The Mailbox

Joe grabbed the can of bug repellent off the top shelf of the hall closet and donned his jacket. Too cold in late October to just go outside without it. He shook the can slightly to test the contents. Good. It sloshed just enough. No need to buy another can until spring.

It was a chilly day, leaves all on the ground, and the grass starting to brown. Winter wasn’t far away. Winter, isolation, and hiding from the neighbors who always wanted to chat with him as he mowed the lawn or cut the flowers. Or got the mail.

The mail.

Joe walked down his footpath to the mailbox. It wasn’t a walkway. It wasn’t really even a formal path. The bricks had cracked and broke and pulverized over the decades, and be damned if he was going to pay someone to fix it. He just lowered the mowing deck to the first height and mowed the grass almost to the dirt. Good enough.

He looked about the neighborhood. A few people already had their Christmas lights out. A few people obviously were still pretending it was warm enough to keep mowing. And a few angered Joe. Two or three neighbors with election posters on their lawns. It’s not that the posters angered Joe. It’s that he really hated the broadcast of their political opinions.

Voting is a private matter. Don’t ask me. I won’t ask you. That’s the way it worked. If not, people started hating each other over opinions. Opinions that didn’t really matter. All politicians were corrupt. Not a single good one in the bunch. At age 67, that was Joe’s opinion.

Keep to yourself. Otherwise, I might have reason to hate you. Joe didn’t want to hate anyone. It took too much energy. And hate and love created teams and groups and agendas. Such a waste. Live and let live was his motto. Life was too short to care about strangers.

Joe reached his mailbox and adjusted the red flag. He always adjusted the red flag. Every day. Regardless of whether he had placed any post in the mailbox to be sent out. Typically, he never did. He paid for his bills either online or with his bank. He didn’t trust the kids in the neighborhood that they wouldn’t vandalize his mailbox if he put mail in it. And he had heard about porch pirates. What about mailbox pirates?

Satisfied that the flag wouldn’t raise any suspicions that he might have outgoing mail in the box, he slowly opened the mailbox door.

Empty.

Of course, empty. He rarely got mail these days. He just came out to spray the box with bug spray to keep the hornets, wasps, and mice out of it. His civic duty. No need to get that mad look from the postal worker when they jumped back from something flying out of his mailbox.

But wait. What was that he saw on the television? Yeah, TV. Or more correctly, Cable.

Anyway, he was trying to remember something he saw last week when he was almost asleep in his leather recliner. Something that had everyone arguing and fighting. Something that woke him up from his nap after watching the weather report and bored with the rest of the news.

Something about the USPS being shut down. Something.

Out of funds. Union strike. He wasn’t sure. All that came back to him was that there would be no more mail delivery by the USPS anymore. Done. Finished.

Didn’t bother him. But he did wonder if he still needed to spray the mailbox, just in case.

So that was what triggered him to go out this morning. Hmmm. Odd. Whatever.

Joe closed the mailbox door. He checked the hinge. Still solid. Good. he looked down at the grass and leaned over, grunting as he pulled a few blades of grass away from the pole. Can’t have the postal worker complaining. Oh yeah. Whatever.

Out of breath from the movement, he stood still and locked eyes on the house on the corner. Mrs. Wilderman. He thought. He hadn’t seen her recently, but he hadn’t heard the ambulance come to take her away either. Not that he would have noticed much. She was like him. Quiet. Elderly. Alone. No family came to visit. Occasionally, someone would pull up in a truck and deliver food or packages. When he cared to notice, he saw that she was barely able to walk these days. Arthritis. Almost certainly. Maybe.

He thought about asking her sometimes if she wanted him to mow her lawn. But it never seemed to need it. Maybe her next door neighbor did it for her. He never noticed. Joe never really noticed much about his neighbors these days. Life and let life. At least the crime rate was low. Joe couldn’t remember the last time he heard anything about crime in his area. Not that he listened. Or cared.

Joe stood still longer and just looked at Mrs. Wilderman’s house. Thinking. Shaking the can of bug spray. Still some left. Maybe he would spray her mailbox, too. Good reason for him to take a small walk. Whatever.

Just as he was about to turn back toward his house, ignoring the urge to use the last bit of bug spray, his gaze saw the election posters again. And that got him thinking. Joe hated that. Joe hated caring about such things. He voted. Always. Not because he cared. But because it was his civil responsibility. And Joe never shirked his responsibilities. Never. Even the ones he didn’t care about.

Slowly, Joe put it all together. No USPS. No mail. No mail-in ballots. No way for Mrs. Wilderman to vote. She barely could walk. There was no way she would stand in line at the voting station for hours waiting her turn. No family to take her.

Hmmm. Oh well. Nevermind. Not his problem.

Or was it?

What was happening to him? Why did he care about the election and Mrs. Wilderman? Why did he wonder if she was counting on the mail-in ballot system? Why was it on his mind? Why wasn’t he back in the house fixing himself a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and chips with a cup of dill pickles?

What was it that he heard on the news? Or whatever the news was called these days? He couldn’t remember. Something about five states that depended on mail-in ballots for their elections, not acting fast enough to handle the closure of the USPS. Something. Not his problem. He voted at the firehall.

His vote didn’t count anyway. Most people’s votes didn’t count. Just the way it works. No reason to get all fired up about it. You voted. You did your civic duty. Like jury duty. You showed that you were a good citizen. And the wheels just kept turning.

He stopped halfway down the path to his house. Mrs. Wilderman. Standing in line at the firehouse. Trying not to cry from the knee and hip pain. Hand grasping the voting card so tight that it crumpled. Maybe the ink smearing from her sweat. Wondering why she just couldn’t vote like always from her home. On the porch swing. Rocking back and forth as she filled in the circles. Reading wth her glasses and magnifying glasses. Using the newspaper. Yeah, the newspaper. That had her summary of each candidate and their position on all the important matters. Now forced to remember who she wanted to vote for, and not make a mistake.

Why was he thinking about all of this? What difference would it make? Why was he worried about one vote? Any vote? Why was he worried about Mrs. Wilderman? He barely spoke to her. Ever.

Doesn’t matter, he told himself. He was getting old, and she was even older. 72? 78? Something like that. They didn’t matter anymore in life. They were just taking up space. They should just die already and let the world be for the younger generations. He saw that on some social media thingy during the pandemic.

Whatever.

Joe shook the bug spray can one more time. It still had a few more squirts left in it. He would come out tomorrow and spray the mailbox one more time. Just to be sure. And maybe another time or two if the can still had it in it.

Hmmm. No mail. No USPS.

Joe shook his head again and walked back into the house.

What difference does it make?