IX. Travis. December 13, 2019

>driving Lyft

>pick up this lady around Tharpe and Colorado

>mid-twenties, blond frogfur hair, illegible tramp stamp

>has a tiny baby in a carrier

>tells me we are on a round trip to get her mail

>”they delivered my charmbox today, gotta get it before Travis fucks with it”

>ok

>off we go, due north

>all the way to the depressing neighborhood near the Lake Jackson Indian Mounds

>pull up at the house

>three cars in the yard, a Cadillac, some sort of souped-up Honda, and a Saturn I think

>I remain in the car with baby

>she checks mailbox first, no charmbox

>what mail there is gets deliberately scattered across the yard

>no charmbox on doorstep

>garage has an old-timey liftgate, she throws it open

>stuff comes flying out into the yard at various angles

>she comes stomping out, begins beating on front door

>”TRAVIS! GOD DAMNIT TRAVIS!”

>neither Travis nor charmbox appear

>baby getting fussy, I give her my finger

>lady opens gate to backyard

>giant yellow dog comes barreling out, runs to nearest tree and pees for a thousand years

>proceeds to eat things in the yard as hard as he can

>loud noises from backyard

>lady comes out the front door, beside herself with rage

>gets in the car

>I say “we ready”

>she says yes

>off we go, leaving the dog to finish eating the front yard

>tells me Travis stole her charmbox

>fucking Travis

>she gets on the phone, calls Travis

>”TRAVIS WHERE IS MY FUCKING CHARMBOX? Shit cost me fifty bucks! It’s my mail! Where is it?”

>beat

>”THE FUCK YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW?!”

>tries to slam phone into cradle in a furious manner

>can’t, because is an iPhone

>phone rings

>it’s not Travis

>She says, utterly sweetly, “Hey, baby, I’ll be home soon! I’m in a Lyft, went to get my mail.”

>”Yeah, tonight we gonna chill, have fun, play with our sweet baby. I bought groceries, there’s some ham in the fridge, love you, bye!”

>Calls her mother

>”MAMA! I need you to CALL FUCKING TRAVIS CAUSE HE STOLE MY GOTDAMN CHARMBOX!”

>”THE CHARMBOX! The one you bought for fifty bucks!”

>”I called him and he said he didn’t know where it was. He fucking lying!”

>”Yes, I looked all over the house, it’s GONE! FUCKING GONE! Travis stole it. You need to CALL HIM! Tell him you bought it!”

>another beat

>”Ok FINE MAMA! TEXT TRAVIS AND SAY YOU BOUGHT IT! I just spent forty bucks on a fucking Lyft to come get my mail and IT AIN’T THERE!”

>”Love you Mama, bye!”

>we enjoy a minute of silence

>baby gurgles and coos

>Then she says “Imma call the cops! Stealing mail is a federal offense!”

>literally dials 911

>”Yeah, I wanna report a stolen charmbox. Travis thinks just because I don’t live there anymore he can have my mail, but ain’t that a federal whatchacallit?”

>clearly the police are uninterested

>she calls not-Travis again

>”Almost there, baby, you got a lighter? I couldn’t find a lighter today and I ain’t had a cigarette all day. No, you got cigars up in the cabinet, but ain’t no lighter.”

>baby starts to cry; she is tired of being in the car

>lady starts a video playing on the iPhone, shows it to baby

>thus we remain until we return to her house