Lost in the Mail

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.”

“What do you mean, ‘supposed to be’?”

“You can’t just do whatever you want in this life. You’ve got to play the hand that’s dealt to you. You think I wanted to be a letter carrier? It’s just the way it worked out for me. You don’t get any choice.” His voice sounded far away and sad. “Still, it ain’t so bad for me. I get to do this extra stuff as a sideline—putting people like you back on the right course.”

“The right course?” The old guy was insane. I should run, get away, hide.

“When did you decide to become a journalist instead of a… paleontologist?”

“I don’t remember for sure,” I said. “Sometime during my last year in high school. I got bored; didn’t want to spend the rest of my life being a student.”

“That was a big decision,” he said. “I’d think you’d remember it more clearly.” The Pope smiled. “It was April 22nd, 1973, at 10:27 in the evening. That’s when the universe split. You ripped up your acceptance letter from U of T—”

“The universe did what?”

“It split, became two universes. That happens once in a while. See, they used to think that every time somebody made a decision, instead of things going one way or the other, they went both ways. The universe splitting a million times a second, each one going on forever along its separate path.”

I didn’t understand what he was talking about. “Parallel universes?” I said, the phrase coming to me out of dimly remembered Star Trek reruns. “I guess that’s possible…”

“It’s hogwash, man. Couldn’t happen that way. Ain’t enough matter to constantly be spinning off new universes at that rate. Any fool can see that. No, most of the times the decisions iron themselves out within a few minutes or days—everything is exactly the same as if the decision had never been taken. The two universes join up, matter is conserved, the structure is sound, and I get to knock off early.”

Although he sounded cavalier, he didn’t look it. Of course, maybe he was always like this. After all, in the twenty-odd months that I’d known the Pope we’d never exchanged more than a dozen words at a time. “So?” I said at last.

“So, every now and then there’s a kind of cosmic hiccup. The universes get so out of joint that they just keep moving farther apart. Can’t have that. It weakens the fabric of existence, so they tell me. We’ve got to get things back on course.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You ever hear of Ronald Reagan?”

“No. Wait—you mean the actor? Guy who did a bunch of pictures with a chimp?”

“That’s him. There was a hiccup almost forty years ago. He got it into his head to be a politician, don’t you know. I won’t even tell you how high up he made it in the American government—you’d never believe me. It took an army of posties to get the world back on track after that one.”

“So you’re saying I’m supposed to be a paleontologist, not a plastics writer.”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

“That’s just the way it was meant to be, that’s all.”

My head was spinning. None of this made sense. “But I don’t want to be a paleontologist. I’m happy as a journalist.” That wasn’t really true, and I had a feeling John Paul knew it wasn’t, but he let it pass.

“I’m sorry,” he said for the second time.

This was craziness. But he sounded so serious, so much like he really believed it himself, that it made me nervous. “But other people get to choose their lives,” I said at last.

“No,” he said, looking very old. “No, they don’t. They think they choose them, but they don’t.”

“So—so I’m supposed to do some great thing as a paleontologist? Something that makes a difference in the scheme of things?” That wouldn’t be so bad, I thought. To make a difference, to count, maybe to be remembered after I’m dead.

“Perhaps,” said the Pope, but I knew in an instant that he was lying.

“Well, it’s too late for me to go back to school now, anyway,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “I mean, I’d practically be ready to retire by the time I could get a Ph.D. in paleontology.”

“You’ve got a Ph.D. Don’t ask me what your thesis was on, though. I can’t pronounce most of the words in its title.”

“No. I’ve got a Bachelor of Applied Arts from the School of Journalism, Ryerson Polytechnic University.” I hadn’t said that with such pride in years.

“Yes. That, too.” He glanced at his watch again. “For the time being.”

I didn’t believe a word of it but I decided to humor the old man. “Well, how’s this change supposed to take place?”

“The two universes are mingling even now. We’re just suturing up the rift between them. When the posties have everything in place, they’ll automatically rejoin into one universe.”

“How long until that happens?”

“Soon. Today, maybe, if I finish my route on time.”

“And I don’t get a say in any of this?”

“No. I’m sorry.” He sounded like he really meant it. “None of us gets a say. Now, excuse me, but I really must get on with my work.” And with that, the Bishop of Rome scurried out the glass door.

Lubomir Dudek, member of the Toronto Local of the Canadian Union of Postal Workers, came to the last house on his route, a large side-split with a two-car garage. He didn’t want to finish, didn’t want to drop off a copy of the Jesuit journal Compass for a man who was now, because of that fateful day in 1973, one of Toronto’s better-known podiatrists instead of a Father in the Society of Jesus. Lubo envied the foot doctor, just as he envied Jacob Coin, writer-about-to-turn-fossil-hunter. They went on from this point, with new vistas ahead of them. Their alternative lives beat the hell out of his own.

Lubo had known that the two realities would have to be reconciled. He, too, had made a fateful decision two decades ago, back when he was a press operator in a printing plant, a time when his own hiccups had drowned out those of the universe. He’d been pissed to the gills, celebrating—for the life of him he couldn’t remember what. Wisely, or so it had seemed at the time, he had decided to call a cab instead of driving home from the Jolly Miller. It should have been the right choice, he thought sadly, but we play the hand that we’re dealt.

For a long time he had wondered why he had been selected to be one of those helping to set things right. He’d tried to convince himself that it was because he was an honest man (which he was), a good man (which was also true), a man with a sense of duty (that, too). He’d waited patiently for his own letter carrier to bring him some exotic mail: a copy of a trade magazine from some new profession, maybe, or a dues notice from some union he didn’t belong to, or even a dividend check from a stock he didn’t own. But nothing of the kind came and finally Lubo was forced to consciously face what he supposed he had really known all along. His one brief moment of free will had let him live when he should have not. In the reunited universe, Jacob Coin would have his thunder lizards, the podiatrist would have his brethren, but Lubo would have only rest.