My cruiser bike is named Lucille. Preowned, she came with a sturdy, rusty basket. I added a shiny silver bell which I ring in greeting to my neighbors. Ding, ding, ding. I hope my bell hello is more endearing than obnoxious, but let’s not take a poll.

I bought Lucille from Hippie Steve, who runs a cash only operation from his house. His business model involves high inventory and no receipt book. On the date of Lucille’s purchase, after rummaging through my purse and car, I was ten dollars shy of Hippie Steve’s asking price. I offered him a small wad of bills and he took them, grinned, and told me to come back when I came up with the rest of the money.

What I thought was reasonable negotiation, Hippie Steve regarded as a layaway plan. I returned with a ten spot and Lucille came to reside at her new home.

Lucille is the same royal blue as the bike Daddy bought from Western Auto the day I turned five. Though I have had many bikes in between, these two have a talisman feel, with a back pedal style braking system, without gears or complication, they have offered me the most joy.

Something about the parallel universes of these two bicycles have helped me circle back to the simplicity of my formative years – being outdoors, fully experiencing my surroundings, limiting my load to what I can tote in a metal basket.

Lucille and I ride to most errands and events that don’t involve crossing the high-rise bridge, which is how I ended up at the post office on a Tuesday afternoon. My mission involved mailing a birthday package to my brother and checking out this year’s holiday stamps.

When traveling the back roads behind the Piggly Wiggly and up by Slick’s Auto, Beaufort Post Office is 2.8 miles from our house. Afternoon cycling is a treat in the late fall as the warm sun moves across the sky heading toward the golden hour. Pedaling home feels satisfying and magical. I smile from the seat of Lucille.

Miss Sue at Beaufort Post Office is kind and attentive. I like to chat her up about what she does on her days off and new stamp designs. She doesn’t mind too much when I borrow her Sharpie or a little strip of packing tape. Operating hours are 9:00 – 4:00. Miss Sue lifts and lowers the metal garage-like door at her station with authority. United States Postal Service may abide by the “neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” customer mantra, but Miss Sue is done at 4:00, which is why I park Lucille at 3:50. I’ve learned to leave a cushion of time or be left behind Miss Sue’s iron curtain.

It may sound as though I’m judging Hippie Steve and Miss Sue, but I love these people. Our bikeable community with its lively personalities is a little piece of Eden. I’ve learned a more wholesome way of existing from those who don’t make work their sole focus in life. The charm of this ideology gives me perspective that I missed during my Type A workaholic years.

As I drop Lucille’s kickstand, an older man in khaki slacks and a white V-neck undershirt enters the Post Office in front of me. The man is of medium height and build. From his back pocket, I can see the edge of a folded handkerchief peeking out above the seam. Tufts of white hair protrude from his ears, reminding me of pampas grass. Because of my love for my grandaddy, I have a soft spot for old men.

Papa Post Office has what appears to be two money orders and some wrinkled notebook paper in his hand. Before he is all the way up to the window, he starts talking to Miss Sue. “Can you help me fill these out? I have to get them to Florida by tomorrow. They got to go out today.” Miss Sue looks at the papers and from my place behind him in line, so do I. The energy in the room has shifted from almost quitting time to high alert.

“Do you have an address in Florida?” Papa has a house number and knows it’s Something-Gables. He doesn’t have a zip code. “I’ll help you,” Miss Sue says. “But let me go ahead and take care of the lady behind you first.”

“Of course,” he says. “Go ahead, ma’am.”

“I’m not in any hurry, Miss Sue,” I say. She sternly motions me forward and I obey.

From my side eye, I see that the money orders are each for two hundred dollars. I have a pit in my stomach. I know I am projecting here and what Papa is doing with his money is none of my bee’s wax, but dang, the dread I was absorbing from him was consuming my heart. Let’s just say I was picking up what he was putting down.

Papa’s cellphone rang. It was that classic musical rift ring tone from back in the day. “Hello,” he answered. “I’m at the post office. I know. I got the money orders. I’m trying to get them out today. I know. The postal woman is helping me.” He takes the phone from his ear with a grimace. No goodbye or I love you. Papa Post Office looks worried.

Miss Sue gives me my tracking information, circling the code where I can take the survey. The package will be to my brother in Greenwood by Thursday. “That’s plenty of time,” I answer with a strained chirpiness to my voice. “My brother will be sixty-four on Saturday.” I tell her, though I don’t know why this is important in the moment. She nods. “Thank you, Miss Sue,” I say.

I start to offer to help with Papa, but Miss Sue nonverbally dismisses me. I look at my watch. 4:03 PM. It’s time for Miss Sue to lower the drawbridge, but she doesn’t.

As I push open the glass door marked exit, Miss Sue and Papa hunch over his paperwork. I suspect two money orders were soon in overnight transport to Something-Gables, Florida.

My gut tells me that the money went to a scammer – maybe a stranger, or worse, a grandchild with extortionist intentions. I don’t know if my involvement would have made things better or worse. It’s like trying to decide when to jump off the swing. Get involved? Now? Wait. Now?

Sometimes you hit the right arc flying in perfection; sometimes you hit the dirt. Hard. Sometimes outside involvement is not welcomed or needed.

I don’t even know what I would have asked or said or done. Given the same scenario, chances are I would have taken identical actions as Papa. I most wish I could or would have given him a hug, squeezing him tight, whispering that it would all be okay.

The next morning, I pondered my Tuesday bike ride while walking Toast. I was wound tight in the uncertainty of Papa Post Office, Miss Sue, and an unidentified person in Florida. In the quiet of sunrise, I wondered about these people, and since there are stalker laws, I began sending love and light into the universe in hopes of easing their loads, because as of yesterday afternoon at 4:03, they seemed heavy. Just like Lucille’s, my basket is a little rusty, but it’s sturdy for the shared toting of the human condition.