the Mail and Frank

The Mail

The cats are all crowded near the window now. Two of them are looking at the same spot and the other one is looking at a different spot. Now they're all looking at the same thing. They're bending the blinds. The metal blinds are bent because they're pressing their noses to the window pane. The sun is coming through the blinds. It looks like it's the middle of the day but maybe it's just before the middle of the day. It's hard to know. Christmas feels like it was two months ago. The tree is gone. I don't remember what people gave me. I think that means the days are getting longer. I think that means the sun is rising earlier. I think that means it feels like the middle of the day before it's the middle of the day. It's hard to be sure.

But the cats are really looking at something. I'm sure it's something and not just shadows or bugs or an outdoor cat or a dog or someone just walking by. I'm sure they're looking at someone right outside the window, by the mailbox. But I'm not entirely sure so I have to keep looking for clues.

I'm pretty sure I just heard a metal sound, a small sound, fast, dull, a sound like a small metal door being slammed shut. I'm pretty sure the mailman is here.

I am also pretty sure I just heard another metal sound coming from the kitchen. I am guessing it was the frying pan hitting the wok because the frying pan and the wok go together and when they go together they make that same sound. I'm not sure but I think there might be someone in the kitchen. I think that shadow on the ground looks like a human shadow. I'm pretty sure it's not mine because it's so far away and it's moving and I'm staying still. I think someone is in the house with me.

The cats have moved so I think that means the mailman came. I'm not going to go out the door and check. Not this time. I got locked out last time and some strange guy had to let me back in and I don’t want to see that guy or get locked out again. So this time I'm going to go out the window.

There's a screen on the window. I don't know what else to do except to use my house key and saw through each metal wire of the screen. It's really hard work and I'm getting impatient, but I'm pretty sure the mail came and I'm not going through the door and I heard another sound in the kitchen, like the fridge being opened, so I also think I should probably get out of here because there's definitely someone in there. It smells like bacon.

It's not very far between the window and the ground so I guess I'll just jump. Hopefully I can jump as high as I can jump low, because that's how I plan to get back inside. By jumping.

My ankle made a cracking sound and it hurts a lot so I'm crying a little, and I know I must have screamed because my ears feel like they just heard a loud sound. They kind of echo and it feels like someone stuck their fingers inside them pretty deep. But it's okay, because I am right in front of the mailbox and all I have to do is get the mail and jump back up to the window.

I knocked on the door of the mailbox with my knuckles and I'm pretty sure I bumped it hard enough that it moved the envelopes inside, and the little whoosh sound I heard means there are letters in there. I remembered to bring my fishing line and hook and now all I have to do is slide the hook through the slot where the mailman drops the letters, snag the letters on my hook, and pull them out one by one.

"Frank! What are you doing?"

            There's a man looking out my window and he knows my name.

Frank

When Jim arrived at Frank's apartment today, Frank was sitting in the gray armchair by the windows as usual. And, as usual, Frank didn't turn his head when Jim entered the room. Frank's habit of pretending he was alone didn't bother Jim in the least. In fact, it allowed him to get through his morning duties much faster.

            First, the bed would have to be made. Frank liked to get out of bed slowly. He would go under the covers and make his way to the foot of the bed. He would then untuck the sheets and slide himself onto the floor. The bed always looked essentially unused, but if Jim didn't retuck the sheets, Frank would get very upset.

            Throughout the course of the morning Jim fed the cats, picked clothes up off the ground, watched TV, read a little bit of In Watermelon Sugar, and opened a window to air out the apartment. During all of this, Frank remained silently in the armchair, looking at the closed blinds. It never ceased to amaze Jim that someone could be so interested in something so unchanging.

            Around noon, Jim moved to the kitchen to prepare Frank's favorite lunch, a BLT with extra B. He hated making BLT's because for the remainder of the day he smelled the rancid scent of cooling fat on his hands, his shirt, and everywhere in the house. He hated the smell so much that he imagined it sticking to the skin of his hands and his face. He felt it there even after a long scrub with St. Ives.

            After the bacon had cooled on paper towels and the bread had been toasted, Jim constructed the sandwich and set it on the kitchen table for Frank to eat when he was ready. He then walked to the bathroom to wash his face and hands, inspect his ever receding hairline, and to floss the remnants of breakfast from his teeth.

            As he was drying his hands he heard Frank shout. Jim went to the living room to see what was wrong and saw that the window had been opened and the screen had been ripped to shreds. Not again, Jim thought. Recently, Frank had discovered that there is a man who goes from house to house delivering mail. He discovered this fact one afternoon when Jim came inside with a post card addressed to Frank from his brother.

