Mama,

As Pa used to say, when a door closes in the world, another one opens in America. Leaving a USPS office in Kansas and entering the West Tampa branch of DPS surely feels like an upgrade in life, though not yet necessarily into the twenty-first century. Our office is just one traffic light away from one of the busiest corners in town and sandwiched between a storefront Episcopal Church and a poorly sculptured statue of Mercury, the Messenger God. My work hours are quite merciful, allowing me to enjoy a shave in the morning and watch a movie with Marjorie come nighttime. Our customers are often easygoing with their demeanor and rich with dialect, adding color and diversity to long waiting lines. My fellow postmen, though alarmingly white and male, provide textbook service with their clockwork efficiency and (usually) buoyant mood. My partner Jim, with his dexterity in parceling and stellar communication skills, is a postal sensa- tion. My manager is a delight, thanks to her looks and human-centric approach.

In other news, moving in has been a smooth transition. Our condo, though cozy with its Swedish architectural style and Greek finishings, faces an old Jewish cemetery. We haven’t seen much of our neighbors yet, but earlier this morning, when I stepped out into the hall to take out the trash, two blondies with matching Sailor Moon shoulder tattoos and identical beehive hairdos waved at me through the next-door window all smiley- smiley. There was a certain mystical quality to our interaction that I can’t place my finger on yet, though I can say I left with a positive first impression.

A nuisance: a bunch of pranksters rang our bell (twice) last night and asked for a Delilah, the previous renter. One of them, a cherubic boy named Zane, who also seemed to be the alpha of this brat pack, failed to keep his drink in its bottle the whole time he laughed at his own unfunny jokes. I refrained from making an issue of it then (the spilling; not the jokes—though I also have a lot to say on that front) and kept my cool as the bigger person I am, even though I believe that this kind of atrocious disregard for the integrity of flooring, as my migraine attack still agrees with, shouldn’t be left unpunished in civilized societies. Not that I would classify Tampa as one so far—a civilized society—but one should know that damp rot could infect an entire building, let alone a second-floor condominium with decades-old floorboards and no dust exit, damning its market value dramatically.

Further news on our marriage: I was lying in bed earlier today and making plans for our housewarming party when yet another wasp flew in through the window and landed on my ear for the third time in less than three hours. That’s when a thought hit me, Mama. “Oh my God,” I said, “there are too many wasps.” It’s been one of those gradually creeping takeovers of our society by something so sinister, half-yellow, and deeply annoying (see also: the former POTUS). Before we knew it, we’d surrendered our backyards to them. They can have it, we thought. After all, the US is a nation of never-ending crises and wasps are not exactly like the worst of our problems right now. But then they came for our doors, Mama. And our doors sadly came up empty-handed in denying entrance to such a tiny and fidgety creature. They can have our doors, we figured, if they must. It’s not like we cared about them anyway.

But then they came for our bedrooms, Mama. Which means they have now evolved to a point where they can deal with the thin air up here. Which means my days in this house are probably numbered now, for I’m afraid they can cause more activity in my own bed- room and also be more annoying and louder than I am, yours truly, Adam Cryer, who is not only scared of wasps but also allergic to them, both in medical and existential terms.

Mama, you won’t believe how Marjorie, your beloved daughter-in-law, reacted when I told her that I think we need to do something about wasps, that we better stop them before it’s too late. She simply looked me in the eye and said, “You’re assuming I’d rather have you than wasps.”

I can almost hear your gasps, Mama. I, too, am at loss for words.

Yet I managed to keep my cool and replied, “If it were between me and bees, then yeah, I’d accept there’s a conundrum, love. Honey, pollination, furriness—I sure can’t compete with that.” I held and shook her by the shoulders, my good wife, hoping that I could bring her to her senses. “But I kind of hoped I’d be a clear favorite in this case.”

Much to my dismay and disappointment, she swatted away my hands and said, “I suggest we do it the old-fashioned way, chap,” with no emotion brewing on her face whatsoever. “Cryer vs. Stinger. Drop by the kitchen to place your bet.”

I tell you it is the wasps, Mama. It’s a clear sign that those zits in the butt have already come in and taken what’s rightfully mine. As I write these words to you, I don’t even know what my role in this house will be anymore. But I know wasps are not bees. I know they do not need mercy. They need, as Pa would so appropriately put it, “dealing with.” Rest his soul, family indeed comes above all, so I suggest we start doing something about it, Mama—you and I—“the old-fashioned way.”

Please guide your son with your boundless wisdom.

Bound by blood,

Your Adam