The Mailman

The Mailman

…Watch the exact moment when the light breaks the darkness galloping over the south’s landscapes with its astonishing valleys, it’s mesmerizing. Driving in the middle of nowhere racing against the sunlight while invading like spreading waves from hill to hill, from leaf to leaf, from cloud to cloud, till it finally and as always wins. Blinking your eyes repeatedly while looking at your rearview tainted on some salvage orange, over your eyebrows, over your eyes, over your face…over your thoughts…

….The massive thunders break the sky at night from time to time, like an ethereal photographer, chasing with the best flash-ever colics of an eternal stomach-ached planet. The bombastic clouds…the smell of the herd invading you like a refreshing breeze that I could swear it passes you through from side to side; and the wind flying as free as the unseen creatures from the bottom of the sea…

…That’s what I remember the most during those days, the silly sensation that I should be back there one day, trying always to find a gas station to check the spare tire, because I drive and I drive without ever finding one and I haven’t checked but I have the strange sensation that I didn’t, I didn’t, can’t, I can't, I can’t remember if I change it the last time…

It’s not easy to find Yourself living in the middle of a city when your senses have been trained for more unfavorable but acute conditions. When the backfire of a car, a high-pitched scream, or even the cry of a baby can teleport you instantly to that place. 

How thin and breakable are the walls of the mind; when a sudden rumour can turn them down.

Without iridescent Flashbacks like in the movies; you just blink and are somewhere else like watching the same film once and again projected in the internal side of the cloudy foggy veil that now covers your tired eyes.

Eagle’s Eye is what they used to call me because they were able to take down a body at xxx miles away. 

But it wasn’t always like that.

A tinnitus similar to the invasive, and abrasive experience of the explosion of a (grenade) near you…took my senses away and back to that place. That time I was able to bend down and open my mouth in time to avoid an implosion due to radioactive waves.

While I’m trying to react and remove the sticky sand, smoke, and dense liquid pouring down my face; I noticed I have blood all over me, and there are pieces flowing like a shredded human rain, pieces and guts of the “ till that moment” comrades, are flying now all over the place.

Everyone says that you should start from scratch in life, till you find your place.

But, no one can forget it's the first time.

That was mine.

I am not happy because I survived that.

I couldn’t talk.

I couldn’t move.

I could barely hear.

What am I doing there?

What am I doing here?

If I just…that day… tears come running to play in my throat drowning my voice.

Why did no one tell me that was not like the video games, that is not the same as shooting a duck flying in the distance, with a plastic gun, as to have to peel it off, take their blood, and extremities out, and eviscerate it to later make a seasoned and garnished meal with more faith than inexistent ingredients, and pretend to enjoy it?

Life it’s not a video game.

And I guess that’s how people must feel every day while being imprisoned, at the moment they are being raped, bullied, or at least while being poor. Watching your life pass in front of you, but not being able to make a change, to make a choice. Feeling your hands tied. Victim of the circumstances…of previous and permanent choices.

It’s funny like the brain never stops.

After that, I understood why suicide has become so popular. Nowadays there’s a free line just for that( in my time that did not exist), and I feel a sour-sad sensation I’m not sure if happiness or depression invading my mouth thinking how the children in this world are still immune to that syndrome.

Because staying means facing that version of you, as Gotti sang of, facing that: “somebody that I used to know” 

But I did, I decided to be here, so I can’t complain, while Flying parts of “friends” still crunching, cracking, and hissing like bacon are spreading all over the floor showing more human parts than a person should see.

That’s when I discovered my path as a sniper, to avoid under all odds to have to stay in that position again. Where the only thing dancing over my skin would be sunbathing, which after some years felt like a breeze bath of moonlight. Because I never could get used to that metallic smell of blood.

Hence, I put all of my energy, devotion, and knowledge in one organ, my eye; well plus the calculation of the wind, the size of the bullet, the location of the mark, and if it is static or in motion;…everything counts. But the magic happens in your eyes.

I hear a rumor and I turn left drastically and I’m back to my living kitchen table, shaking my head strongly side to side like when you are saying no, I’m an attempt to settle it down and remember where I am; trying to comprehend what is real and what don’t, while I’m feeling my head so ethereal that I can’t believe that I’m back.

That I made it.

“That I survive,” he says out loud with the shadows of two dense tears like petroleum running down his face.

He turned his head around again and noticed tons of post-its dancing like mini flags from the main articles of the house. He turned one more time but in the opposite direction, and his eyes got stuck on the poster on the wall which had been there since he couldn’t remember quite well when…

-“Ostail” he can hardly read in the raggedy fading poster that was asking for a change since a few years ago.

His belly crumbles.

That only can mean one thing. The word “ostail” dancing on his head lets him know it’s true.” If he only knew how to make them”. He thinks while his mouth is invaded with the memory of that delicious Caribbean dish. And his mind flies away till the table with red and white rumbles and the red chairs, where he tasted them for the first time and most of the flavors of the south by the hand of a stocky black folk, and the way that thing he used to call appetite was completely transformed that day.

Actually War, war…

War changed his taste forever, in every sense.

Since he could remember, canned food, was his best ally, that and cereal, so war didn’t feel much like a difference, but when they have to explore; everything changed and there it was the same question, how it was being his life if instead of a gun, he was chosen one of those long white hats…he always laugh at that point, imagining all the controversy; because that wasn’t even an option on his time, he cleans his finger fast and sucking them rapidly to avoid any drop of such delicacies to be wasted. He remembered the first bite and Chass!!! he couldn’t understand from where it came that cosmos of flavors exploding and complementing each other at the same time, in the middle and the right back of his tongue under each bite…from where it come?

-Oxtails is the name - told him Big Mike with his strong southern accent, after watching him enjoy so badly that he offered him another round for free because he looked like a kid under a Christmas tree full of presents, or like a fat person in an” all you can eat” buffet.