            "Hey Bud, how ya been? Warm wishes from Cancun. –Al"

            "How'd you get this?" Frank had asked.

            "The mailman brought it here. He comes by everyday."

            "When?"

            "Near the middle of the day."

            Jim stuck his head out the window and looked down. Frank had his ear to the mailbox and his fishing line in his hand.

            "Frank! What are you doing?"

            Frank looked up at him, his eyes and mouth wide open as if he didn't know why anyone would be up in his apartment calling down to him.

            What a waste, Jim thought. It was Sunday, and the mailbox was empty.

Man of the Year

Dataw Island is a different place. The honey air is thick with Laurel Greenbrier, sweet-shrub, and light-purple Tamarisk. Canals weave their way around the island, a gated community, home to golf lovers, retired couples, alligators, and caretakers. Dolphins jump and crash from one yard to another. It’s March, the month for The March of the Elders. Waves lap against the the dock, like the mouths of connoisseurs in a cigar bar, small kisses, unsure, uneven smacking, wet, and sticky. The men of Dataw Island tread upon the stained vinyl decking, their hulking bodies bouncing in the rhythm of their movement. Their heads don black top hats and their bodies are clad in traditional swimwear; black spandex speedos, snug above the shoulders.

One man will reign supreme, and for the entirety of the following year he will have his pick of Tee Time, his table of choice at the clubhouse, and he will inherit his seat as the chairman of the Homeowner Association. It’s a time-honored tradition, going back to the days when Dataw was first established as a settlement for the elderly.

The contest consists of one simple test: the catwalk competition. The men promenade along the docks which connect their backyards, past the women of Dataw. Once they reach the evaluation center they stand with their feet shoulder-width apart, bend their knees as deeply as their muscles can support, and hold their arms straight in front of their chests, parallel to the ground. The women are meant to choose the most hulking and powerful of the men, though admittedly their own personal biases sometimes color their decisions.

The men have begun their march. Mr. Johnson walks in the rear, with a prime view of his competitors. He has spent the year in preparation for this day, though he knows it’s unnecessary to worry about the outcome; he’s been the champion each year for the past three years. His dimpled cheeks shake with each step. He has not one chin, but six. His movement is ponderous; he bends powerfully with each step, his rhinoceros legs sleek with baby oil. He is thankful for the baby powder that he liberally sprinkled between the folds before leaving home this morning.

He surveys his competition. To the left, Mr. Grimes, who has, if anything, lost some girth. The unfortunate seem to shrink in old age. Bones eroded by Coca Cola and acid reflux, skin covered in hair, hangs limp like drying pelts after the hunt, pitiful. To the right, Mr. Palmer, who has gained some heft but his skin seems to be too weak to support it. Parts of his thigh hangs down by his knees. If they were being judged by scales, the incumbent might fear for his reelection, but the winner of the march must be robust, virile, impressive and Mr. Palmer’s figure impressed only upon one's sympathy for Mrs. Palmer.

The men turn a corner, approaching the Dataw Island Clubhouse. Through a gap between his neighbors, Mr. Johnson spots an unfamiliar rear end.

“Who’s that?” he asks Grimes.

“Him?” he asks, pointing toward a pale and spotted mass. Mr. Johnson nods. “Jack Lacasse. Moved in the old Wright home a couple months ago.”

“What do you know of him?”

“That’s about it, Rich. Worried he’s gonna knock you off your throne?” Grimes asks, a smile chiseled into his face.

Mr. Johnson grunts and keeps walking.

They’ve reached the presentation platform. Wind wriggles through the folds. The men are lined in a single row, six inches between each shoulder, facing their women. A squirrel rustles through Peppervine. A woman blows her nose. A whistle is blown. The women form a circle and the vote is cast. Mr. Johnson can feel blood flush through his fingertips and he catches his breath.

“Jack Lacasse, please collect your smoking jacket, you are to be Dataw Island’s Man of the Year!”

Mr. Johnson blinks. His wife approaches him, a smiling sympathy on her face and his robe in her hand. He is suddenly aware of how much skin he has exposed to the chilly March air.

Mary

When Mary stepped onto the porch of the white farm house which she called home, she held open the door for her friend to follow her to school. The September morning was dry; she felt hot wind against her cheeks and through her hair, carrying with it the scent of Oklahoma Hackberry, freshly mowed and watered grass, and the plains.

