I've Got Mail, and It's Terrifying

Spring had put the earth through the proverbial car wash the past several days. I opened the metal mailbox attached to the front of my house to check for rainwater seepage, but something else was in there: an envelope.

I scanned the front of the house for damage. Nothing in the front yard seemed to be missing. No broken windows. Then I squinted down the sidewalk caught a flash of white as a U.S. postal van sped around the corner.

Someone from the government had simply dropped the envelope in my mailbox and fled. I lifted it out carefully. Fortunately I was already wearing latex gloves after the wildly successful used-syringe drive at the local library.

Other than the beating the post office had inflicted on the long white envelope date-stamped by NEW YORK NY and waving a U.S. flag on the postage stamp, the outside was tattooed with a specimen of Doc Hurley’s handwriting.

At first I was confused about why he would go to the trouble of wasting a postage stamp just to tell me the location of my house, but there it was: my name and address written in large printed letters for the entire postal system to see.

Maybe he was writing to tell me his mailing address? Did he want to exchange Mother’s Day cards? It seemed unlikely because his own name and address were written in smaller letters and at an angle, like an afterthought.

A terrible thought flashed: had he sold out to the NSA? Was this, like a Judas kiss, Doc Hurley’s way of alerting the Feds to my whereabouts? Little white postal vans parked on every corner, their blue mail receptacles listening stations.

The postage stamp could be an RFID chip tracking my movements. My god — what was Doc Hurley thinking?

I raced inside, deadbolting the door behind me. I drew all the shades and turned off the lights. Everything was quiet except for the pounding of my heart.

After I caught my breath, I brought the letter to my clean room (which is adjacent to the panic room where I also store my Soloflex). The clean room’s UV lights neutralize many microbial biohazards on first contact, but to be on the safe side, I placed the envelope in the pressure chamber and turned the nickel-finish knob to the lowest setting. 

It was from Brooklyn, after all.

I made sure all the seals in my biohazard suit were in tact before I opened the envelope.
Inside was folded an undated article from the New York Times, the pages ripped from the magazine in a tax accountant’s waiting room, undoubtedly.

It was like subletting a magazine subscription, getting the Times like this, delivered by para-government agents in blue uniforms and khaki pith helmets that made them look more like zoo keepers than the harbingers of foreclosures and oil-change coupons.

I cannot reveal the nature of this article to you. The redactions I would be forced to make would render them meaningless. I will say there was strong smell of chloroform on the pages, but that was probably because I had chloroform for lunch.

Besides, the article would just distract you from my main point: don’t send mail. It attracts carriers.