The Mailman
2020



Somewhere in the midwest there was a mailman. You think he said Ohio.
Yeah,
Ohio.

Somewhere in Ohio there was a mailman.

He was an average guy. The type of average that doesn’t even make a point with its mediocrity. The type of average which really, truly can only be described as average.

He was the type of guy you find in the background of your brother’s graduation photos. The guy you see ordering beer at your cousin’s wedding, or waiting for coffee to brew in any kitchen in any office in any building in America.

Average height. Fair skin. Some stubble, but no real hopes nor intentions of growing a proper beard. Half-dark eyes, not entirely committed to their shade. Heather grey T-shirts and ever-greying hair.

He was married. She was average too. Mousey sort of girl. Paler than him, but not in a striking way. Smaller than him in a somewhat striking way.

They were married 4 months after a condom broke in September of senior year. Her politics had been murky on the subject, but once she was pregnant, she knew she was keeping it. She also knew she had to ask him to ask her to marry him.

And he did. He did it right, too. Saved up and got her a ring. Nothing special. A thin silver band with a thin set diamond, resting on the thin ring finger of a thin wry woman. Neither a big stone nor a small, making no arguments in defence nor opposition of the union. It suited her perfectly, in the sense that it suited her quite averagely.

And then they were the mailman and his wife.
And then they were the mailman, and his wife, and his kid.

A boy, you think.

Yes.

A boy.

It wasn’t just the two of them anymore, and something about that was so special. Something about that was the farthest thing from average.

But it wasn’t just the two of them anymore, and something about that was so scary. There were the diapers, and the formula, and the clothes, and the crying.

And there was the mailman’s wife and the way she looked at him: Like the average life she’d seen in her average ring was the one thing to break her spirit.

There were the things she said to the mailman.
And there were the things she said to the baby.

Then there were things she said to herself. Things which she thought the mailman didn't hear. Things which the mailman did hear on occasion, but knew he must never bring up.

There was his mail route. And there were his hobbies.

You can’t seem to remember what those hobbies were exactly. You’re sure it was something like video games, or comic books, or one of those things which you’ve always associated with semi-sad older men in half-buttoned plaid shirts.

He recommended you an album too. He said it would, “Break your heart in all the right ways.” But you can’t remember what album it was, and that breaks your heart in all the wrong ways.

There were his hobbies, and there was his music.

And there were his friends.

They were the same crew he hung around in high school. The ones who average mums don’t love, but tolerate, because they know average boys are impressionable and could do a lot worse.

The mailman loved his friends in the same way he loved his wife: Out of obligation and from some core-level sadness which you doubt you’ll ever really understand, as you are not a mailman in Ohio. He loved these people the way he thought he was supposed to. He loved them as what he believed love to be. A debt.

So the mailman loved his friends in this indebted sort of way. He saw them when he could, but he was busier than his friends. His work was much too tiring and his hours much too long.

There was also the mailman’s wife, and his son, and they took up time.

There was also the promise of a daughter,

and then there was the blood,

and the hospital,

and then there was an empty space where a daughter should have been.

And that emptiness took up a lot of his time. Proving to his wife that he understood her emptiness took up time too.

There was a mailman in Ohio, and there was the realization that he loved an empty space more than he had ever loved anything. The empty type of heartbreaking love. And that, for him, became the only real love.

And that realization took up a lot of the mailman’s time.

But when he could, the mailman would see his friends. One of them bought a place back in 2011 with a basement that was never really finished. Its white walls weren’t entirely white, and you couldn't quite tell if this was a decorative choice or simply a layer of grime and bong water.

But when he could, the mailman would visit this basement. He would get drunk and his friends would get drunker. He would forget his wife, and his son, and his empty space. He would try to have fun.

One of these basement nights, they found a chatroom. One of these basement nights, they found you.

You were blossoming then. At the precipice of a life above average. So young and so alive. Full of art and wonder, curiosity and readiness to explore.

You were very thin then. Not nearly as strikingly slender as his wife, but by your standards, you were very thin. The space under your cheekbones curled into a small cavity wherein you dabbed a burnt brick blush. The way you bit your nails in an “unplanned” sort of extremely planned way.

All those things made you feel very above average.

And there was the mailman. He was an average guy. The type of average that doesn’t even make a point with its mediocrity. The type of average which really, truly can only be described as average.

And that made you feel very above him.

He asked you questions. He asked about your youth, and your art, and your readiness. He asked about the canyons resting below your cheek bones and the chips on your nails, and he called you special.

And that made you feel more above average than anything else.

And he told you about the wedding, and the basement, and the mail, and the friends. And he told you about the album you can’t remember and the hobbies you can’t recall. And he gave you an email address which you never wrote down. And he told you about the wife, and the baby, and the empty space.

And he told you that he is average. And you told him that he is not.

You told him this, but you didn’t really believe it until you said it. When you did, his face lit up in a way that was undeniably above average. And you felt guilty for ever believing he was anything less than special.

But suddenly, the moment became too profound, and as all the best moments do, became self-aware. The 20-minute love affair between a 16-year old girl who was pretending to be 21, and a 35-year old man who was never asked to share his age came to an abrupt end, as you were both reminded of the presence of the mailman’s friends.

It was probably the beers that did them in. That’s probably why they said it.

You knew the mailman didn’t want to defend them, but you also knew his love was still tinged with the muted greens and blues of obligation. They were the mailman’s friends, and they were both single, and they both possessed a unique talent for seeing a woman as what they believed women to be, rather than as the woman they were looking at.

And they said things to remind you that to most men, you are average. And that is all you will ever be.

And so they ask to see your tits,
and they ask what turns you on,
and they ask how you got to be so damn sexy.

The mailman looks uncomfortable. The mailman looks disappointed. The mailman understands that you are not average, and you understand that the mailman is not average.

You understand that the only average thing is how sick people are.

And the mailman can tell that you want very badly to leave this chatroom. But the mailman also knows that he is not the only one who sees love as a form of debt, that he is not the only one who understands empty heartbreak, that he is not the only one who fell in love that night.

So the mailman is reminding you of his email. He’s repeating it because he knows that this love was born to die. He’s repeating it because he knows it’s time for you to go.

And you are trying to remember it. At least, trying to try to remember it. You are somewhat distracted by the realization that there is no difference between hate and normalcy, and you are somewhat unsure that the mailman is different after all. But despite all this, you are trying to remember the email because the mailman is not the only one who sees love as a form of debt. He is not the only one who understands empty heartbreak. The mailman is not the only one who fell in love that night.

And you really think you remember it.

Or maybe you don’t.

Maybe you know you don’t remember it.

Maybe you say goodbye and you understand it will be the last time.

But maybe you will spend an eternity emailing addresses which vaguely sound like his. Forget to starve and stop applying your burnt brick blush. Forget to bite your nails in that chalantly nonchalant fashion.

Forget you ever thought you were something above average.

And you wish that you had been less careless then - back when you thought you were special. You wish you had written down the mailman’s email.

And you wish you had made him feel as special as you now see him to be.

You wish very badly that he was still here to tell you how special you are.


But there is a mailman somewhere in Ohio.
Yeah,
Ohio.

There is a mailman in Ohio, and he’s trying to remember where you’re from