SUNDAY MAIL
By Vêra Chase
rom the very beginning that letter promised nothing good;
delivered during the time of my Sunday siesta by a Sunday postman in his
black-and-yellow uniform, the unmistakable outfit of the dangerous. How could it
since I do not answer the door at such times or places? The key to the
successful delivery must have been the powerful minutes-long pressure applied to
the bell, which took me for one terrifyingly realistic moment back to the Civil
Defense training campsite.
Such a rough awakening, which unfortunately collided
with the lowest point of the unfavourable curve of my sleep sinusoid, prompted a
flood of cold sweat covering my body, with an effect doubly unwelcome: exposed
to naked air, out of the protective capsule of a blanket, it chilled my whole
body; and moreover made dressing almost impossible. Apart from that an immanent
suspicion of cardiac arrhythmia kept returning to me with every other intake of
breath.
By the time I opened my eyes and the door, I was still not exactly sure
what was what. Automatically, I grabbed the pen as soon as it entered my field
of vision, ignoring the fact that the Sunday postman was still using it, and in
the next moment I signed the delivery document in a blank field adjacent to an
unfamiliar name. Then, clutching the parcel, I immediately retreated into the
safety of my nest. Without delay I turned off the electric power in order quite
safely to extinguish any further danger of any further alarming bells during the
rest of my siesta.
I suspected only the worst: had it net been a literal bomb,
then at least it must have been a bomb in a figurative sense.
However, instead
of a letter, the envelope contained only a tape, bare, no labels, just an
original pencil-lead decoration in an urban folk spirit. I see, it's
infected-thought I-and the virus will first infect the tape player and
eventually all the remaining electrical appliances, as many as I have at home;
to be safe, since I did feel dependent on some of them, I eventually played it
on a battery-powered player.
Worse - than - that: it contained an OUTPOURING! An
outpouring so private that even my handy torch-light dimmed itself (yes,
surprisingly private, especially considering that I had seen the sender no more
than once while waiting for liver-test results). The message not only informed
me of the depth and state of this person's emotions, but in addition passed on
to me the instructions which I was to follow from then on in order to eliminate
the risk of her suicide. The task list was clear and long, including such tasks
as: Move to the given person's apartment; Make sure your active vocabulary
includes a minimum of one hundred romantic diminutives or, Do not share your new
telephone number with any female persons. Should I have chosen to ignore the
advice, the consequences were evident. Clearly, by signing the receipt I had
unknowingly got myself entangled in a dense net of responsibilities and risks.
"That black-and-yellow Sunday beast!" I swore out loud in the stress
of the unwelcome situation. And then it dawned on me: What if my signature was
invalid since I had placed it next to the wrong name? And before the spark of
hope could die out, clutching the explosive audio-letter, I was already
unlocking the fifth safety lock, ready to run out after the Sunday pyro-postman.
© Copyright, Vêra Chase.
(28/11/97, 12/97,
male-version 11/98, 4/98, 7/99)
All Rights Reserved.
