Iterations and other stories (collection)

I hung up the phone. I hated doing it only because I know how much I hate it when that happens to me—how much he must hate it, too.

I heeded John Paul’s buzz again on Friday. This time, though, I didn’t wait for him to assemble my pile of mail. Instead, I snapped up each envelope as he placed it on the counter. The first three really were for me: a check from one of my publishers, a birthday card from my insurance agent, and my cable-TV bill. But the fourth was bogus: a gray envelope addressed to J. H. Coin, Ph.D. The return address was Royal Ontario Museum Staff Association.

“Wait a minute,” I said.

The Pontiff was busy dealing out lives into the little mailboxes. “Hmm?”

“This one isn’t for me.”

“Oh, sorry.” He reached out to take it. For a moment I thought about keeping it, holding on to that piece of what might have been, but, no, I let him have it.

He looked at it, then frowned. “You’re J. H. Coin, ain’t you?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then it is for you.” He proffered the envelope, but now that I’d let it go I couldn’t bring myself to take it back.

“No. I mean, I’m not that J. H. Coin.” The Pope said nothing. He just stood there holding the letter out towards me. I shook my head. “I don’t have a Ph.D.”

“Take that up with whoever wrote you,” he said. “I worry about apartment numbers and postal codes, not diplomas.”

“But I don’t want it. It’s not mine. I don’t work at the Museum.”

John Paul let out a heavy sigh. “Mr. Coin, it’s addressed correctly. It’s got sufficient postage. I have to deliver it to you.”

“Can’t you send it back?”

“I’ve been doing you a big favor all this time, calling you down instead of stuffing your things into that little box. Don’t make me sorry that I’ve been nice to you.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Take the letter.”

“But yesterday you brought me The Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology. And the day before, the University of Toronto Alumni Magazine. None of those things were meant for me.”

“Who’s to say what’s meant for any of us, Mr. Coin? All I know is I’ve got to deliver the mail. It’s my job.”

He went back to his bag. The next thing he pulled out happened to be for me, too. Sort of. Instead of placing it on the counter, he tried to hand it to me directly. It was a letter hand-addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jake Coin.

I shook my head again, more in wonder than negation this time. “There is no Mrs. Coin.”

“You have to take it,” he said.

It was tempting, in a way. But no, she wasn’t my wife. She wasn’t part of my world. I didn’t move.

He shrugged and put the envelope in the empty cubicle that had my apartment number on it.

I didn’t want this other Coin’s life forced upon me. “Take that out of there,” I said.

John Paul continued distributing mail, ignoring me the way he might ignore a stranger who tried to strike up a conversation on the subway. I grabbed his arms and attempted to swing him around. The old guy was a lot stronger than he looked—thanks, I guess, to hauling that great sack of letters around. He pushed me away easily and I fell backward against the vestibule’s inner glass door. For a horrible instant I thought the pane was going to break and come tumbling down on me, but it held solid. The Pontiff had wheeled around and was now aiming a tiny aerosol can of Mace at me.

“Don’t ever try that again,” he said in his mysterious European voice, not shouting, really, but with a firmness that made the words sound loud.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” I said. “Please.”

We held our eye contact for a moment. His expression wasn’t the indignation of a man who has suffered an unprovoked attack. Rather, it was more like the quiet turmoil of a father who’s had to spank his child. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Damn the man’s infinite patience. I was angry and I wanted him to be angry, too. “Look,” I said at last, “you keep bringing me the wrong mail.” I hated the quaver my voice had taken on. “I—I don’t want to have to report you to your supervisor.”

The threat seemed stupid and my words hung in the air between us. John Paul stared at me, his face waxing reflective. Finally, he laughed and shook his head. He hefted his bag, as if to gauge how much mail he had left to deliver. Then he glanced at his watch. “All right,” he said at last. “After all, I don’t want to get in trouble with the boss.” He laughed again—not hard, really, but there were tears at the corners of his eyes.

I slowly brought myself to my feet, wiping dirt off the bum of my cutoffs. “Well?”

“You’re out of place, Mr. Coin,” he said, slowly. “You don’t belong here.”

That’s the story of my life, I thought. But I said, “What do you mean?”

“You think you can just up and say you’re going to be a journalist?” He put the can of Mace back in his bag.

“I didn’t just up and say it. I worked hard to get my degree.”

“That’s not what I meant. You were supposed to be a”—he paused, then pronounced his next word carefully—“paleontologist.”