Polar Regions - 2

By Gayla Chaney

My soul feels ugly about this whole mailman thing. It chides my ego for what I'm doing. It warns of karma, retribution, and the universal irony I have come to believe in with the same pure faith I had in Santa Claus when I was a child. All of this will boomerang and smack me in the head or chest when I am least expecting it, exposing me for the heartless, selfish creature I fear I might be when Dick arrives as instructed by the messages I leave on his machine. "Come over at eight." "Don’t come over tonight." "Call when you get in so I can plan my weekend." I have no idea where this dominatrix side of my personality came from. I was not this way with Ben; at least I don’t think I was. He would not have allowed me so much power. Ben resisted pressure with wit or stubbornness, avoiding blind obedience. Ben held his own.

Against what? That's what I ask myself when the debate goes this far between the esoteric me and the flesh and blood me that dictates to Dick where we will eat, what movie we will watch, what time we go to bed. I resent his easiness, his indifference to detail, his oblivion, taking instructions and punching a time clock at my command.

His nature differs much from my own, from my former husband's, and without being aware, Dick holds up a mirror reflecting an image I don’t want to claim: a dogmatic shrew staring back. She has my eyes, my mouth, but she is so unfamiliar that from every angle she appears a total stranger. This is a woman I never saw when I was with Ben. He responded to my moves with his own form of checkmate. I never had to feel like this about myself with Ben who, although more easygoing than I, would not lie down and play dead. I want to kick Dick. I want to scream at him, "Get some backbone, you gutless mail carrier! Act like a man!"

Perhaps I am tough enough for both of us. I know I find myself as disgusting as any male chauvinist I've ever encountered. I'm afraid this ugliness may not wash off, even if I send Dick away for good. If I did that, I would be alone with myself and I don't know if I could survive that. Without a buffer between me and the reflection in the mirror, I might lose my soul altogether, become an outcast from humanity, exiled to Siberia or some other isolated area where all I could hear was own voice, frozen words strung in arctic air with no echoing response to prove they ever reached anyone's ears.

Dick will do. He is an honest-to-god mailman, but he is more than that. Surely. And sooner or later, like the South Pole explorer Admiral Byrd, I am bound to discover new territory that lies beneath the surface of this man. Of course, he isn't Ben. But I don't think Ben is Ben anymore. It's been over a year and he's been traveling in Europe and Australia and parts of Asia. It's bound to have affected his personality, so much so that I might not even recognize him at all the next time we meet. If we ever meet again.

I've changed, too. If I didn't think so, all I'd have to do is look at my lover, Dick the Mailman, and whoever I once thought I was mutates, crystallizing into a new version of myself, like the wife of Lot looking back on where she came from. Except that I can't claim I am on a pilgrimage or an expedition or any other kind of journey. I live in the city of my childhood and my parents live minutes away.

I remember when Ben told me that Admiral Byrd lost his mind after his travels, or maybe during them. I can't recall the details. I doubt that will happen to Ben. It seems more apropos for me to suffer an internal snow blindness and lose my way without ever leaving home.

Dick is on his way over bringing carryout Chinese with him, per my instructions. I don't feel like going out. We will most likely stay here and watch the Discovery Channel or work on my stamp collection, with which Dick is very helpful. Things could be worse. I could be driving through Death Valley and suffer mechanical failure. I could be drinking bad water in Mexico or trying to shoot caribou on the frozen tundra to keep from starving to death. I have so many things to be thankful for and I will try to count them all when Dick is here. After which, I will turn down the thermostat until it is cold enough to justify curling up under a blanket next to a mailman, where I can for a little while believe our shared body heat is essential for survival.

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Polar Regions - 2

By Gayla Chaney