something was gnawing at him.
“What do you see out there?” I asked.
“It’s what I don’t see.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask.”
“No road signs. No utility poles. And — ”
I finished for him. “No mailboxes.”
Josh nodded. “Isn’t there mail service out here?”
He was an observant little bastard. “Yes,” I answered, “there is. All the way from Rockmuse to the junction with U.S. 191. But no one uses it. Or wants it.”
“No one?”
“A few, close to Rockmuse. None that I can think of this far out.”
“Why is that?”
There wasn’t any harm in explaining, though what I could provide was far from an explanation.
People on 117 needed me. And I needed them. That was simple enough. What wasn’t simple was exactly why they felt they needed me when a lot of what I delivered, at a fair but significant expense, could be obtained free or at a much lower cost through the U.S. Postal Service.
I shrugged. “No one knows why.”
“There has to be a reason,” Josh said.
“You would think so,” I said. “It must make a kind of sense to them, if not to anyone else. It’s like they’re all related, which they aren’t. They do share a stubborn nature and a perverse distrust of any and all government institutions.”
“You mean they’re anti-government?”
I laughed. “Hell, no. They don’t even talk to one another. They sure as hell don’t agree on anything except a desire to be left alone. They’re anti-everything.”
“There’s got to be more to it,” Josh said.
“If there is more I don’t know what it is,” I said. “It’s best just to say they prefer it that way and try to leave it at that. Every damn one of them steadfastly refuses to put up a mailbox of any size or description. Without a mailbox the U.S. Postal Service will not, cannot by law, deliver mail.”
Josh was convinced I was playing with him. “Come on, Mr. Jones,” he said. “I’m not falling for it.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “Of course, there is general delivery.”
“I thought so.”
“Think again,” I said.
Josh listened, periodically shaking his head. I might have done the same thing if I hadn’t long ago accepted things as they were.
General delivery mail was held by name at the small post office in Rockmuse. Predictably, if irrationally, such mail was only infrequently claimed. The infrequency had, in some cases, stretched to decades, even when the postmaster knew the recipient was alive because he or she walked or drove by the post office, sometimes several times a year.
Though I didn’t tell Josh, this preference, or game, if that’s what it was, included Walt Butterfield. The Well-Known Desert Diner was forced to have an address for the business license, which Walt faithfully and inexplicably renewed annually and displayed on the wall of the diner. No mailbox or mail slot in the door. The diner had a Rockmuse address despite the fact that it was closer to Price than to Rockmuse.
“Maybe,” I continued, “in some dark, desert past, there was a good reason for such nonsense. No one knows or remembers what that reason is anymore. Like a lot of things in the world that defy explanation, if they go on long enough, you just give up and accept it. Out here we acknowledge such a mystery by referring to it as a ‘tradition.’ ” I winked at Josh. “The desert is lousy with traditions.” I added, “And here’s a bit of free advice: don’t ever screw with traditions. Especially out here.”
Josh didn’t ask any more questions about mail service. He did appear to go on thinking about it. Every few minutes for the next hour he would stare out his window, slowly shake his head, and smile. For my part, I did what I could to make his day as boring as possible. Eventually I realized that I didn’t have to work so hard at it. To most people my days were boring. Sometimes they bored me.
—
At three thirty we were already on our way back to Price.
“You never asked me how
“What do you see out there?” I asked.
“It’s what I don’t see.”
“Go ahead,” I said. “Ask.”
“No road signs. No utility poles. And — ”
I finished for him. “No mailboxes.”
Josh nodded. “Isn’t there mail service out here?”
He was an observant little bastard. “Yes,” I answered, “there is. All the way from Rockmuse to the junction with U.S. 191. But no one uses it. Or wants it.”
“No one?”
“A few, close to Rockmuse. None that I can think of this far out.”
“Why is that?”
There wasn’t any harm in explaining, though what I could provide was far from an explanation.
People on 117 needed me. And I needed them. That was simple enough. What wasn’t simple was exactly why they felt they needed me when a lot of what I delivered, at a fair but significant expense, could be obtained free or at a much lower cost through the U.S. Postal Service.
I shrugged. “No one knows why.”
“There has to be a reason,” Josh said.
“You would think so,” I said. “It must make a kind of sense to them, if not to anyone else. It’s like they’re all related, which they aren’t. They do share a stubborn nature and a perverse distrust of any and all government institutions.”
“You mean they’re anti-government?”
I laughed. “Hell, no. They don’t even talk to one another. They sure as hell don’t agree on anything except a desire to be left alone. They’re anti-everything.”
“There’s got to be more to it,” Josh said.
“If there is more I don’t know what it is,” I said. “It’s best just to say they prefer it that way and try to leave it at that. Every damn one of them steadfastly refuses to put up a mailbox of any size or description. Without a mailbox the U.S. Postal Service will not, cannot by law, deliver mail.”
Josh was convinced I was playing with him. “Come on, Mr. Jones,” he said. “I’m not falling for it.”
“Then don’t,” I said. “Of course, there is general delivery.”
“I thought so.”
“Think again,” I said.
Josh listened, periodically shaking his head. I might have done the same thing if I hadn’t long ago accepted things as they were.
General delivery mail was held by name at the small post office in Rockmuse. Predictably, if irrationally, such mail was only infrequently claimed. The infrequency had, in some cases, stretched to decades, even when the postmaster knew the recipient was alive because he or she walked or drove by the post office, sometimes several times a year.
Though I didn’t tell Josh, this preference, or game, if that’s what it was, included Walt Butterfield. The Well-Known Desert Diner was forced to have an address for the business license, which Walt faithfully and inexplicably renewed annually and displayed on the wall of the diner. No mailbox or mail slot in the door. The diner had a Rockmuse address despite the fact that it was closer to Price than to Rockmuse.
“Maybe,” I continued, “in some dark, desert past, there was a good reason for such nonsense. No one knows or remembers what that reason is anymore. Like a lot of things in the world that defy explanation, if they go on long enough, you just give up and accept it. Out here we acknowledge such a mystery by referring to it as a ‘tradition.’ ” I winked at Josh. “The desert is lousy with traditions.” I added, “And here’s a bit of free advice: don’t ever screw with traditions. Especially out here.”
Josh didn’t ask any more questions about mail service. He did appear to go on thinking about it. Every few minutes for the next hour he would stare out his window, slowly shake his head, and smile. For my part, I did what I could to make his day as boring as possible. Eventually I realized that I didn’t have to work so hard at it. To most people my days were boring. Sometimes they bored me.
—
At three thirty we were already on our way back to Price.
“You never asked me how
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