Harmless (21 page)
Normally I love
rain. I’m one of the rare types that’s happier on a cloudier, soaking wet day
than one filled with warmth and sunshine. To me, the sun is a tool—it helps
with great tans, it keeps the power bill low. Usually, rain brings me peace
and calm with its soothing patter on my porch roof. Whatever psychological
association I have with it is a welcome one.
But that day, I
couldn’t shake the thought that no matter how cleansing it might be, all the bad
in the world is still there once the clouds have moved on.
Murderers, liars,
cheats, and heathens come crawling out from whatever rocks they’ve been hiding
under, just like the rest of us.
Rainbows promise new
life, but that’s just another life that can be taken, like Kerry’s.
Roots sprout and
grow, but that’s just another root that might belong to a repulsive individual
like Berger, who’d resort to wrongdoing to keep his reputation intact.
“Shake it off,” I
said. “Long way to go.”
If I got too down on
myself, too depressed about the direction my life had taken, I’d get lazy and
dull. I’d blunder. I might lose hope and wave the white flag.
I slapped my cheek
once, twice, and then a third time, because Pendragons don’t give up. I felt
the sting on my skin and it reminded me that I was alive and that eventually
the burning would fade away, hopefully like all the rest of the bad shit going
on around me, once Thomas and I proved my innocence.
It also startled the
old lady down at the far end of the bench. She shook her head, pulled a
gargantuan green purse tighter to her chest underneath a mountain of old lady
bosoms, and slowly scooted away from me as far as she could go without forcing
herself through the glass wall.
I almost told her not
to worry, that I wasn’t crazy, that I merely wanted to reinvigorate myself.
Would it have helped? Would it have done more harm than good? That would be
the last thing I needed—some frightened stranger calling the police to report
that she’d been accosted by an escaped mental patient.
No more mistakes. No
more close calls.
The rain had abated
from a waterfall to a yard sprinkler and I took it as a sign to exit stage
right. I stood with my backpack and water jug in hand and gave her a wide
berth as I headed north. She didn’t return my reassuring smile. Not that I
expected her to, but it was worth a shot, and all I’d really done was give her
a better look at my face.
Throughout this
ordeal, I’d begun to learn that I’d never make it as a criminal. I’m too nice,
too helpful…and yes, too goddamn hampered by my need for approval. If I ever
robbed a bank, I’d probably ask the teller what she thought of my penmanship on
the stickup note—it’s flawless, by the way. If I ever stole a car and then
ditched it, I’d probably refill the gas tank and take the time to put the
mirrors and the seat back in their original spots, as if the owner would get in
and think,
How nice of him
. Or if I ever committed adultery, I’d
compliment the guy on how well his wife performed in bed. Okay, I actually
did
do that one. Donny Row, the treacherous beast, didn’t take it too well, and I
lost my job. Lesson learned. Under Construction.
I only made it a
block before the wind pushed another, heavier wall of rain through, soaking my
back and my legs. I pulled Thomas’s hat lower and watched droplets dripping
from the brim. On any other day, I would’ve been in precipitation
heaven—there’s nothing I enjoy more than a long run in the pouring rain—but not
then. Not then at all. What a miserable day it’d been.
I took my time over
the last two miles, killing the final hour of cloud-covered daylight, dropping
off the main roads where I was too visible, weaving in and out of neighborhoods
where it was safer. Where families were inside, seeking shelter from the
weather instead of outdoors doing yard work or playing catch or having
al
fresco
tea parties with their children.
Two lefts and another
right later, I rounded a corner onto Hallelujah Street (hand on the Bible,
that’s what it’s called—was it a sign?) and spotted my salvation, my hallowed
ground about a quarter of a mile distant.
Hallelujah, indeed.
Praise be.
I’d made it.
Amen.
I’ve mentioned this
before, but it bears repeating.
I’m not much of a
religious man.
I grew up going to church,
first Sunday School, and then, when I was old enough to sit in one place for
more than thirty seconds, I was promoted up to the service where the adults
sang hymns and listened to the preacher preach. That was all fine and dandy,
but as I fumbled and tripped awkwardly into my teens and twenties, I decided
that the whole congregating part of it wasn’t for me, and that’s where I left
things.
I’m not a religious
person, but I definitely thanked The Big Man Upstairs for safely delivering me
to the Steven A. Pendragon Post Office.
Would you expect me
to pat myself on the back? To take credit for my own actions? Normally, yes.
My
feet had carried me there.
My
charm and quick wit had gotten
me out of the mess with Henderson.
My
resolve had kept me from curling
up into a sniveling mess while Fate had its way. Yet something else was at
work. I couldn’t explain it any more than I could explain how the postal service
functions so well, but
something
had helped me,
something
had kept
a watchful eye.
As I approached the
abandoned building, inside-warming memories stoked the flames of the past and
provided an extra layer of protection from what had melded into a spitting
shower. Many, many times I’d walked into that building to pick up or drop off
packages, to spend hours flipping through the stamp folder, trying to make up
my mind whether to go with a book featuring Elvis or vintage airplanes, wedding
cakes or baseball heroes. Carefully selecting the proper color of envelopes,
choosing whether to seal a package to Brian Williams with clear tape or the
thick caramel brown.
