Dear World: I Am Trying to Mail This Letter

The American mailbox is actually a COMPLETELY UNHINGED concept

I’m Ash, and I’m a writer, traveler, nonconformist & nomad, and every week I’m sharing funny field notes from around the world. Currently, I’m in America writing about what it’s been like to return home to my small town, twenty years after living abroad.

---

You know what’s a weird thing that nobody ever thinks of as a weird thing but absolutely is???

The American mailbox.

For the first time in my life, I have an actual mailbox sitting at the bottom of my driveway, and a person comes every day and brings me my mail.

Do you know how lavish this is???

My mail woman’s name is Brandi, and when I first got here, Brandi came up to the door to bring me a package and, recognizing her from high school, I said “hey, I know you!” and she goes, “I was wondering if that was you, I have your book!” And then we told stories about death for approximately twenty-seven minutes, which seems to be what everyone does when you haven’t seen them in twenty years: nervous talk about death.

Just the other day I was in the grocery store, a place I need to visit at seven o’clock in the morning since anytime after seven and I will run into thirty-five people I once line danced with in gym glass, and I was spotted by this girl at the meat counter. As soon as I hugged her I knew I was in for it: within seconds she launched into a soliloquy offering up intimate and uncomfortable details of a brutal suicide and her mental state because of it and what color the rope was and how many teeth the man had when he died, which makes it really awkward when you’re just standing there trying not to drop the detergent.

I suppose this is because, when seeing someone you haven’t seen in twenty years, you tend to share the big updates, not what kind of Cheerios you ate this morning. Then again, I haven’t found myself particularly compelled to mention that my dead parent’s ashes are in the backseat of the car because I can’t figure out a good place to put them because every room seems like a weird room to put your dead parents in??? Maybe I am the psycho??? Yes, I am definitely the psycho. But, I don’t bore people at the grocery store with such details, I just write about them for an international audience.

So Brandi my mail woman and I ALSO talked about death—bonding!—and now every time she comes by I wave at her from the window, and we are pals. Sometimes I even wave at her from the Jeep when I pass her on a dirt road, which is surprisingly often. That bitch is everywhere.

But, you know what the weirdest thing is?

Whenever I have to mail something, I can just put it in my magic little box, and Brandi will come and take it. This is the height of luxury, my own personal mail assistant! I cannot believe this is a thing.

You know the secret code that lets Brandi know there’s something in my magic box she needs to pick up?

A little red flag.

It sits on the side of the mailbox, and when you put mail inside of it, you simply raise the flag.

THAT IS HOW BRANDI KNOWS SHE MUST PORTAL MY MAIL.

I recently learned this information. Never knew that before. Never had a mailbox before. I am really moving up in the world.

Now, one time I almost made a very grave mistake. One time, I attended a party and later wrote out a thank-you note and then was going to drop it in their mailbox.

“You can’t do that,” a friend solemnly intervened.

“Why????” I replied, naively.

“That’s very, very illegal.”

“Dropping a thank-you note into someone’s mailbox is illegal?!”

“Yes, it’s a federal offense, you can’t touch anyone’s mail.”

“But, I don’t want to touch their mail, I want to add to their mail.”

“You can’t touch their mailbox.”

“What about people that leave keys for other people in their mailbox?”

“Criminal.”

And thus I learned that even though mailboxes seem like this warm and fuzzy happy horseshit neighborhood thing, they are actually JAIL TRAPS.

Still, I remain in awe of the fact that people in America can actually leave their mail in a tiny little box and someone will magically just come and take it.

The other day I wrote a check (see my notes on those fun-filled ancient artifacts) for the lawn care lady and I added a hundred bucks because I was late because I didn’t HAVE checks to begin with, and then I put it in an awkwardly-sized envelope I stole from my thank-you card stash, and then hesitantly walked it down to the mailbox and stuck it inside and put up the little red flag and made sure it was closed good and tight, all the while very, very unsure that some Gen Z fuck head named Brayden wasn’t going to steal it and go buy an emotional support puppy.

It’s a wildly trusting system—especially for a population that all own guns in case someone breaks into their home.

You know what else is on everybody’s mind?

Identity theft.

Every time I’m in one of these truck stop coffee shops, there is this never-ending infomercial striking fear into the hearts of these folks about identity theft. The company is called Life Lock. I want to hit them over the head. Not because I take identity theft lightly, but because the commercials are so fear-mongering, it hurts.

Just the other day, my contractor was in a full-on panic at the idea of texting his social security number to a guy who needed to 1099 him. I thought to myself, if you could only see the kinds of things I text.

THAT IS NOT TRUE, I AM THE EPITOME OF INNOCENCE.

But, paying your phone bill online is still foreign to many in these parts. Yesterday I had to call a guy about a permit for my driveway, because something called the sluice pipe is broken down at the cottage (fun!), and so I call this guy and he must’ve explained to me really slowly at least four times how to set up my online portal and that I’d need a username and password. Finally I had to say, listen slappy, I work online, pls hurry up and tell me about THE PERMIT.

So now I just keep thinking about how it’s so normal to place a signed check containing your full address, bank account information, and signature into a little unsecured box on the road that anyone can open, even dingleberries like me, but online portals that are fully encrypted and can’t be broken into without being a world-class hacker is not.

To which I conclude: maybe I should keep the dead parent’s ashes in my mailbox. That seems like the safest place for ‘em. I’ll just have to remember not to put the little red flag up, or else they’ll disappear like magic, too—and then that would be a very literal form of identity theft, and what will the Life Lock people say then?