to send me this cheery little postcard, with a comma splice.  Some people really astound me.

I’ve never gotten to go anywhere, not even outside of the state.  I remember how when I was little, all of my friends would go to Florida or California with their families during Christmas and stuff (one even went to Europe.)  All my family would do was make the four hour drive to my grandparents’ house, where there would be overcooked turkey, lumpy mashed potatoes, and a good deal of my-haven’t-you-grown.  My friends would always send postcards, but I would never have any to send them, unless I had thought to make my own “Greetings From the Taylor Family Table” postcard.  It used to make me feel pretty bad, all those postcards from my friends.  But I’m over it now.

As I’m getting ready for work (the kind of job where they laugh in your face if you even say the word “vacation”), it occurs to me that perhaps Aunt Martha isn’t really in Maui.  Maybe she’s sitting in her house, mailing out postcards, just to ruin people’s days.  That’s exactly the sort of thing she would do.  It’s probably because I never sent her any thank you notes for all those checks. 

Almost to the office, I switch on my turn signal, perhaps a little more forcefully than was really necessary.  As I’m parallel parking, I realize that while it’s entirely possible Aunt Martha would mail out postcards from her home for her own amusement, I don’t know how she would actually acquire a Maui postcard, without being in Maui.  It’s not like they sell them in stationery stores or anything.  I guess she could make them herself.  I’ll have to examine that postcard more carefully when I get home.  Or maybe you can buy them online.  I decide to search for Maui postcards when I get to my computer.

On my way to my cubicle, I get stopped by horrid Mr. Fleming, my boss.  “Ms. Taylor!  Are you going to get those spreadsheets done today?”

He cracks me up so much.  He acts like he’s some army commander or something.  I secretly call him General Cranky. 

This morning I can’t stop myself.  “Yes, sir!”  I give him a little salute.

He goes bright red and his eyes seem to be in serious danger of popping out.  “Ms. Taylor!  No more of your funny business, I mean it!”

I’m looking down at the carpet, right about where his eyes would have fallen if they had popped out.  “Yes, Mr. Fleming.” 

I walk to my cubicle-prison, trying to ignore him as he calls after me.  “Spreadsheets, Ms. Taylor!”  I wait for my computer to turn on.  I’m Googling “Maui” when I feel someone breathing down my neck.

“Ms. Taylor!”

I cringe.  “Yes, Mr. Fleming?”

“That does not look like a spreadsheet.”  I close the window, rather too late.  “Are you thinking of taking a vacation?”

“I’ve never taken a vacation,” I mumble.

“Good.  Now you can have a nice, long one.”

I turn around in my swivel chair.  “Really, Mr. Fleming?”

He starts to laugh, like there’s some joke I’m missing out on.  “Yes, Ms. Taylor.  You can have nice, long vacation.  You’re fired.”

I drive back to my apartment, fingers drumming on the steering wheel, thinking of snow-white sand.  A vacation, I really get to have a vacation.  I can’t wait to send postcards!