In the Thicket

For 15 years I'd worn myself ragged carrying mail in the dense urban core of one of the nation's largest cities. For 15 years I had gotten up at the crack of dawn and found myself returning home often well after nightfall due to the seemingly endless torrent of letters, magazines and parcels of every imaginable size and shape. I felt as though I lived in that dingy mail truck more than I lived in my own home. After a particularly grueling holiday season I had finally decided a change of pace was in order. I had been exhausted with the traffic, the noise, and having to maneuver my way through dense crowds of people while also trying to keep all my letters in order. I was sick of that lifestyle, and ready for a change. With each passing holiday season, with the ever-growing exhaustion and frustration, I grew more and more determined to make it a reality. Finally, one day I caught wind of an open route in a small town far north of the city I worked in. My eyes lit up at the thought of escaping the sardine can I felt trapped in. I could practically smell the fresh country air and feel the volume in my satchel lighten. I envisioned a scenic small-town life as I cruised my way to retirement. I couldn't apply soon enough.

Waiting was tense but soon enough I learned that I had been approved for the transfer. My heart lit up like the fourth of July when I read that acceptance letter. I started packing immediately. I couldn't wait to get away from all the commotion and transition to a more laidback work life. It only took around two weeks for all the paperwork to go through and then I was expected to report to my new office. It was surreal, like a dream come true. On the many nights when I was out late, delivering the last few packages and letters to the upscale businesses at the end of my route, I feared I would be stuck in that overburdened big city post office for ever. Escape seemed like a pipedream until I got that glorious letter. The time frame made for a somewhat hasty move, but it couldn't be helped. I didn't even care if a few nicknacks got damaged as I threw the boxes together. It was all just stuff; I could replace it. What was irreplicable was the opportunity I had received, that was what I really cherished. Before I knew it my last day in the old office came. A few equally exhausted coworkers gathered around that morning before work for a brief going away party. We stood around a store-bought cake with some cheap cups of coffee, and despite the modest celebration, I felt like I had won the lottery. I could even sense a bit of jealousy from my coworkers as they congratulated me on the transfer. Even in the few congratulatory handshakes I received, I felt a tinge of bitterness. Frankly I didn't take it personally. If I was stuck in that wreck of an office, seeing one of my coworkers making their getaway to a cushy small-town route, I'd be jealous too. I worked late that last day as well, but I wasn't even angry. I knew all that would soon be behind me, and I even whistled a tune with a spring in my step as I delivered the mail. Some of my customers must have thought I had finally gone insane, seeing me in such a sunny disposition. Over those years I think they'd grown more used to seeing an exhausted grimace plastered on my face as I flipped through the thousands of letters for each building. None of it made any difference to me then, however, because I was soon to be free as a bird. That night I slept better than I had in years, knowing that I had a truck booked the next morning to whisk all my belongings up to the nice little house I found way up north. I woke up bright and early and savored what would be the last morning coffee in my musty old city apartment. Shortly after that, I was dressed and on the road. It seemed that with every mile I drove up towards my new life, I grew more and more optimistic. It was supposed to be a real new beginning for me. Between a work pace I couldn't stand, a relationship that fell apart, and feeling as though there was truly nothing left for me in the city, I was intent on making the most of the fresh start and never looking back.

It's funny how we can get so attached to the idea of what something will be like that we refuse to acknowledge when those expectations aren't being met. Like children meeting their favorite celebrity and struggling to accept that they aren't all they built them up to be in their minds. As I first drove into the town, I must admit that it wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. A bit off the mark of a quaint northern paradise, and a bit more of a truck stop with a few rows of houses around it. But I was excited for the fresh start, so I told myself it would be nicer than it looked at first. I wished to believe that the peeling paint on the buildings, the rust on all the cars, and the embattled, worn-out expressions on the few faces I saw were just bugs and not features. Perhaps I had just entered on the rough side of town, I told myself as I passed through the less than idyllic scenery. After all, it was too late to turn back, I thought. My new home wasn't anything spectacular, but I knew I could make the most of it. After all, I had the salary of a very low-level government employee, I didn't expect to be living in a mansion. However, even as I unpacked my belongings into the tiny house, I noticed that just as with the town, the house was not exactly what I was hoping for. I recalled when viewing it, the realtor had rushed me through, and admittedly put a suspicious amount of pressure on me to buy, but I had little other options, so I settled on it. Upon further inspection, the bitter feeling of having been taken advantage of began to creep in. The cupboards, which I hadn't been given the time to look through, were filled with cobwebs. The tiny upstairs bedroom had a terrible draft that I hadn't noticed earlier, and the water heater was like something from the Roosevelt administration. Despite being less than satisfied with the accommodations thus far, I held onto hope. I wasn't looking to live like a kind, I told myself, I simply wanted to have time to breathe, to not be suffocated by my job, tethered to it like a dog on a leash. That still seemed like it would be what I could expect, and that thought helped me push through the earlier disappointing discoveries of my new life. As I found myself chasing a whole ecosystem of bugs from the crawl space, I repeated to myself like a mantra, no more traffic, no more honking, just a peaceful drive through the country every day.