one.
The light inside was fluorescent, unshadowed and kind of unearthly. Facing me was a wall of those metal boxes you can rent so that any mail you receive is completely secret and private. Our post office inSpirit Lake (much cozier than the Cold Flat one) has these boxes, only ours, instead of having a metal door, are half metal and half glass; they are very old, antique probably.
My brother, Will, and I used to have the heady job of picking up the mail. We would walk the long boardwalk that started at the tennis club building and ran parallel to the highway, through trees and shrubbery, all the way down to the railroad station and the post office. We would take our time about the mail route. After we left the post office, or before we went there, we would sometimes go to Greg’s and get an Orange Crush and a Moon Pie (his friend Brownmiller’s favorite combination, and I often think we ate this in honor of him, as if he were a war hero or something, when actually he only lives a hundred miles away). Then we would set our pop on the pinball machine and Will would just about tilt it nearly to death and was good at winning free games (though not as good as Brownmiller).
But that was years ago and time past, and Lola Davidow started driving down to the post office; sometimes Ree-Jane does it, especially since she got that new convertible car. Ree-Jane, God knows, isn’t about to walk. So the mail route became one more Davidow takeover. It means that on the rare occasions when someone writes to me, Mrs. Davidow or Ree-Jane gets to see the letter first; worse, they get to tell me who it is that’s writing. It’s discouraging, for by the time I get my letter, it seems used; it is drained of that bewitching power unopened mail has. And, of course, if Ree-Jane picks up my mail, she is totally unmerciful. She would never just leave it at the desk or hand it over. No, there has to be a big production staged about the sender and my relationship to her or him (if “him” it’s always worse); that, or she might open it “by mistake,” thinking it’s from a prospective guest who wants to make a reservation; or sometimes she even “forgets” to give me my letter and it doesn’t turn up for days or even a week. By the time Ree-Jane gets finished with my poor letter, it’s almost as if the ink is worn away. Certainly, the excitement of receiving it is.
So I have always wanted to rent one of those little metal boxes; that way I could receive my mail in total privacy, for my eyes only. It was always a high point in Will’s and my day when we could look through the glass and see the white envelopes slotted in there, along with the occasional blue or official-looking tan one. My brother and I would take turns spinning the combination.
Sometimes we would be given money to buy stamps, and I thoroughlyenjoyed that, for it allowed me to talk to the postmistress, Miss Crosby, through the arched window opening, which is the only vantage point for seeing into the “back” room and the great swell of letters and parcels on the table. Through this window, which has a flat wooden door she can slide down, Miss Crosby dispenses stamps and change and, up to a point, information. When she is “off” for lunch (tea and a tuna sandwich and some selection of Hostess cake) or has to go out on an errand, she can shut the window—bang the window, sometimes, when I was asking too many questions. Actually, Miss Crosby will sometimes keep the window shut if she does not feel like exposing herself to the outside world; no one has any way of knowing if she’s back there with her cup of tea and Hostess cupcake, hiding. I think hers must be the most enviable job in the world, back there with tea and Twinkies and all of that mail.
But here in Cold Flat Junction, the post office was a more efficient-looking and businesslike affair. The counter that ran half the length of the small room would leave whoever was behind totally exposed. Except there
The light inside was fluorescent, unshadowed and kind of unearthly. Facing me was a wall of those metal boxes you can rent so that any mail you receive is completely secret and private. Our post office inSpirit Lake (much cozier than the Cold Flat one) has these boxes, only ours, instead of having a metal door, are half metal and half glass; they are very old, antique probably.
My brother, Will, and I used to have the heady job of picking up the mail. We would walk the long boardwalk that started at the tennis club building and ran parallel to the highway, through trees and shrubbery, all the way down to the railroad station and the post office. We would take our time about the mail route. After we left the post office, or before we went there, we would sometimes go to Greg’s and get an Orange Crush and a Moon Pie (his friend Brownmiller’s favorite combination, and I often think we ate this in honor of him, as if he were a war hero or something, when actually he only lives a hundred miles away). Then we would set our pop on the pinball machine and Will would just about tilt it nearly to death and was good at winning free games (though not as good as Brownmiller).
But that was years ago and time past, and Lola Davidow started driving down to the post office; sometimes Ree-Jane does it, especially since she got that new convertible car. Ree-Jane, God knows, isn’t about to walk. So the mail route became one more Davidow takeover. It means that on the rare occasions when someone writes to me, Mrs. Davidow or Ree-Jane gets to see the letter first; worse, they get to tell me who it is that’s writing. It’s discouraging, for by the time I get my letter, it seems used; it is drained of that bewitching power unopened mail has. And, of course, if Ree-Jane picks up my mail, she is totally unmerciful. She would never just leave it at the desk or hand it over. No, there has to be a big production staged about the sender and my relationship to her or him (if “him” it’s always worse); that, or she might open it “by mistake,” thinking it’s from a prospective guest who wants to make a reservation; or sometimes she even “forgets” to give me my letter and it doesn’t turn up for days or even a week. By the time Ree-Jane gets finished with my poor letter, it’s almost as if the ink is worn away. Certainly, the excitement of receiving it is.
So I have always wanted to rent one of those little metal boxes; that way I could receive my mail in total privacy, for my eyes only. It was always a high point in Will’s and my day when we could look through the glass and see the white envelopes slotted in there, along with the occasional blue or official-looking tan one. My brother and I would take turns spinning the combination.
Sometimes we would be given money to buy stamps, and I thoroughlyenjoyed that, for it allowed me to talk to the postmistress, Miss Crosby, through the arched window opening, which is the only vantage point for seeing into the “back” room and the great swell of letters and parcels on the table. Through this window, which has a flat wooden door she can slide down, Miss Crosby dispenses stamps and change and, up to a point, information. When she is “off” for lunch (tea and a tuna sandwich and some selection of Hostess cake) or has to go out on an errand, she can shut the window—bang the window, sometimes, when I was asking too many questions. Actually, Miss Crosby will sometimes keep the window shut if she does not feel like exposing herself to the outside world; no one has any way of knowing if she’s back there with her cup of tea and Hostess cupcake, hiding. I think hers must be the most enviable job in the world, back there with tea and Twinkies and all of that mail.
But here in Cold Flat Junction, the post office was a more efficient-looking and businesslike affair. The counter that ran half the length of the small room would leave whoever was behind totally exposed. Except there
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