Philately

They loved the smell of paper, the taste of stamps. They waited until the last door of the post office was locked. That's when they slipped in.

They played through the night. They played in urban offices that resembled giant meat grinders, sitting on the frozen conveyer belts and swapping envelopes. They played in rickety rural post offices, where they would spill mail from the sacks, sorting the unplayable junk mail, which seemed to increase every year, from the letters of order and joy, pleas and rejection, financial strife and secret confession. These they would shuffle, deal, and play.

They'd played this game before the time of the pony express, before the first post office in America was even built. When paper was first invented in China, they were there, spending their nights shuffling the letters and playing until morning. They'd played in the Soviet Union, where letters arrived a few days or weeks from the time they were mailed, and sometimes not at all; where, if a brand-new box of chocolates was mailed, the recipient could count on finding at least half its contents reduced to crumbs, with cocoa fingerprints lining the box's lid. They'd played in mail tents on the Eastern front, where emotional letters – the greatest playing cards – were always in abundance.

The game itself was an unlikely hybrid. Aspects of it could be observed every day in any casino, in the tension raised by betting and bluffing and banter. Other aspects could only be found in musty scrolls, having trickled down from ancient Persian card games that time had forgotten. The game could be glimpsed in any traditional ten-card Tarot spread – whether the game could (or should) be used to tell fortunes was a subject of hot debate amongst players. Finally, it contained elements of storytelling – the oldest game on earth.

There were four suits, one for each player – Choleric, Phlegmatic, Melancholy, and Sanguine. Four players – Yours Truly, Dear John (who was a girl), Dear Sir-or-Madam (who was neither) and P.S.

The meat of the game was Story. With each card they played, they weaved together a narrative. Turn by turn, letter by letter, the story coiled and twisted one the table while the players tried to cajole it over to their side, like four snake charmers each playing a different tune.

* * *

Everyone knew that Dear John liked playing Melancholy. A high-cheekboned dame with honey-colored eyes, she delighted in creating scenarios of separation and woe. She looked like the kind of creature who would pen a Dear John letter, every Dear John letter in the world; she looked like polish and luster and gloss, cold and unattainable, with a skin that looked like it had no pores. With a graceful flick of her wrist she'd throw a letter of divorce between two love letters. She was the queen of rejection slips. Her favorite letters were suicide notes.

Dear-Sir-or-Madam, the eldest of the four, having long mastered and forsaken every other suit, preferred the calm, steady barrage of bills, legal notices, and forms. The other players derisively christened these types of letters “Mundail,” but Sir-or-Madam enjoyed the security and anonymity of the Phlegmatic suit. It was said that Sir-or-Madam had once won a game with nothing but a hand of library overdue notices and one credit card statement. This rumor made the other players, understandably, quite scared.

When a game reached its boiling point, potent cards could elicit a gasp or a shriek of outrage. More often than not, these cards came from the Choleric arsenal of Yours Truly. From complaint letters to death threats, all that aroused and enraged belonged to her. Truly played her cards as though she were nudging a fire on their table towards blazing rage with her stamped kindling.

Pigtailed newcomer P.S. – who always made up her mind at the last minute – usually got stuck playing Sanguine. Nobody ever wanted to play Sanguine. It was too difficult to find happy cards. The odds were high against happy endings.

The other players weren't sure about P.S. – always changing her mind, playing random Melancholy and Choleric cards that seemed to help other players win, acting as though she had some master plan when it was clear she was about to fall flat on her face. On good days, they considered her an inexperienced player. On bad days, they didn't consider her at all. Mostly her mystifying plays made her amusing to include in the game.

* * *

“Your turn to deal, Truly.”

Yours Truly shuffled. She enjoyed the feel of the textures of the different envelopes against her fingertips. Everyone watched her hands to make sure she did not pause at any one envelope too long, lest she begin sensing its contents. Seven cards flew in the direction of every player.

They held their cards with the faces – the written addresses and the stamps – held towards them, and seals facing outward. Their absorption of the writing contained was tactile; they brushed their thumbs over the letters, traced the ridges of the stamps with their nails, even pressed the envelope against their foreheads.

Not a single letter was opened. Ever. This was their unspoken rule –no recipient would ever suspect what their letter had gone through the night before.

“Ugh. Bills, bills, bills,” groaned P.S. “Geez.”

Grumbles of disappointment resounded. Even Sir-or-Madam - who communicated more with its immaculate eyebrows than with any other part of its face - froze one eyebrow in a skeptic half-raised state and stared at its hand. “Not one, but two reminders that it's time to visit the orthodontist! Tonight, I am truly lucky.”

Truly bared her teeth. “It's not like it used to be. They don't write like they used to! How can we be expected to play with this crap?”

