Postcards from a Dead Girl (14 page)

Maybe it's our mutual appreciation of peace and quiet, or Gerald's selfless offer to help me with my own dig, but whatever it is, he got me to come underground, and I can already feel the damp air creep into my lungs like a cold ghost.

“Keep going,” he implores. I'm first down the makeshift stairs. I reach out to touch the walls for guidance, and as I slowly descend into darkness, I'm beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea. “One step at a time,” Gerald coos behind me. The blackness deepens. I hear something metallic clank just over my shoulder, something loose and dangling. With great clarity I realize that this is where I will die: a dark, earthen prison under some psycho mailman's house. Soon I will feel intense blunt pain and for a few horrific moments I will understand with deep, irreversible regret that I have made extremely poor decisions to get myself in this place, slaughtered by a stranger.

A chain pull switch clicks, and a bare bulb fills the room with loud, naked light. Gerald squints dumbly up at it. “I gotta put a forty-watt in there, hundred is way too bright.”

My eyes take a moment to recover from the shock, and what I see is the last thing I expect from a Jekyll & Hyde post office
worker with a penchant for survivalist practices. Rows and rows of rows of them. They seem to go on forever. I'm so confounded by the sight, I forget to be afraid.

“You know that question, if you were ever stuck on an island with only one book, what would it be?” Gerald asks. I nod along and start counting. Ten aisles of bookshelves each go back at least fifty or sixty feet. All of them, full stacks. It's like a library down here. An underground library. “I could never answer that question,” he says. “I love them all.”

I roam the aisles. The walls, floor, and ceiling are all covered with wood planks. It feels like the inside of a coffin. I follow a shelf of books with my finger and pull a few titles out. Most of them are library rejects, with plastic jackets and Dewey Decimal System numbers still printed on them. Some of the book's covers are missing. But they're well organized, and there are so damn many of them. I realize I'm tiptoeing, trying to stay quiet in the library. In the back of the room, dehumidifiers hum out a dissonant chord. Massive wood beams in the ceiling would keep a backhoe from falling through.

“Voltaire, Milton, Dickens, Carroll, all the classics,” he says. He talks about his collection while I search a different aisle for the real collection—his guns and knives and tear gas. They must be in here somewhere, another trap door, perhaps? “A few plays,” he continues. “And in the back is my theology collection. I keep my contemporary books up front.”

“Where do you keep your food and water?” I ask from the next aisle over.

I wait for his answer, but there's only silence, and then suddenly he's right next to me, a few inches away. He keeps doing that.

“The only way to survive is to fill yourself with wisdom,” he says, and gently taps his temple. “Wisdom is learning from others'
experiences. These books are others' experiences. I don't need stockpiles of food.” He pulls a book from the shelf and hands it to me.
“Bon appétit
, my boy. Eat up.”

“I'm claustrophobic,” I say, and turn toward the door.

He steps in front of me. “Then why do you bury yourself in mud?”

Good question. “It's a spa,” I explain.

“Right,” he says, then gives me a look like he thinks I'm full of shit. “Well, you let me know if you need any help with anything, okay neighbor?” He steps aside.

I give him the thumbs-up and climb the stairs.

“Anything at all!” he calls up after me.

Back at the surface, I look over the span of his yard. His secret library is clearly overextending the boundaries of his neighbors on the west and north of him, and I wonder how far he's planning on going. He seems genuinely interested in helping me, and I feel a little guilty for leaving so abruptly. I start to walk away.

“I'll be down here,” Gerald's voice calls from down below, “getting my fill!”

I drag myself through Monday's standard promotion at Wanderlust, and I drag myself home. My mailbox disappoints me once again. A few coupons and a magazine subscription offer, but only one envelope, and it looks disappointingly familiar. Bright red letters read:
IMPORTANT ACCOUNT INFORMATION. OPEN IMMEDIATELY.
I open the envelope and more red letters say: “Your phone will be disconnected in seven days unless you pay your balance due. If we do not receive payment within thirty days, you will be reported to a collection agency. Your credit may be compromised.”

I fold the coupon ads around the credit-threat letter and something slips out and lands on my foot. It's a postcard: sun-faded and wrinkled, as if it had been dropped in the ocean and dried in the sun. The front graphic is divided into six squares. Red letters in the first square say: “Costa Rican Paradise.” The other squares are photos. Palm Trees.

Crimson-beaked toucans.

A perfect ocean wave, frozen in its inertia.

Waterfalls surrounded by bright green moss.

A couple strolling hand-in-hand on a black-sand beach.

I flip it over. The writing is a mass of blurry, inky symbols and shapes baked into an alien language. There are only two clear words at the very bottom.
MORE SOON
! it says, and it feels like a promise.

So, another postcard. Illegible for the most part, leaving me to wonder what might be coming soon, but definitely back in the loop. How did it get here? What goes on in these post offices? I can't get my head around it.

