Alice McKibbin and Sixteen Mailboxes

Genre: Dramatic Monologue

"I’m waiting by the mailbox, smoking a cig while I wait for Jimmy and one of his stupid friends to pull down the long, long road and pick me up. It’s November and cold and I really should have worn pants, leggings even. This weather is shit and soon it’ll be snow. It could probably snow right now and here I am, standing in a stupid little suede thing. It’s not that I wore a skirt for him so much as I know he’ll want to mess around in the backseat later and this just makes things easier. I hate the fumbling with belts and zippers and Jimmy’s not that smooth, really. Last week I was standing just right here and thinking the same thing. I was also thinking about how I never take a swing at the mailboxes like Jimmy and his stupid friend – my hair blowing out the window, bat in hand – swing, crash, cheer. 60 miles an hour in a 45, crumbled mailbox pummeling the road behind us. Whoo-fucking-hoo. Or was it that Jimmy never lets me? Not that I’d want to. I’d rather sit alone in the back where it’s not so loud and smoke cigarettes. If I get bored I can always glance back to see if it was a full one, see the letters and papers flow behind us in the red light. Plus I’m wearing the skirt. And Jimmy wouldn’t like my ass up in the air where his stupid friend can take a dirty glance at it while I’m concentrating on my aim – swing, crash, cheer.

Sometimes we backtrack down roads we’ve already tried; we drive through the mail, swerve past the rutted boxes. Jimmy and his stupid friend say stupid things like “we really fucked that one up real bad!” while I roll my eyes and think about how surely a couple of those letters were meant to get somewhere real important and now they’re in the ditch while Jimmy’s stupid friend laughs like a hyena. Not that I really care. It wouldn’t feel all that good to me anyway, smashing a stupid mailbox. I don’t need to blow off that kind of steam. Jimmy does. Here I’m standing, thinking about my stupid skirt and Jimmy’s got it real bad; he needs to hit something that won’t hit back.

That’s why I go, really. Jimmy likes it and he doesn’t get to like much, sometimes not even me, and a crumpled mailbox is a small price to pay, really. Yeah, he’ll blow off some steam, drink from his flask, and later he’ll crawl into the backseat and we’ll mess around while his friend speeds real fast, smokes a joint. Stupid friend, smoking a joint and driving. I don’t touch the stuff, makes me paranoid, but he could kill someone. Not that I really care. My name is Alice McKibbin. I’ll do the same thing next week."