“Calm yourself, Truly,” said Sir-or-Madam. “It is all we have.”

“I won't be calm – not if I can remember how it used to be. Remember the cards we used to play during World War II? Remember when they sprayed their love letters with perfume, and sent them across the seas, to the fronts?”

“Ah… and the death notices from the fronts, I remember those,” said Dear John, with awe and delight in her voice.

“How we laughed, and cried.”

“And how we drank. Those were the days!”

They tittered and exchanged glances. P.S. looked at the ceiling awkwardly, for this was before her time.

“I'm inclined to drink now myself, knowing what kind of game this will be,” said Truly, pushing herself away from the table and slapping her cards on the table.

“Sit down , Yours Truly.” Hearing the command in Sir-or-Madam's voice, the players froze.

Sir-or-Madam's determination to keep a game going on any given night occasionally struck the other players as fanatical.

”The mail is just in a dry spell. I've seen it happen before, and I can tell you that good stories always find their way into a deck. Deal another hand if it suits you, Truly.”

“It suits me,” Truly muttered and re-dealt.

This time, there were gasps. Dear John smiled coyly. Truly and Sir-or-Madam shared a flash of piercing competitive eye contact.

“Now that's more like it.“

“Wow.”

“You're all going down.”

“Cocky, aren't we. Let's play.”

* * *

Their first round had been about animals. Yours Truly opened by playing the following card:

Dear Thomas:

I'm writing to let you know of a problem I'm having with another tenant in our building. Jacqui. Actually, Jacqui's dog. I've tried settling the problem with Jacqui directly to no avail; she's never home and she hasn't answered my notes. Meanwhile, the problem is only getting worse.

As you know, Jackie has a large pit bull. I forget its name, so I'll call it Fido. One time, I was coming inside and I saw Jackie ascending the stairs with Fido to her apartment. All of a sudden Fido stopped and urinated right on the steps. “Ooops! Looks like he had a little accident,” Jacqui said, and continued walking up the steps like nothing had happened. I was thoroughly grossed out.

I have never seen this happen again, but on some days the stairway reeks of dog urine. It's especially noticeable on days after it rains, when it's humid as well. It's a problem for me because I'm reluctant to bring guests over for fear of the smell.

I just don't understand. What's the point of taking your dog outside if you're just going to let it pee on the stairs when you come home?

I'm hoping that you can talk to Jacqui for me as the landlord and just ask her to be a little more careful with Fido. I'm confident that with your help we can resolve this situation.

Thank you!

Eloise

Truly glowed. She had opened the game with the perfect card, one that set a tone of tension and hostility early on. The other players would have trouble swinging the story over to their side with such a strong beginning.

Truly cleared her throat.

“This is the story of an enmity between two neighbors, and of the beast that caused it. Dear John, tell us what happens next.”

Generally, Dear John considered herself a good player. She had a way with words and sharp skill of free association, which she used artfully for bending the story to her direction. With the card she played next, she barely needed to exercise these talents, for the card she had was perfect in itself for this round. In one swoop Dear John would extend the story naturally and swing its theme over to her end of the emotional spectrum.

The letter she put down was sealed, but after a few seconds the players could clearly read through the envelope to the letter within.

Dear Jilly,

I was driving down Heartwood, and I noticed that you have put up Missing signs for Mist around the neighborhood. Only a fellow cat owner can understand how traumatic this must be. Cats are intelligent creatures and loyal friends. It must take a big toll on you to wonder where Mist are, not knowing if she's okay.

I took the liberty of copying one of your flyers and pasting it around our neighborhood as well. If Mist has gotten this far, people will spot her here too.

My family and I will keep our eyes open for Mist. Don't hesitate to call if there's anything else we can do.

Sincerely,
Lauren Callowhill

“Wow, that's really sweet of her,” P.S. said.

“It's sad. Wouldn't expect anything less from you, Dear John,” Sir-Madam said.

“Thanks. Yeah, so the nuisance pet that Truly described has suddenly gone missing. The owner is completely devastated. The animal had been her only friend.”

Indeed, the story had taken on a Melancholy tinge. The complaining neighbor now seemed petty and inconsequential. Your Truly scowled, but the game could go anywhere from here. The emotional stakes had been raised, and it was P.S.' turn to elaborate.

“Okay, here goes,” P.S. said, and put down a fat envelope. “But I'm warning you all, it ain't pretty.”

The envelope looked innocuous enough. The words on the address label were scrawled in assorted markers and radiated a childish festivity. Colorful stickers of Lisa Frank puppy dogs and cats surrounded the recipient's address. The only odd detail was the red pen scrawls over the animals' faces.