Mary was never without her friend. Not since two years ago. She was eleven. Her parents had stopped at a gas station late one night in Comanche County. She needed water, and after she insisted her way through Stephens and Jefferson County that her spit wasn’t enough to swallow, her mother released a sigh of exhaustion and told her husband to stop at the next exit; she needed to pee anyways.

There had been shouts, she remembered. The doors locked, the sound of her mother’s heels on the asphalt of the parking lot, grunting, begging. She didn’t feel like going into it.

Her friend had been there. All those hours, waiting. Holding her in her arms. And after that night, during their time at the orphanage, and then with the Foleys, and now with the Rupps; Bumps had been there for Mary.

“Come on Bumps, we’re gonna be late,” Mary said.

The walk to school was nine blocks long. Past the manicured lawns of Cassius Barnes, and the pink flamingos that perched outside Miss Hammon’s cotton candy pink and white trimmed split-level. They stopped at a park which had overgrown grass that Bumps nibbled on for her breakfast. Mary held Bumps’ hand as they crossed NW Euclid onto NW Homestead and headed to Tomlinson Middle School.

Children sat on the patchy lawn below the flag pole in the front of the school. Some read magazines, some whispered in close circles, some smoked cigarettes in the driveways of neighboring homes. All the girls seemed to have their circles of friends to gossip with about the changes they were experiencing. Mary and Bumps stayed together, not bothering to make any new friends, and told their own stories to each other while they waited until it was time to go to Miss Belle’s homeroom class.

“Umm, what are you doing?” asked a tall and attractive girl who looked and acted much older than thirteen.

“I’m just waiting with Bumps for Miss Belle’s homeroom,” replied Mary.

The girl threw back her head and laughed. “Oh my god, what a freak,” she cawed to her friends. Her name, Mary later found out, was Landry Lane. Landry was into pageants, social status, pink jumpers, and public mortification.

“It’s okay, Bumps. Sticks and stones may break our bones, but names will never hurt us.”

The warning bell rang through the halls and Mary gladly took Bumps’ hand and led her to class. Miss Belle taught Pre-Algebra. The first day of the semester, she asked the class to forgive her for sitting down instead of chalking the equations on the blackboard. Her toe was broken but she was wearing stilettos, on the off-chance that a reporter from the Lawton Constitution might come and present her with a teacher-of-the-month feature. She was wearing a slightly sheer purple leopard print blouse and a black pencil skirt. Her hair had silver highlights and her skin was hard with tan.

Mary found two spots in the middle of the room for herself and Bumps. The middle was the best place because teachers always tended to pick on the ones in the back, and the front of the room required a great deal of eye contact. Mary had Bumps sit right in front of her, so she could pass notes and keep her in sight.

“Um, can I sit there?” asked a girl named Shellei. Mary remembered her because her name was so unusual. Her father was in the army, so her mother had had ample time to come up with a unique name for her daughter.

“Sorry, but my friend is sitting there,” Mary replied.

“Class is about to start. I don’t see anyone.”

“She’s right there. Look there’s a seat back over in that corner.”

Shellei laughed through her nose and left Mary, responding with only a what.everrr, and a toss of her hair.

The class bell rang and Miss Belle called the class to order, took attendance, and read through the morning announcements. “Alright class, today we’re going to work with graphing simple equations.” She began drawing an x and y axis on the board and Mary turned to a fresh sheet of paper in her binder.

As Miss Belle’s lecture proceeded, Mary noticed that on either side of her, the other children were heatedly whispering to each other and pointing at Bumps, and then at Mary. She was not unfamiliar with the situation of an outsider and at first thought nothing of the attention.

Halfway into graphing y=3x+1, though, Miss Belle took notice of the commotion. “What is goin’ on?” she asked of a suddenly silent class. “Shellei, honey, I see you’ve been whisperin’ with Landry. Why don’t you share with the class this urgent news that can’t wait until the end of my valuable and relevant lecture this mornin’?”

“Well, Miss Belle, I was just commenting on how it smells like somethin’ died over near where Mary’s sitting. We think it might be that ratty old lamb backpack she always talks to,” Shellei cooly replied.

“Her name is Bumps and she’s not a backpack. She’s my best friend.”

The laughter started slowly; they were uncertain whether Mary was joking. Soon, though, Mary’s injured and intent glare at Shellei revealed that she wasn’t kidding. Some of the kids tried to hide their laughter, shaking slightly, faces turning red with the effort to keep quiet. Others turned to each other and laughed out loud; unashamed of their callousness. Mary looked around in confusion. Ricky, a short, tan boy who lived a few houses down from Mary, went over to the backpack and opened it up. Inside were dried pieces of grass, rotting chicken, hay, and moldy carrots.