Should I cover the
contents in bubble wrap?
What does sending
something with a priority classification say about me? How does the recipient
receive it? Do they think differently of me if the exterior has been marked
with “First Class?” What would an American flag stamp reveal about my
character? That I’m patriotic, that I have nationalistic tendencies, that I’m
reminding you of the freedom we have every day?
Mail, the way I see
things, is a projection of Self, of the individual or organization that sent
it.
There’s a little
piece of me in everything I feed into one of those blue drop boxes or every
handwritten note to my parents that I give to Mailman Jeffrey each Saturday
afternoon.
The post office is my
church. Envelopes are my communion wafers.
Undoubtedly, you’ve asked
yourself these questions: if he’s so stinking infatuated with the postal system
and how it works, why doesn’t he just get a job there? Wouldn’t that solve his
curiosity? Wouldn’t he be able to
learn
how it all functions instead of
going on and on about it?
I
could
, but
what fun would that be? Where’s the faith in that? Let me ask you this in
return: you love God, you go to church, but you don’t work there, do you? Do
you really
know
how God works? He works in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?
Mail…it’s the same for me. There’s also a hint of fear, about the size of a
period at the end of a sentence, that I’d be disappointed.
What if I got a job
with the USPS and it wasn’t as impressive as I thought? What if you met God at
the grocery store and He was some withered old man with knee-high black socks,
unkempt hair sprouting out like filament line, wearing a shirt covered in
unidentifiable stains, and He was buying adult diapers?
Sure, He’s still
omnipotent, He still controls our existence with the flick of a finger, but He’s
not as glorious as you thought. Maybe you’d walk away, still loving Him warts
and all, but your perception of reality would’ve certainly changed. Same goes
for the post office. I’d love it regardless, but I can’t risk losing that
sense of wonderment. Now that Kerry was gone, it was all I really had.
Grandpa said it best:
“Never lose your faith in magic and mystery.”
Is my infatuation
weird? Maybe. Is yours weird? Maybe.
Here’s the answer to
the human condition: we are complicated creatures of unknowable depth, and the
sooner we all accept that as fact, life might get a little easier for everyone
on board this one-way train to an unavoidable ending. Whether you love Jesus
or the post office, Cherry Coke—I hope not—or prune juice, Justin Bieber or
Justin Timberlake, the answer is to live and let live.
Oh, and be sure to
buy the forever stamps. Those things, like faith, are eternal.
The building’s
exterior, at least the front part, was too well lit by streetlamps. The city
hadn’t done a bang-up job of keeping the place in shape either, from what I
could see. Such a disappointment. The small patches of grass along the
sidewalk hadn’t been trimmed in ages and the hedgerow along the walkway grew
erratically in all directions.
What remained of the
flowers that had once given the place a fresh, welcoming feel was nothing more
than a number of brown, lifeless stalks and shrunken leaves curling at the
edges. It’s amazing how quickly a place can reach a state of decrepit
desolation if it’s ignored and cast aside, all in the name of progress and
budget expenditures.
A pickup truck swam
past in the flooded street, sending a wave onto the sidewalk, drowning my feet
and lower legs. It could’ve been on purpose, just some teens out for a joyride
who’d spotted an easy target, and I should’ve gotten pissed off. But, I was
already so drenched from head to toe that I felt like Zeus (God of the Sky, God
of Rain) had lifted his tunic and pissed
on
me, so I let it go.
Getting wetter didn’t
matter anymore. I was at the post office.
I was home.
Now I just had to
find a way inside.
I couldn’t go in the
front, for obvious reasons—too much artificial light, frosted and wired safety
windows too high off the ground, too many residential homes across the way.
Lights on, somebody’s home. Somebody who could be a witness.
I kept walking until
the shadows reclaimed the street, about twenty yards past the building, and
then turned, sneaking along an office supply store—when it first opened, it
wasn’t the wisest place to set up shop when one could simply walk next door and
support the USPS at a cheaper price. Location, location, location. But now
that the postal service had moved on to supposedly greener pastures, it hadn’t
been such a bad move after all. The sun shines on a dog’s ass once in a while.
I recently suggested
to Shayna that she and I should go on a date, on a trip to the old building where
we could have a picnic on the steps, eating tuna salad sandwiches and drinking
sweet tea, in hopes of rekindling old flames. I was met with an icy stare and
a door in my face, thus smothering the fire before it had had a chance to flare
up. I doubt that even waterproof matches would’ve helped.
Closer to the
building’s rear, I clawed through a row of pine trees, green, prickly sentinels
standing guard, and came upon a chain link fence roughly ten feet high. I
debated climbing it and swinging over—my agility is unmatched, I can assure
you, so it would’ve been a simple task in drier weather—but I was tired and it
was slick with rain. Craning my neck upward, looking at the top, I decided the
last thing I needed was a broken ankle or dislocated shoulder if I slipped and
took a nasty fall onto the parking lot inside.
