Our mailman is kind of the Easter Bunny of mail. There’s a short search I undertake daily for our mail: some of it goes in our locked mailbox, sure, but some can also be found in a large stack of mail that inexplicably gets left on the table in the lobby. This stack does not just consist of our mail: it’s a stack for the whole building, so every day, if there is anything on the table at all, you need to look through everything to see if you’ve got stuff in there. Mail is also left on the floor just outside our apartment door, and on one memorable occasion I found one of my underwear catalogs outside on the front porch.
I have yet to work out the method that the mail bunny uses to decide which mail goes in the box and which goes on the lobby table. He will cheerfully stuff the large, fragile envelopes in which Allegra mails Gene her gorgeous collages right into the tiny box, but similarly sized catalogs get laid carefully on the table. Postcards usually go in the box, but now and then I find a few on the table. Maybe these are the ones that the mail bunny thought were too good to be kept for just the recipient to enjoy.
I know that traditionally the mythological creatures who deliver stuff in your absence need to be placated with gifts. (Santa, the Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, brownies, etc.) It has occurred to me that maybe my mail bunny screws with our mail every day because I never leave him any presents, so now I’m just brainstorming stuff I can put out. Right now I’m wavering between a bucket of water suspended over the door or a smattering of loose marbles on the steps.
This is not my mythological creature.