Many theories fall down on him right at sight. Or at taste.

That was lovemaking with nature. That wasn’t normal.

He had no idea a man could cook in such a way and till that moment, he never thought of a big melatonined man making such kind of magic.

He never exchanged cooking words with anybody. But, he wanted to ask him…so badly, many things that even if he’d answer to him, it would have been like deep alchemy for a mortal that barely knew how to boil an egg, like him.

He suddenly and for the first time understood that something was wrong, because a person able to conjure such spells over the same ingredients, he'd been eating his whole life must have a soul made of flowers and colors, and not all that, he was taught his whole life instead.

Now, he is crying again in the living room.

-It’s not my fault…

-Or what the hell….it is.

-I could never quit smoking. It was the only pleasure that made the long and solitary days enjoyable.

Was the only thing that kept me moving on.

But, after the last ACV, besides quitting;

I stayed without boundaries in my heart or like I call it “unveiled” because It took away the walls that keep the tears away from the emotions, or what I was taught it meant to belong to the masculinity realm.

Now, all the things I always saw and knew and even the ones I couldn’t understand are chasing me with images so vivid that sometimes it takes me a while to stop crying at will, or get rid of them, and go back to reality, but my doctor told me that’s normal when you have principles of dementia and Alzheimer.

I allowed myself to be tested, at the beginning.

It was interesting to hear that even at my age, my brain was able to work perfectly and regenerate due to the neuroplasticity, well, if I’d taken the time to learn how to do it. At this moment, I don’t think that’s possible, and according to the wise men that itself it’s a materialized statement. 

So many things I wanted to learn, but I guess none of them would save me now from my illness. All of those movies are performed at the same time, like one of those guys that work with stocks or computer programs and have several screens in front of them and can read each one separately. That's what I see every day, but instead of finances, or numbers; I see memories, in some of them my fears, in others my hopes, in others my hobbies, but in most are memories, like tourist destinations waiting for me to look at them, to take me back.

If the multiverse theory exists, I could say yes, because I just need to put my attention on any of those thoughts and I’m already there, but I’m concerned because every time I’m taking more time to come back…I don’t really know for what, but I know that I do.

For such reason, I’ve crafted a master plan, an emergency one. 

According to the post-its on my nightstand, I've started to jump entire days, the one that says coffee on Mondays, tea on Tuesdays, yogurt on Wednesdays, orange juice on Thursdays, and oatmeal on Fridays are untouched and I always tried to switch them and rewritten every week, because I get bored eating the same in the same days.

I need to ask for help from the only person I know on those huge lands of the farms of the USA. Where the silence is absolute, and the distance is worse, for such, having timely medical assistance it’s not the main rule.

I need to build a map with post-its, and every week I will move my mailbox 10 feet, if I comply I can have my mailman by my door in under three months.

The sole idea of a companion makes me smile and start thinking about all the stories I have to tell, I hope he gets here by the day I have oatmeal, everybody loves oatmeal, and I’m going to tell him about my theory to defeat HIV using flies because they bite indiscriminately and no cases has been reported for that. I will tell him about my plans to change the texture of dry hair by using macerated plants and fruits….I can’t wait…Wednesday has become the best day of my week.

When I don’t return from my memories on time on Wednesdays, I do it one day later, but every week I keep moving my mailbox.

I imagine telling him all that I know about aliens, and how it doesn’t matter, because in the end, if we treat ourselves like this, even being an alien myself I would be scared as hell of showing up my face.

Some days when the wind seems too bright in his lucid eyes, and the shadows of war and paradisiacal places seem to fade away, I can take a break.

I keep moving the mailbox…keep remembering the ostail, the war, the forgiveness of the memories, and how hard it is to come back and see how even death on the small screen has become a rating factor, like war itself.

I have written him some letters as well, I'm sure he’ll enjoy them.

I will Let him know my point of view of the world, the food, and nice places to eat. I’m not sure if he’s left town anytime, but certainly, if he does, it might help.

10 miles, 9 miles, 8 miles, 7 miles, 6 miles, 5 miles, 4 miles, 3 miles, 2 miles, 1000 ft, 500 ft, 0 ft

-Good morning Mr Goldman - says the mailman.

-Who are you? He asks scared and shaking his head heavily from side to side.

The mailman remained in silence for a few minutes, looking at him with some air of sadness and confusion about whether he should answer his question or not.

He called 911 and explained the situation and while he waited, he started talking to the distracted and certainly smelly old man.

-I noticed that you have had a good time playing with the mailbox.

He doesn’t answer. 

Everybody at the Post office sends you regards and wishes you well.

Mr Goldman is not there anymore to listen to what he says.

On the mailman's shirt are the same colors as the characters on the vintage poster of Mr Goldman’s wall, he keeps talking to him and telling him stories of how he used to make everybody laugh once in a while and then for the pictures. Since he decided to be part of the Post office after his service and how they gave him that poster that used to say: “Post Mail service” after he retired, as a reminder and well because he was the one who took the picture, like many others that he use to sale or expose under the catchy name: Eagle’s eye. 

Several times people tried to change the poster but he was so proud that he insisted on keeping it until nobody else tried to remove it, but it was that long ago that some letters and faces had been erased.

Mr. Goldman doesn’t say a word, not during the visit of the mailman, nor when the ambulance came to pick him up, nor when he was submitted to a seniors care home, where no one was ever able to hear his voice, his ideas or his passion for food.

Some nurses say that some days he looks happily to a fix point and others he just shakes his head without any reason like trying to say no, but what no one knows is that he finally found a gas station, was able to change the spare tire because as he thought he didn’t do it before, and now he can finally drive free, free as his thoughts.

DABM