My letter box is a drug trafficking hot spot.
So there.
My letter box is not only is a safe repository for my monthly InStyle mag (yay) and bills from Origin (boo) it also seems to be a hangout for Cheech and Chong, joined by the cast of That 70s Show.
Our new letterbox visitors
What does your letter box do?
What am I talking about you might ask? Well, flashback to last Friday and Mr C and I happened to get the most interesting piece of mail we’ve ever received, but it wasn’t even meant for us.
On our way to the movies – Straight Outta Compton, since you asked. And yes, I’m totally into gangsta rap now – and Mr C said he hadn’t checked the mail that day. So I stopped off at the letter box on the way to the car and retrieved a lone envelope.
Taking off for the illustrious glamour of Indooroopilly, I took a closer look at the envelope. It was addressed to a fella called Kevin with our address below. Despite being in our place for six years, we still receive some mail for the previous owners, but none of them go by the moniker of Kevin.
Rolling the letter over in my hands I pointed out to Mr C that the envelope was lumpy with no return address. Being the sheltered nerd I am, I’ve shrieked, ‘they’re pills. It’s ecstasy. Or it’s anthrax in pill form’. Well don’t you think it would be far more convenient to transport anthrax if it was in neat pill form? Duh. And plus, Mr C and I are such political activists that of course we’d be the target for a toxic letter drop off. I wrote a letter to the Premier and my local member about not axing Uber. I’m practically Harvey Milk.
‘Oh dear, it accidentally opened,’ I said. A little anthrax doesn’t scare me. Yep, I’m a total badass. I illegally open other people’s mail. Next step: killing a man, just to watch him die.
It wasn’t pills. It was more of a herbal nature.
In a Commonwealth Bank coin bag was what my husband, disturbingly the font of all MJ (not Michael) knowledge, estimated to be about $50 worth of weed and a small scribbly note, probably originating from Nimbin.
In the note Donny proceeded to tell Kev that ‘it wasn’t very much, but som (sic) is better than none’. Apparently Donny didn’t like writing letters. Well, let me tell you Donny, if you start using your hands, rather than trying to steer a biro with your nostril – the only explanation for the atrocious nose/handwriting – you might enjoy it more. Donny was actually rather sweet though and said he’d love a visit from Kevin, but only when he was feeling better.
Suddenly it all made sense. It seemed poor Kev needed the ingredients for a funny brownie for health reasons. I felt quite bad for him. So proceeded an evening of Googling and Facebooking Kevins in our suburb to no avail. If only Kev’s friendly pot dealer could put their silly ciggie down and grasp their nose pen properly to take down the correct address, he would be sitting on his couch happily munching chips and thinking the Celebrity Apprentice is an anthropological masterpiece and not thinking his pal Donny had let him down.
Don’t listen to a word Kenneth says
What’s more surprising/alarming/amusing about all of this is that this letter made its through our national postal institution. Perhaps the post office in Mullumbimby operates on a different set of rules to the one I usually go to.
So that is how Mr and Mrs C’s castle became the latest drop off point on the secret railroad. My recommendation to those choosing these spots is to avoid letter boxes that see a lot of action with mail of the business account variety and homes inhabited by people with an online shopping addiction… like ours. Because our mail box gets checked. Every day.
What happened to Kev’s magic potion you may be asking? Nothing yet. Mr C and I won’t be imbibing due to formerly collapsed lungs and medication that, when mixed with ‘herbal based’ treatments, might conjure a full blown freakout. I’m just about technically unemployed and there is a high school and skate park close by so I am well located to start a new career.
It's Claire as mud 