“NASTY!”Ricky cried. “Look at this!”

The children, and even Miss Belle crowded around the backpack in wonder and disgust. It made the children laugh and play to see the lamb at school.

Sand CrusheR

The same thing had happened 20 years before. Walter stood below the fresh growth of blue-eyed grass and watched the children fighting on the beach. He felt the years of sun upon his back, layer upon layer, like their annual rounds of back to school shopping. The air was thick with salt, sand, kelp, the drying and cracked shells of horseshoe crabs, mussels, and other mollusks, as if all the days between then and now had been packed into this one day.
The day that Walter went to the beach was warm. The sky was cornflower blue, sparse white clouds feathered across its expanse. His mother’s dress beat against her shins and flapped like fins in salt water wind. The blanket fluttered as they held its corners, lifting it and letting it arc and fall onto the sand. Gulls sat upon the calm waves, bobbing up and down before they hit their apex and crashed into themselves, turning from slate blue to white, the foam dispersing along the shore.
The beach was an unpopular one. Not due to any deficiency of the fault lines. The cliffs which loomed about the sand and water were severe. Seaside daisies clung to their sides with sisyrinchium bellum, the blue-eyed grass which kept eternal watch over the shores below. If sis could speak, she might tell passersby to direct their attention to the northwest where a boy plays near the alkali sink, anchored in the dunes.

Walter sat on the blanket and dug his toes under the sand, patted it smooth, and wriggled them to watch the granules break apart and slide down the sides of his feet. He tried to grab ever larger handfuls of the dry top layer, feeling it rush through his fingers as they curled in towards his palms. He waited as patiently as any boy could for his mother’s call to get dropped so she could dig into her purse and give him the sunscreen. The lesson to wear sunscreen was fresh on his skin, and he waited anxiously for her, thinking about how it had stung when he peeled himself off the sticky hot leather of the the car, and how much hotter the warm water had felt on his back than it had felt on his hands.

As he waited he noticed a girl and her brother playing near the shore. The girl’s back was to the ocean and she let the water rush up and touch her skin for an instant before it rolled back and down into the sand. With a trowel, a bucket, and a plastic cup, the girl was building a castle. The castle was well-crafted. The sand she used was packed tight and damp, built with wide bases and narrower turrets. She cried as she built, wailing when her brother would take a running start and long jump into her castle. Walter noticed the boy’s swim trunks were pulled too high, as if his mother had lifted him by the seat of the pants and said ha!

He probably deserves it. Walter thought.

Walter’s thoughts on the matter concluded there, however, because at that moment the wind picked up his mother’s cell phone signal, and carried it out to the Farallon Islands. At the same moment that his mother started screaming, a gull called down a warning to the people on the beach; more to come, more to come. Walter jumped up and pulled his mothers arm as he bounced up and down and asked for the sunscreen and his trowel and pail. He smeared a thick coat of sunscreen over his arms, chest, face, and what he could reach of his back. He tossed his tools down the warm dune and rolled down after them, standing up at the end covered in sand. It was the only way to make sunscreen fun. Covered in sand, pausing to pretend he was a statue, he slowly made his way to the water, where the sand was wet and malleable.

It was there that Walter made his masterpiece, though no one would ever see it. It was there he toiled, there where the water lapped at his legs, and the sun beat down on his back, and the sand fleas jumped to higher ground. When it was done, Walter stood back and admired his work, and, surveying it’s magnificence in comparison to the coastal scenery, he fixated upon the California Oat Grass, and ran to get some to use as flags upon his castle.

Time is not linear. Hours can pass without a major event and feel as long as an eventful minute. While Walter ran to get the grass, a wave followed his lead and crept up farther than his predecessors. The wave crashed, spreading foam and water towards Walter’s castle. The water lapped at the edges of the castle and eroded the base, causing the roof to cave. The castle which had only just been miraculous, had now turned into a mushy puddle of sand.
Walter returned to the castle, at least, he returned to where he thought the castle should have been. A moment passed in shock, until he looked up from the sand towards the girl and boy he had seen playing when he first got to the beach. The boy was skipping back towards his sister, dragging a stick and acting careless. Walter was filled with rage. His vision filtered out all but the back of the boy’s shoulders. He dug his toes into the sand and pushed himself off, fists full of grass raised in the air and screaming his war cry.