Truly gagged. John grimaced. Sir-or-Madam's eyebrow slid upwards.

“P.S.! Ew!”

“I'm sorry, guys – it's the only thing I had that fit the theme.”

The players stared at the contents of the envelope – glossy photos of blood-smeared feathers, broken bones, dismembered tails, and other meaty pancakes that looked a little too raw to be fast food thrown out of a car window.

“Ugh. Art students,” said Truly after a reflective silence.

“Art students photographing a dead horse. And they think they're so original.”

“Oh, let the kids have their fun.”

“Right then,” John said, shaking the images out of her mind. “So our nuisance pet suffers a hit-and-run accident. What happens next?”

Sir-or-Madam surveyed the situation with discontent. Staring at its hand, it had realized that winning this round would be impossible. The emotional factor of the game had shot through the roof too early on to give Sir-or-Madam the opportunity to chill things down, to make the story go the way of regularity or routine.

Playing Phlegmatic had never made Sir-or-Madam (or any of its other wielders) popular. No one liked a storyteller who toned things down. But the logistics of Phlegmatic storytelling attracted Sir-or-Madam. It was easier to blow something out of proportion than to tame it back into proportion once a tale had gone wild. Therein lay the challenge that drew Sir-or-Madam to the Phlegmatic suit. “Let the kids have their fun,” thought Sir-or-Madam. “I'm just here to facilitate order.”

The other players suspected that Sir-or-Madam sometimes let them win. However, that was not Sir-or-Madam's present frame of mind. It stared at Truly thoughtfully. She'd done a good job of setting the story's tone, but had she gambled away her strongest card in the process? Sir-or-Madam hoped so; its strategy depended on it.

Sir-or-Madam made its move.

Dear Dr. Jacobson:

I was shocked to hear about the vandalism at the clinic last night. When I drove by and saw the words “baby killer” spray-painted over the side of the building, I knew something was wrong. Later that day, I learned about the attempted arson on the news. What a terrible, terrible tragedy! It is lucky that the Fire Department arrived before the fire could do any real damage.

I find it shocking that people resort to such violent means of expressing their views. You are very brave for doing your job in the face of such opposition.

With Sympathy,
Patricia Lowenson

“The enmity between the neighbors had been growing for quite some time,” Sir-or-Madam began in its smooth storytelling voice. “After the dog had disappeared and turned up dead, its owner's suspicion turned her neighbor, who had always despised the animal. She thought of all those hateful notes that had been left in her mailbox. All the scowls of disapproval she'd met on her way up the stairs. In her rage, she broke into and vandalized the other woman's apartment. She spay-painted “dog killer” all over the walls and irrationally set the place on fire, putting out when she realized she lived in the same building.

“And now, Yours Truly, how will you continue the tale?”

Yours Truly's eyes jumped back and forth between her cards and the ones on the table. Damn Dear Sir-or-Madam for leaving such a tough act to follow! Truly desperately stared at her cards. She had nothing that could elaborate.

“Take it!” Sir-or-Madam said tauntingly.

“Wait… I might have something.”

“Take it!”

Yours Truly made a face at Sir-or-Madam and dragged all the cards on the game towards her end of the table. She gathered them into a little face-down pile. This so-called loser pile was something each player had by end of a game; a collection cards they collected from any round in which they failed to continue the story.

It had not been a good round for Truly. The Choleric theme had clearly run through the tale, and for that she scored many points. But each card that was now in her loser pile would count against her final score. Truly bit her lip and waited for a chance to get revenge.

* * *

The cards they played that night didn't stay on the table, and neither did the stories. Like the letters – sorted, shipped and delivered – the stories too were delivered to their final destination.

* * *

Dr. Marc Jacobson's doorbell rang. Cautiously, he went to open it.. The frumpy, smiling face of his neighbor Millie stared back at him. Jacobson slammed the door shut in her face.

The doctor had often stopped to chat with his neighbor before going work. That was before the fire.

Millie brought him pound cake the day he moved in. She loved baking things. Since then, they often stopped to chat, and Millie made a habit of bringing him treats that she made in her seemingly endless spare time.

Jacobson didn't have much insight into Millie's personal life. She was a widow. She always wore a cross. She used a hair dye that didn't complement her complexion at all to cover up her graying hair. That much he knew about her.

Jacobson hadn't remembered telling her he was a doctor. He certainly didn't tell her about the abortion clinic.

One afternoon several months before the fire, Millie had brought him a key lime pie. “I made extra, and I thought you might like one,” she said.

They ate a couple of slices and Millie left. Later that night, Jacobson cut himself another slice. His fork dredged up the corner of a piece of paper. The paper was glossy, and he could see some printed type underneath the key lime. It looked like a leaflet of some sort.

