by Thomas Dierckx<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The 11-year-old boy hesitated across the street from the mailbox. It was black metal, with a red flap that would tell you if something had arrived.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sunday evenings they got back from the lake house in Wisconsin. His father would make a fire, his mother would start preparing dinner. The other kids dispersed into the house.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He was the one who got the mail. He also did the trash, but that was just Fridays. Mail was every day. Sunday was to catch up on Saturday, when they were away at the cabin.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He started to cross the street. The two black dogs weren\u2019t out. He only inserted the tips of his fingers.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 To the boy, it was never empty.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Every so often a letter from a pen pal arrived. From Naples. From Hokkaido. The letters were like monologues. Thomas and his pen pals hardly knew each other, just that they liked sending letters to faraway places. Once the Japanese girl sent him a Japanese manga comic book. He couldn\u2019t understand it because it was in Japanese characters. He never returned the favor. She said there was a lot of snow and she saw a bus full of American students and how outgoing and gregarious they all seemed. Japanese kids were nothing like that, she wrote. Her return address was in Japanese script too, along with something that must have been UNITED STATES.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Gilberto Nardini was the son of a bookseller. Thomas had a photo of Gilberto in the shop. Gilberto wrote about how he liked Michael Jackson and that he loved to play the foot and play the box. Apparently, that\u2019s how they translated soccer and boxing in Italy. Or maybe it was football. It couldn\u2019t be American football. Thomas really had nothing to do with Gilberto except books (with all the books in his father\u2019s store, he assumed the boy from Naples would occasionally read something) and letters. Once Gilberto sent him 10 letters from other kids from his class who wanted American pen pals. All the boys liked to play the foot.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Once in a blue moon, a Victoria\u2019s Secret catalogue would arrive, and Thomas would slip into the downstairs bathroom. They were addressed to his mother, but she would never wear stuff like that. He was sure.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sundays the Minneapolis Star Tribune arrived in the green plastic newspaper box next to the black mailbox. Thomas would first pull that out, and then with a swift move, open the black letterbox, grab the mail and slam it shut. He usually remembered to lower the flap.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The mailbox did contain something. It was green. I know it too. I live in France, and every so often I get envelopes addressed by the French tax authorities or the police. I hate opening mail. The green thing doesn\u2019t stop following me wherever I go.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 There\u2019s no body. It\u2019s just a head and a bit of a neck, narrow enough to fit inside its small lair. If you could describe it, it would be a slightly cartoonish crocodile face. Unleashed, it would rush out with mad eyes, swiveling its head wildly and baring its fangs. It could bite anything that got too close. Arms. Hands. Anything.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The comics section (four full color pages) was the best part of the Minneapolis Star Tribune, and Calvin and Hobbes was the best of the best, but always relegated to the second page after the recycled Peanuts and Blondie jokes. Thomas would read in slippers on the sofa of the living room, which was carpeted in plush red shag.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0Thomas loved the weird snowmen that Calvin would make. Like the one where Calvin stages his own winter road-accident scene with a family of three injured snowmen in front of his dad\u2019s car. One had lost its head, which lay in the street. Bill Watterson was such a good cartoonist. Thomas was in heaven when he shifted to Calvin\u2019s land of imagination. He would love to be a cartoonist.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0Above his bed was a picture of a little bear tucked under a blanket on a blue background. Glow-in-the-dark letters spelled SLEEP TIGHT. He\u2019d get up, turn off his alarm, turn on the lights and finally switch off his night light, always in that order. He\u2019d eat a small breakfast and pack peanut butter and jelly for lunch each day. Leaving for school gave him butterflies, and he refused to eat the school food.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas\u2019s mother would send him off with a big hug, wearing a red fuzzy robe with leopard-skin trim, outside on the doorstep. With a big smile, she waved him off every day, even if it was 10 below outside. He usually packed a book for on the bus, always fantasy. Never science fiction. He would play Dungeons & Dragons by himself.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The stop was on the corner of Forest Lane and Snelling. You had to pass the two black dogs. They were always chained, but the chains were so long the dogs could run all around. You could never be sure that they hadn\u2019t gotten loose. Their barking froze Thomas\u2019s blood. He walked on the far edge of the street, in the grass.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 One day while waiting at the bus stop, a red car slowed down as if to stop. A kidnapper, Thomas was sure. He turned and ran as fast as lightning, without even thinking about the dogs. His mother drove him to school and reported the suspicious encounter to the principal.<\/p>\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas always got straight A\u2019s, plus extra credit. One day he misread the instructions to a math assignment and got a 0. His teacher told him it was good for him. That made lots of sense.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas was walking back from school one Tuesday when he saw an older man in shorts and sandals, near the far end of his driveway. The driveway was circular, with two exits for cars, and in the middle was a garden of red tulips that his mother planted. Thomas had the house key. He wondered if he had time to get to the front door and lock it before the intruder got in. He had less distance to run if he took the other side of the driveway.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cHi,\u201d the man said.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 A salesman? An evangelical Christian? Thomas had no idea. The man wore a plaid short-sleeved shirt. No tie. His hair was unusually short. Thomas stood in place.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cTho-\u201d The man clears his throat. Thomas stares at him, then looks quickly back at the house.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cUm. You know, a lot of things probably seem real to you. Actually, they are real to you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s real. But there\u2019s a trick.\u201d Something must have gotten into the man\u2019s eyes.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cIt\u2019s you who decides what gets to be real.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cYou\u2019ll probably never believe that, but this is real too. I know. All these things were real to me a long time ago,\u201d the man says, averting his face at the end.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas looks at the mailbox. The flap thing is erect.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThink of a name. You\u2019re good at that. A name for the dragon.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The boy looks at the man. He thinks he should have run.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cDo you have one?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cUh, yeah.\u201d Thomas shifts.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cThen get the mail. Pretend that I\u2019m not here.\u201d The old man points to the mailbox.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas crosses the street and opens the mailbox. There are a few envelopes and a flier. The old man wipes away tears, standing near the tulip garden. The boy still has his back to the man and the house.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Thomas closes the mailbox and starts walking home.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When he reaches the driveway, the old man asks, \u201cWill you tell me the name?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cMyrgothrum Shithead,\u201d Thomas says, looking down and grinning.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 When the boy looks up, there are just a few drops of rain falling. It\u2019s sunny.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 It\u2019s over. It\u2019s over for both of them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
by Thomas Dierckx \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The 11-year-old boy hesitated across the street from the mailbox. It was black metal, with a red flap that would tell you if something had arrived. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sunday evenings they got back from the lake house in Wisconsin. His father would make a fire, his mother would start preparing dinner. The […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[1914,77],"tags":[1915,1123,1924],"class_list":["post-16505","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-egophobia-91","category-english","tag-egophobia-91","tag-english","tag-thomas-dierckx"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6DakB-4id","jetpack_featured_media_url":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16505","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=16505"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16505\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":16506,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/16505\/revisions\/16506"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=16505"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=16505"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/egophobia.ro\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=16505"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}