Unsolicited Lists of Humans Delivered to Unsuspecting Households?

phone-book-page

It was in the mailbox. Wedged, I guess? Stuffed? It was definitely some sort of book, but it was bound with an unsupportive carboard backing – and bright yellow.

Yellow everywhere.

I extricated the book from the small wall-mounted mailbox. The cover was festooned with ads for taxi services, auto repair shops, and law firms. YOU DON’T GET PAID UNLESS WE GET PAID. Someone was getting paid though, in the end. Flipping through some pages I noted first-off an alphabetical listing of names followed by what appeared to be a code number. It may have easily been a phone number, but I haven’t memorized one since high school, and in the modern age of self-updating cross-referencing Facebook-polling address books, I can’t for the life of me believe that this is simply a book of phone numbers – there must be more to this madness.

A few fingerfuls of pages later and the code changed – YELLOW PAGES. Insanity, I thought, dropping the book to the sidewalk. I’m not litterbug, but this THING was disturbing me. I set my sights on the rest of my mail – Bath and Body Works Semi-Annual Sale, 30% off coupon. Comcast Business Class internet offers (I am no business). Little Caesar’s Hot-n-Ready $5 pizzas. I thumbed through them all, but ticking under my feet like The Telltale Heart, that BOOK.

I kicked the book over once towards the public trash can and it rolled open. I’m not sure why I picked it back up, but it was in the B’s section. Curiously, I suppose, I scanned the page for where my name should be – nothing.

There was always nothing. The book fell to the ground as my being realized its own nonexistance and simply ceased to be. The rest of my mail scattered to the wind. I hope someone takes advantage of the Ace True Value coupon flyer. Father’s Day is coming up.

 


brunel

ISAMBARD KINGDOM BRUNEL is a technical chap by trade, but occasionally shares his creative energies here at the Boutique.  He loves steam ships and digging holes underneath the Thames River, but nothing more than a good cigar.

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