Adhesive Seal

“Take her outside. She won't stop moving.”

Wifey said it… but super nicely. I know exactly how she feels. Once in awhile Tiny moves around like a batted-at mosquito where the unpredictability of every motion diapers your brain in such an anarchical chaos that your subconscious has the absolute inability to contain them and your temper leaks all over the place.

“Come on, Tiny. Let’s wait for Mom outside.”

We stepped outside the CVS to wait for Mom and the baggie of sore throat remedies that Tiny needed for us to get through the night in peace.

Or, at least, we tried to get outside.

CLANK. WOBBLE. CLACK.

The automatic-door was catching on something, something at its outside bottom right corner. The both of us trampolined on the rubber-auto-pad to try to auto-force the door to auto-open. But... no luck.

CLANK. CLANK. CLANG-CK!!!

I squashed my nose against the fingerprint stained glass door, and there, just under the Mastercard sticker, the teeniest of an old Italian lady. Just standing there hunched over a Market Basket carriage, looking all the part of smelling like blocks of deli Parmesan and onion-fried garlic... blowing on a greeting card envelope.

I tapped on the glass.

She looked over her bursitisy shoulder, audibly groaned, then waved.

“No. Move your cart!”

I pointed to the carriage. She pointed to her envelope and continued to blow, sending the knot of her tightly bound kerchief tickling over the three fishing line hairs busting from her turkey chin.

“Ma’am. Your cart. Can you move your cart, please?”

She edged it just enough. Then immediatly went back to blowing on the gift card envelope.

Tiny and I walked out, “Thanks.”

I leaned on a big blue mailbox just outside the CVS door and held Tiny close so her mosquito movements didn’t draw deeper under my already crawling skin. I sunk into the box's solid blueness, not giving half-a-shiv of how rotten and stained with black it was. I found my center, my Zen, and, finally, my nerves were at rest. Until I heard -

FFFFFFFFFF!!!

FFFFFFFFFF!!!

Is something leaking?

FFFFFFFFFF!!!

FFFFFFFFFF!!!

Gas?!?

That sounds like gas!!!

A gas leak?!?

MY GOD!!!

Tiny looked up to me, shook her head then slowly glided her index finger left.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

And whispered, “It’s her…”

And it was.

The sound of blowing air leaking through the upper gum plate of this old broad's dentures while she blew on that gift card envelope. I could tell that the adhesive seal on her dentures was gone because air was expelling from the mouth cavity, but her upper lip was bladdering up with air with each blow.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Fill.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Fill.

Like a wrinkled, dry balloon.

Disgust pasted over both mine and Tiny’s faces. Staring in wonder at this old woman blowing on a Hallmark envelope and filling her upper lip with the carbon dioxides of zitis and Sunday gravy.

Fanastic.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Fill.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Swallow.

We noticed that each second filling was followed by a gulping swallow, as if she was wadding back a mouthful of recommended vitamins and unaffordable no-name prescriptions.

FFFFFFFFFFF –

In mid-blow she stopped and turned to us.

PAH!

She released the half-air in her lip, “I wetted it too much.”

“Wetted it?”

“A card for my sister and I wetted it too much.”

“Okay.”

“I just kept licking it and licking it and…”

… and enough already. You’re an old lady. I don’t need the visual of you licking anything.

“And now it’s too wetted and I’m afraid of mailing it.”

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Fill.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

Swallow.

“See. It won’t dry.”

And she showed it to me. Yellow. Yellow verging on brown. The adhesive seal at the flap was tan-ish… and sopping. My Good God, it was loaded with the wettness from this poor old woman’s parmesan'd saliva.

FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

“I can’t get enough air on the glue.”

That’s because you’ve got a gum leak, ma’am.

“Purse your lips more.”

What am I helping with?

“Purse your lips. Concentrate the air.”

CONCENTRATE THE AIR?!?

I fished out my lips in her direction, reasoning that the tightness of the upper lip would, at the very least, throw a temp-seal at the gum plate and I could stop hearing the FFFFFFFFFFF!!!

“Like this – like a monkey...“

I chimped-out my lips again. She held the envelope in my direction.

“I need this dry.”

Yeah.

No.

"Not me. You."

I'm not Boy Scouting this much...

“Like a monkey.”

She pursed.

"Now, blow."

And cinch-off that awful “F” sound you’re making.

She followed my instructions. The air flowed out in silence. Peaceful. Tiny and I leaned back up against the mailbox and just watched her hunched over her shopping cart, wheezing over the envelope.

“There," she huffed, "It won't dry. I just wetted it too much.”

Grams, we’ve been over this.

“Great. Do you need to get in here,” I said pointing to the mailbox.

“I hope it’s still not too wetted.”

Wetted is not a word. It’s not a word. It’s not a word. You've been around long enough to have realized, at some point, that "wetted" is not a word.

“I’m sure you’re fine.”

She forced it my way again.

“What do you think?”

I think it’s yellow and soggy and smells like pepperoni. You should probably get rid of it before the post office sites you a Level 4 Hazmat.

“It's perfect.”

As she dropped it into the mailbox, she moaned, “Oh. It’s still too wetted.”

She dove for the letter, but the door of the mailbox clanged back into place. She stared me, pleading for unspoken help.

I stared back but could only muster-up a, “Um?”

“Um.”

I looked down to Tiny. Tiny just shrugged.

The old woman tightened her kerchief, staring from me to the mailbox, then back again, “What do you think?”

I thought that Wifey should hurry up and get out here so I could walk away, but instead –

“What’s the worst that can happen? If it’s still too wetted, it will just stick to another envelope…”
Nothing.

“… right?”

Then –

“Oh, my! NO!!!!!”

She opened the mailbox door and stared inside.

Wifey emerged from the CVS, "What's the matter with that old lady?"

"Nothing."