First with his fork and then his fingers, Jacobson gingerly pulled it from underneath the crumbs and creamy layers of the pie. A wide-eyed baby stared at Jacobson. “CHOOSE LIFE,” the brochure sternly commanded.

Millie apologized profusely for the brochure. She said that it she had a whole stack of them on the kitchen counter. Perhaps the fan had blown one into the tin while she was pouring the mixture cream cheese, sour cream, limejuice and condensed milk into the pan.

Jacobson didn't buy it, but accepted the batch of cookies that Millie brought over apologetically the next night.

In the weeks before the fire, Millie had started leaving “Thinking of You” notes in his mailbox.

Dear Marc,

How are you today? The bonsai trees in your window look phenomenal! You must really have a green thumb. Everything you touch has the potential to live and grow. I've enclosed some reading that you may find interesting. God bless !

Along with the postcard, which featured dewy geraniums, Dr. Jacobson discovered an anti-abortion pamphlet. The pamphlet told him how a baby's heart started beating at __ weeks, how its organs developed at ___ months, and all the other stuff he knew by heart. He threw it in the trash, along with Millie's note.

In the next few days there had been several repeat performances of the “thinking of you notes” coupled with flyers, pamphlets and even one book.

The vandalism at the clinic had made Jacobson fear Millie. Before the fire, she had been just smiling God-fearing lady whom he had done his best to avoid. She had left harmless notes in his mailbox, which he had always thrown out the minute he found them.

But the fire had done a number on his head. Was Millie really an arsonist? Could she throw a bomb? He tried to picture Millie spraying obscene graffiti in one of her polka dot dresses, and his thoughts became a blur. As he slammed the door in Millie's face, Dr. Jacobson knew one thing: his neighbor was his enemy.

* * *

Jacqueline reloaded her stapler. Her hair blew in her face and she tried to retain the enormous batch of flyers in her hands. She had definitely copied too many, but she wanted to be sure; she wanted everyone on this block, in this neighborhood, in this city to know that her dog was missing. Now, overwhelmed by wind, the flyers felt like they were going to fly out of her hands while she watched helplessly, disappearing into the streets the way that Lilim had.

“Hey – Jacqui!”

“Eloise! What's up? I haven't seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, I know. I heard you lost your dog! And then I saw you out the window putting up flyers, and I see you have a lot so… I thought I'd help.” Eloise donned a stapler and extended her hand for the flyers.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Come on – I'll head North, you head South, and this neighborhood will be plastered in no time.”

Jacqui blinked. Eloise had sneered and recoiled whenever Lilim was near. She wanted to help her find Lilim? Jacqui was touched.

“Thanks, Eloise. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. Lilim, huh? That's a nice name. I always forgot it.”

“Thanks. I guess I'll see you around. And thanks for helping.”

“No problem.”

Eloise studied Jacqui's face as they discussed which streets they would cover. Her eyes and nose were red. She really had loved that dog, Eloise thought. She wished now that she hadn't complained about it so much.

“Jacqui? I'm so sorry this happened.”

* * *

Over at the Synapse, an old warehouse on the border of Chinatown that had been converted to an art gallery in recent years, the student-run show “Asphalt Meat” had been scheduled to open on Friday. Across town, the show's co-organizer, Jeffrey, toiled at his workplace copier running off flyers for big night.

Boasting the most disgusting roadkill photos on earth, the show promised to make a evocative statement on various social issues, which Jeffrey had just been formulating when he received the fatal phone call:

“This is totally going to blow everyone away. Yeah. If they ask, just say – no, write this down – just say that it's commentary on the objectification of suffering as entertainment. Neat, huh? What? Object-I-F-I-C-A – hold on, I have a call on the other line.”

“What's up?” The caller ID told him it was Evi, one of the other organizers.

“Jeff, I just got a call from the fire department! I don't know how to tell you this, but – we're fucked.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They torched Synapse, man!”

“Wait – who torched? What are you talking about?”

“There was a fire in the basement of Synapse last night. Half the art is gone.”

“Shit. Nobody mailed us any negatives, did they?”

“I don't think so.”

“Shit. Shit. Evi?”

“Yeah?

“Did you say ‘ they torched'? What ‘they'?”

“I don't know, man! I'm just telling you what the cops told me. That this was no accident.”

* * *

Mist returned to Jillian and her children with a sprained paw and streak of bright blue paint on her hide. She walked up to the house casually, as if she'd only been gone for a few hours, and scratched at the door. Mist's first action upon arrival was to pee ceremoniously on the strairwell.

Nadya Lev
Philadelphia, PA
February 2004