There had to be a
better way.
I followed the fence
west, dragging my fingers along the woven metal, and turned south at the
corner.
And to my benefit, it
was dark back there; whether the security lights overhead had burnt out, or the
city had chosen to leave them off to save on expenses, I had just enough glow
from the streetlamps out front to see where I was going.
Just like the office
supply store, the sun shone on this dog’s ass, because I found the rear-entry
gate unlocked, and open.
I should rephrase
that. It wasn’t exactly “unlocked.” Someone had used a set of bolt cutters to
snip through the industrial strength chain that had held it closed. It hung
limply from the left side gate like a strand of overcooked spaghetti.
Maybe the city didn’t
know. Maybe they didn’t care. But I can tell you that it gave me a rush of
gooseflesh because A) who would want inside there bad enough to resort to
damaging public property? and B) what had these vandals done to
my
place
of worship?
Were they still
there? How recent had it been?
As it turns out, it
was more recent than I could’ve imagined.
***
Even though the rear
parking lot was entrenched in shadows, there was enough surrounding light to
illuminate an intruder, so I crouched and scurried up to the back, hopefully
unseen. But, the danger of being spotted was limited. Behind the post office
was a trucking supply warehouse that appeared just as empty. However, when
you’re about to commit a B&E, you can’t be too careful.
With my back to the
wall, I scooted along the rough brick exterior, feeling it scrape my skin
through Thomas’s soaked t-shirt. I came to a loading dock, climbed up and
over, then dropped down on the opposite side.
I don’t know why. I
could’ve simply walked around it, but I guess at that point I felt refreshed
and a little like a secret agent. It seemed like a crafty secret agent kind of
thing to do. Besides, it felt good to exercise muscles I hadn’t used in over a
week.
The open door found
me before I found it.
As I slipped along,
cautiously sidestepping, I spotted movement at the far end of the lot. I went
a notch beyond freezing in place—I became a statue, locked in an immobile state
of sphincter clench. And again, my bowels rumbled in nervous anticipation.
I’m human, okay?
Fallible—I’m learning I’m fallible. It’s been an adjustment.
I watched. I
waited. I breathed, barely, moving only my eyes, scanning the lot, looking for
my fellow interloper, thinking maybe it was the chain cutter, steeling myself
for the upcoming war over territorial rights.
When a black cat emerged
from a stack of sagging pallets and sprinted across the lot, disappearing
through a hole in the fence, I let out a blistering whisper of curses that
would’ve made even the most hardened sailor blush.
I moved again, back
to the wall, eyes on the lot to prevent any more unnecessary moments of panic.
A gap in the bricks
sent me tripping, falling, and stumbling backward through an open, unlocked
door. It banged hard against the wall.
I was inside. Thank
God, or Zeus, or the Postmaster General, I was inside. Safe, secure, protected
from the elements, and later, I would learn, definitely not alone.
***
A long hallway, as dark
as the deepest part of the Marianas Trench, stretched out in front of me, the
front few feet illuminated by the minimal light crawling over the threshold.
As wet as I was, I could’ve been floating along through that underwater world
like a deep-sea submersible vehicle cataloging unidentified species. The bare
light bulb dangling overhead was like the illicium of one of those anglerfish I
mentioned before.
I got my flashlight
out, flicked it on, and tiptoed toward the far end. I passed a number of empty
offices and rooms, likely used by former managers or employees, possibly spaces
that held file cabinets and printers, or maybe storage rooms containing all
those splendid supplies used to restock the shelves upstairs.
Any one of them
would’ve been a perfectly sufficient hotel room for a fugitive, at least for
the next couple of days, but I wanted to explore first. I was exhausted but
not sleepy, and it seemed like the wise thing to do. Ensure my safety, then
rest. Maybe turn on the radio and see if I was a wanted man.
I trolled the
hallway, sweeping the surface with my flashlight, its cone-shaped beam
uncovering graffiti along the walls and empty beer bottles and cans along the
tiled floor, again, exactly like a deep-sea submersible scanning the depths of
the ocean.
Forgive me for using
that metaphor twice, but I love it. Once you’re down in the deep dark, it’s
hard to describe it any other way. If you insist on variety, think of it as a
spelunker exploring a cave, thousands of feet inside the Earth.
Beer bottles, more
beer bottles, and empty beer cases littered the floor of the final room on my
right, along with three used condoms. No way was I taking up residence in that
one, because God only knew what had been spilled, shed, or squirted there. I
thought of Thomas and all the teens he’d busted down at the park, speculating
that maybe the wiser ones had retreated here. It’s what I would’ve done, back
when I didn’t know any better and had been burdened by the need to explore
alcohol and relieve my built-up teenage sexual tension.
Gross, really. I
couldn’t believe I’d been so clueless.
I shook my head and
moved on. Stairs, leading up, signaled the end of the hallway.
