“My friend and I have a kind of obsession for off road exploring, but the post office can also be a place of adventure. For those of us who stick close to home during the winter months, the perfect trifecta of post office, laundromat & convenience store often round out a day. And so it was, that I found myself in a kind of stammer-step, waiting for the oddly damaged post office door to open, on one snowy, late afternoon, having timed my arrival near to closing time. This could only enhance the surprises, waiting for me within its bland, blocky confines. “Are You Feeling Sick?” was the predictable first message that greeted me, still taped to its barely functional automatic doors, as I entered. “No” I dutifully answered, as I always did, and wondered, as I always did, if this message for some, struck a chord of fear. As I finally gained entry to the postal boxes, out of the corner of my eye I noticed an animated exchange going on in the lobby. This will be fun, I thought, if I get a yellow slip and must next turn left, to enter the lobby. Things went as I imagined they would, and soon I was stuffed in close quarters with a pair of men, one clearly louder & more chatty than the other, and could not help but overhear, without eavesdropping, the words “Nepal” and “ski vacation” and a few other choice morsels that told me one man was a traveler, boasting of his recent travels. He looked “old hippie” to me, as I quickly sized him up - a bit disheveled in a friendly sort of way, and blithely spilling information that likely was un-relatable, to his cohort. But who could blame either of them: the one prattling on, the one trying to take it in politely. I took my place to the rear of the line, and stared at the junk mail in my hand, trying to stay focused on nothing. Before I knew it, it was just me and this man. He smiled. I had not been flirted with, in a very, very long time. He made a lame joke, that somehow, I appreciated for all its stupidity. For once, someone was being more blatantly awkward than myself. Respect, I thought to myself, and no, I did not feel sick, I felt elated. This is why I come to the post office, day after day, surfing the disappointments of an empty box, stumbling through exchanges that amount to a penny that I owe, or a package that they had tried to deliver, but could not because I have not shoveled out my dooryard correctly, mustering what grace I can, to be a model, postal citizen, in a world gone mad. It was finally his turn at the counter. “My name”, he said to the postal worker “is ....”. It was clearly the name of a long dead president of the United States of America. I won’t say which one, because this might put me in a bind if he ever reads this. While the post-mistress disappeared into the back room, it was again, just me, and him. He turned back to me, as if I was expecting it, and I was, with a broad grin. Then suddenly he was cake-walking, across the lobby. I don’t know why it made sense, but it did. I love a good performance. “I know you,” I blurted out, with equal abruptness. He nodded, as if I were referencing the dead president, but I was not. “Woody” is what came to my lips, just so he knew, that I really knew who he was, not who he thought I thought he was. For in the deep recesses of my mind, I was calling forth a real memory, and it was clear to me that this jolly roger, this disguised member of the intelligentsia, had once been only a few degrees of separation from the core of my life. “Uncle Woody”, he finally replied, and we both grew silent. This was hardly an introduction, so I had nothing much to add. “I’m Kristina”, I managed. “Kristina,” he yelled, as he finished up his postal transaction. “Nice to meet you, Kristina”, he mumbled, and as quickly as he had entered my personal space, he had left it. The door creaked shut, on its aged, automatic wings. My heart was still pumping. Why, I’m not exactly sure. Somewhere, in the ancient catacombs of my discarded lifetimes, I had known such a man. Maybe not this exact one, but one so similar, that I was almost in fear. Was I sick? No. Was I crazy? Perhaps. The ghosts of dead presidents are no laughing matter, even if they are not who they say they are, or anywhere close to it. I got my stamps, thanked the kind postal maven, and flew, like a bird, back to my far, far, far away perch. Today was a skiing day. And I slipped into the woods, like a ragged-ass crow, like nobody’s business.”