This latest arrival and this past weekend's encounters with Candyce and Gerald have left me feeling a little surly. I'm actually glad to be back at work—back in the grind, back within the boundaries of knowing what to expect. I feel like what pregnant women go through after giving birth: they forget the pain of delivery and remember only the positive aspects. They reach a point where it seems like a great idea to try again.

But for me that point is now quickly vanishing during this, my twenty-fifth call of the day. Now I'm starting to wish there was an epidural for telemarketers because this pushy woman will not listen to my advice about Europe.

“And are you sure you want to go to Paris?” I ask.

“Why wouldn't I?”

“Is that safe?”

“Paris, France?” she asks. “I thought those riots were under control now.”

“Well, that depends on what you consider ‘under control,'” I say.

“Look, don't tell me it's not safe in Paris. My friends were there last month and they said they could walk the streets at night.”

I grab Bug-Out Bob off his desk post and give him a few pumps. His eyes bulge and retreat, his ears explode and implode.

“Have you heard about the satellite that's about to fall from the sky?” I ask her.

“Excuse me?”

“There is reason to believe a faulty satellite may fall somewhere over northern Europe in the next few weeks. You haven't heard?”

“That's ridiculous,” she says.

“Suit yourself. You could always go to the Galapagos Islands. Those are great.”

“I'm not going to buy a more expensive trip because you heard a satellite is going to fall out of the sky. Paris is fine, and it's safe as ever.”

I toss the squeeze toy at my desk top. He bounces once and rolls to a stop against the computer monitor.

“You're right, Paris is safe,” I say. I search my cubicle walls for promotional posters of Paris, and peel them off. I toss the Eiffel tower in my garbage, tear The Louvre into tiny pieces. “It's a little boring though, isn't it?”

“Excuse me?” she asks, and coughs. I think she might be drinking.

“For Europe, I mean. You sound like the more adventurous type.”

“Oh,” she says, barely flattered, a little confused. “Well, how about Portugal?”

“Or Spain?” I offer.

“Spain would be fantastic. What packages do you have to Spain?”

“The only thing is…” I peel the Barcelona beach poster off my wall, and send it into the trash with the others.

“What?” she snaps. “What's wrong with Spain?”

“I wasn't impressed,” I say.

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Good question. I'm looking at a map here,” I continue, and tap my pencil against the bare spots on my cubicle wall. With half of the work posters gone, a checkerboard of tan fabric remains. My latest postcard holds the most promise, with all its flaws and irregularities. It feels the most real. That's why I brought it to work. I tear down the poster of Piccadilly Circus and tack up the Costa Rican Paradise postcard in its place. The happy couple running on the beach in the bottom right square seem to have it all figured out. They look back at me with inviting eyes, enticing me toward their newfound wisdom and happiness. I think about the message on the back:
MORE SOON
! “What about Costa Rica?” I ask the customer.

“No thanks.”

“I hear it's paradise.”

“Have you ever been there?”

The headset pinches at my skull, it feels unusually tight today. I wonder if Steve has adjusted the headsets on us to keep us more alert. He would do something like that, just to mess with us. “No, I've never been. Heard a lot of wonderful things, though.”

“Yeah, well, if getting your rental car's tires slashed by petty criminals and being robbed in the jungle is your idea of fun, it's all yours,” she says.

“Sounds like someone had a bad experience.”

“My son had the bad experience. He said the monkeys wouldn't leave him alone, either. Filthy, filthy animals.”

“Monkeys are extremely intelligent.”

“Well these were just dirty and rude.”

“Maybe your son shouldn't have fed the monkeys.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

She made a noise like she'd been choked and then let go. “I thought you called about vacation packages, young man. I will not be lectured on parenting. Not to mention all this business with satellites. Why don't you just tell me where to go for vacation?”

I bite my lip, but it comes out anyway: “Hell is really nice this time of year.”

She promptly hangs up and The Randomizer goes to work, erasing any history of our conversation. Steve doesn't click in, so he must have missed it. I got lucky. But then Steve hasn't really been hounding me as much lately, so I think he's given up hope.

I just don't know if I can do this any longer, sell these damn things. Even Bug-Out Bob looks tired, lying on his side, staring into oblivion. I pull out my commission report for the past two weeks, and it's far from impressive. Our weekly call-to-sell ratio report is generated by The Randomizer's computer program, and while they only expect a 1:50 sell rate, my 1:225 is not going to cut it. I need to change something soon, or my friends at the collection agency will be calling me more regularly. And as much fun as it is to dodge them, I've got to keep in mind another gem of advice my dad shared before moving on to the next world: “If you keep doing what you're doing, you'll keep getting what you're getting.”

I meditate on his advice and study the postcard from Costa Rica. I look at the squiggly lines that make up the cancellation
mark. Who would've stamped this and how would it get lost for so long? Who works at these places? And how can I leave this awful job? I start to corral my thoughts on yellow sticky notes, but before I can tear another one off the pad, the answers to my questions come to me all at once.

