The Myth of Wile E

Emily Post-It Notes and the Hypothetical Mailman

By staying at my spool table most of the morning, I minimized my footsteps—aware that the little spider could have been anywhere, possibly making an epic journey across my floor from ersatz New Mexico to who knows where.

But when I heard the far-off squeak of my mailbox atop the hill, proclaiming: "A messenger brings tidings of new mail!" the call could not be ignored. I pictured the gray clouds parting and the postman standing in a ray of sunlight, sliding envelopes like bright white angel feathers into my mailbox. And the great thing was, this annunciation occurred daily. Except on Sundays, when the messenger rested. And also on federal holidays.

(I'd never actually seen the mailman, although there was substantial, compelling evidence that he did in fact exist. The little flag went up; the little flag went down. Things got delivered; things got picked up. The previous August I had left the hypothetical mailman a box of thirty-seven surplus zucchini. That afternoon the box had still been there, but taped to it with official USPS packing tape was a note that said, "Mail carriers can't accept gifts." So I'd put my own note on the box, explaining that in June, zucchini may be a gift, but in August, it's really kind of a curse, when you get right down to it.

The next day the box was gone.

Take from that what you will.)

I carefully tiptoed down the hall and out the door, then sprinted up the hill to the mailbox and back, tearing envelopes open on my way into the house.

There was, of course, the usual junk mail which always went into the kindling pile or even straight into the wood stove, burning up upon arrival like snowflakes in June.

There was a postcard from the Washbear County Treasurer, reminding me of the taxes that were overdue on my Real Property. (Probably I owed on all my Imaginary Properties too, but no one ever assessed them.) The postcard said that my property taxes were now considered "delinquent," which I guess meant my taxes risked a mark on their Permanent Record, and might not get into their college of choice. On the front of the postcard was nothing picturesque—just an image of the county seal, as usual. Those tax people never seemed to go anywhere fun.

Then there was a bright red envelope, red as if it contained a valentine. It said, "Important! Open Immediately!" and so I did.

Instead of a valentine it contained a notice from the power company, Hereby Informing me that things were about to be over between us. That, honestly, seriously this time, they meant business, really.

I felt kind of sorry for the electric company. This needy tone of theirs was not appealing. They even insisted that my interest was growing with each passing month, when in fact I was becoming less interested in them all the time.

My last letter was the best. It was a brand new thank-you note for my collection.

"Thank you," the note said, "for allowing us the opportunity. . . . We regret, however, that it isn't right for us . . . Best of luck finding a more suitable market."

All my other thank-you notes were amazingly similar to this one: thank you, we regret, best of luck. They were old fashioned, polite, and brief—kind of like Emily Post-it notes. I liked the proper, dignified language, and the fact that all the notes pretty much matched. That's why I'd taped them side by side and row by row all over my walls; their sameness formed a pattern that made very good wallpaper. There really wasn't much blank wall space left except behind the bathroom door, where there was a full-length mirror I hardly ever used. That's because it was covered with a spiderweb of tiny cracks, probably from when my house tumbled down the hill. So instead of seeing one whole life-sized reflection of me, I'd see many tiny mes, as if seeing myself with fly-o-vision. Well, one of me is just plenty, thank you. What would I do with a hundred mes? What would I feed us? Where would we sleep? Who'd get to officially use our name? You see, it just wouldn't do.

I went into the bathroom to tape the new thank-you note onto the mirror. I was out of tape, so I borrowed a little bit from some of the other notes.

"Two hundred and eighty-nine thank yous," I announced to myself. Well . . .

As it turned out, not just to myself.