by William Reick
I love the summer. The way the lightening bugs light up the night. The way I can hear the ice-cream man coming around your block. The way you leave your porch door unlocked. These are the things that get me through the day. All winter, I eagerly anticipate the first bloom of the mountain-laurel, Connecticut's state flower. And all summer, I silently sneak into your house to heat up my lunch. I'm a big, big fan of Marie Calendar's line of chicken, beef and turkey potpies. Flavors like Broccoli and Cheddar... Creamy Parmesan... Breaking and entering... Garlic roasted mushroom...
You folks came home a little earlier than I expected. This baby stayed in the microwave for only 5 of the recommended 9 to 11 minutes. That's when I heard you call the police. I know the drill. They pull up, "Linda, not again. We're really getting tired of you and your love of Marie Callender’s. Put your hands up and leave your potpie on the kitchen counter. Why haven’t you bought a microwave? Freeze or we’ll shoot," Etc. Looks like this Cheesy Chicken and Bacon potpie is gonna be a little unevenly heated. Lots of random little cold spots. Hmm… sounds a hell of a lot like the heart of notorious potpie intruder Linda Mulroney.
To be honest, I'm not even an "accredited" mailwoman. I bought the mail truck from a police auction. No, I'm just a hungry lady. This isn’t a real mail satchel. These envelopes are as empty as my stomach. And no alarm system could possibly stand between me and my convenient, savory treat. That's right. I know your Slomin's Shield code. 3.8.09, the day you bought this house and we began this dance of secrets. For seven summers now, I've been escaping out your backdoor with a potpie under my shirt, silent as the night. Once in the summer of 2012, your youngest daughter was home sick from daycamp. She never knew there was somebody else watching Yo-Gabba Gabba with her while enjoying a Chicken Corn Chowder potpie fresh from the nuke. I hid behind the refrigerator. How she wasn’t tipped off by the delectable scent wafting over the entire house, I’ll never know.
I know it's a crime. But it's a crime of scrumptious passion, with a thick flaky crust on top. Ned, if there was something between you and your beautiful wife here, what would you do? Exactly, you’d break into somebody’s house to be with her. Do you feel that, Ned? That’s called empathy. So please. Have mercy on a mailwoman who has never been recognized by the United States Postal Service. Be a neighbor. Give me a head start. Close your eyes and count to 100 while I slink quietly through the storm doors in your basement.
Bill Reick is a sketch comedy writer from Philadelphia.