Snail Mail

I used to gripe about peeking in the sheet metal box of crushing disappointment bolted to the front of the house, looking for checks. I haven’t done that as much lately. All my clients now, even the ones you’d think would be the most hidebound and retrograde, have gone over to direct deposit.

Except one. That one still wants to squeeze the berries to make the ink and sharpen a quill for a pen and lovingly hand-roll the papyrus, and then slip the paper check into the dispatch pouch by hand.

You’ll never guess which client’s check is about three weeks late at this point. (HINT: It didn’t involve electrons in any way.)

This is hair-pullingly frustrating. I’d been hoping that the fates would see that I got my paycheck for my birthday, but that wasn’t in the cards. Now I’m just hoping they get off their asses before bills come due at the end of the month.

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