I worked in the mailroom during college, reading people's postcards and delivering mail. It was fine, as far as work-study goes. I had a lot of alone time. It paid for my Newbury Comics habit (for those unfamiliar with Boston shopping, that's cds, not comic books). It paid the occasional $400 phone bill. We who are spendy must work.
On slow days, I would leave cryptic notes in my best friend's mailbox. I would scribble on scraps of paper against the cinder block wall, slip them into the box and run away giggling. I was charmed to learn, yesterday, that Gail still has all but one of those notes.
The thing is - they're not so funny, objectively, yet she and I both laughed ourselves silly reading them. Maybe it was the memory of feeling young and loose, weird and unrestrained. Our friendship was not one of affectations or propriety. We had a habit of mimicking the sounds we heard in public, in fact: sirens and bird calls and what have you. I realize strangers may have thought us a little retarded, in retrospect, but we didn't care. We were bold and clever.
I like us plenty now, but I miss the us we were.
I wish the bulk of my early emails from Gail were not locked within the digital corridors of my ancient Performa, because they're hysterical. I can only offer what she read me yesterday, the mailbox notes I left so gleefully behind ten years ago. Our favorites:
I admit that I like you Extremely! And you can even tell people!
and
Oh, once upon a time, the most beauteous girl in the world, Schmail, received a rose from her fairy godpumpkin, Crooke, and all was well. Then, they beat up the space bunny.
and
Once upon a time, there was a special girl. She was real, REAL, special. In fact, she was so special, they developed a whole curriculum in school for special people like her.
and
Gail is a pineapple head! Gail is a pineapple head!