The first three hit right on target. Three small stones, launched directly at Gerald's door. A nice grouping, I must say. And since I'm standing a good forty feet from his house, I have to say a damn nice grouping. I throw one more, and I think it hits the doorbell because a trail of lights turn on from the right side of his house to the left—one by one, window squares full of light, all the way to the front door—but that final window stays dark. I'm still not sure about the firearms, that Gerald doesn't have a Saturday night special pointed at me right now, so I yell out: “Hey! It's me. Sid. Your neighbor!”

In response, one by one, left to right, the lights go dark again. When they're all out, a few more moments go by, and finally a dark shape exits the front door.

“What the hell are you doing?” the shadow whispers.

“I need to ask you about something,” I whisper back.

“What are you throwing at my house?”

“Pebbles,” I say, thinking that
rocks
might sound too reckless.

Gerald steps into the moonlight. He's wrapped in a robe, and has a sleeping mask resting on his head. More whispering. “Why
didn't you just push the doorbell?” His right index finger points at his left, then he points his left finger at the doorbell and holds his hands out to me, imploring an answer.

“I didn't want you to shoot me.”

Gerald's head goes to the sky, his arms fly out to his sides. “I don't own a gun, Sid,” he says in a full, clear voice.

“Sorry. I didn't mean, well, I don't know.” I'm still whispering.

“I might strangle you though,” he says, and pulls his robe tighter around his waist. “Come on.” He motions me inside with a crisp, militant wave.

I follow Gerald through his front door and am struck by yet another surprise when he turns on a light. His home is decorated in Holly Hobby Nightmare—country contemporary gone awry. Rocking chairs and teddy bears. Embroidered pillows and big wood furniture. Fake flowers. Knickknacks. Potpourri burners.

“Do you want some tea?” he asks.

“Your house sure is nicely decorated,” I say.

“My wife sells country crafts.”

“It's very…crafty.”

“I'll let her know you like it.”

“Wait, you have a wife?” I ask. Another surprise. They keep coming.

He nods. “Charlotte.”

“You have a wife named Charlotte?”

“No tea?”

“Sure. Sure, tea would be great. Thanks.”

Gerald flips an electric switch on a faux wood-burning stove and fills a copper kettle full of water. He offers me one of two rocking chairs, and we sit, and rock. I wait for Laura Ingalls Wilder to walk down the hallway, rubbing her eyes, asking for Pa.

“So what's with the midnight awakening? You scared the crap out of me.”

Psychos don't scare so easy, I want to say, but just then a little girl walks down the hall. She doesn't rub her eyes, just widens them as far as they will go. She clutches a teddy bear to her chest.

“It's okay, Pumpkin,” Gerald says. “Go back to bed.” The child turns right around and does as she's told. No blinking, no questions. I decide right then that Gerald is not a psycho, he's just misunderstood. By me, primarily. Maybe he really is a normal guy who sorts mail all day in order to provide for his Amish wife and zombie spawn. “You want to browse the library, don't you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” I lie, “but that's not why I'm here.”

“It really is something, isn't it? You know, it's not locked. Next time go ahead and peruse the aisles. It would be better than waking up the family.”

“Thanks. That means a lot.”

We both rock some more. He, slow and easy. Me, quick little spurts. A quiet stream of vapor emits from the copper kettle. Gerald gets up and fetches us two cups and teabags. He pours each of us a full cup of hot water, sits back down, and continues his slow rock.

“So, what, you want to use my digging equipment? It's a little late to run that stuff, neighbor.”

“No. No, that's not it.” We both stop rocking and sit in silence for a while, awkward, waiting for the tea to brew. A Raggedy Ann doll in a baby wicker chair stares ominously at me. I'm not sure how to ask, so I just let it out. “I need a job, Gerald.”

“You don't have a job?”

“No, I have a job. It just doesn't pay very well. I need some
extra hours. I thought your guys hired for temporary help occasionally.”

“Sure, but it's crazy work. Drives you nuts.”

“I really think I can handle it.”

“I'd hate to subject you to it.”

“It can't be that bad.”

Gerald grimaces, looks down the hall, then back at me, down at my hand.

“How are you going to work with that?”

“It's practically healed,” I say, which isn't a total lie. The cut stopped throbbing a while ago, and I'm already using it more than I should. “I wish you'd consider it,” I say.

He nods at me. Simulated embers float up in the stove's belly. I think they're bits of tin foil. “Be careful what you wish for,” he says.

“How about just for a month? Really, I want to try this. I need the extra money.”

Gerald swirls his tea around and stares at the bottom of his cup. “It's good to want things,” he says, then downs the tea and stares at me again, the orange glow of the stove casting long shadows across his face.

“You're still mad about the pebbles, aren't you?” I ask.

I'm not sure, but I think a grin creeps over his face.