Post

Welcome back to Nearly Finland, AKA I had several hours with no internet access and was bored. December 23, December 23, 1917̃, Gallup, New Mexico.

To the side of the small road flanking the sparsely distributed houses of the town, a small cloud of dust was being churned up. It was from a running man, one with a rather athletic build. He was carrying a securely fastened satchel over his shoulder, with the star emblem of the mail service on it. To his right the horizon was empty, with some small houses and short trees not far away, the ground over there covered in dusty green foliage. To the left, the vast, flat land also seemed to extend forever, the steppe covered in green and brown-orange shrubs, and tan grasses that blended in with the ground. He looked at the road ahead, which receded into the distance like a perspective drawing. A wide, green shrub-spotted mesa gently rose in his direction of travel, the one major obstruction of the mailman’s line of sight for miles. Even with a rare cloudy sky, the early evening sun poured down heat from above, but it didn’t stop our cap-wearing runner from keeping up a fast but steady pace. His purposeful expression was interrupted by a curiosity, though, a small dinosaur with a straight tail longer than its body, long stout legs, a purple and yellow-spotted mohawk for a crest, and a plumage that didn’t stand out much from the terrain. A roadrunner. The mailman regarded the animal as he ran past, which suddenly jerked its head up at him, a prehistorical yellow eye focused on him. Its head tilted in curiosity for a few seconds. Then its X-shaped feet flew into motion. The bird began to accelerate after the mailman, who started to feel a bit of primal fear. The roadrunner was rapidly scooting towards him, its tall mast of a tail now flat and its feet almost going in a circle. It zoomed past him, letting out a clattering noise, this bird’s very own “meep-meep”. Once it had successfully passed in front, the bird looked back at him and slowed down. The mailman took a quick swig from his canteen and brushed aside the sweat on his forehead, then gave the little bird a big grin. The race was on.

Some species are excellent sprinters. Humans are not one of those. The mailman sped up, legs pumping to keep him at a speed he could maintain, but of course he wasn’t catching up. The grin on his face disappeared, replaced by an expression of the damage his pride was for some reason taking. This was no ordinary mailman. This man, as competitive as his adversary, scrunched his face up with the determination to win, his jaw clenched, and he launched into a sprint. He was striding forward at an impressive speed, zooming by shrub after shrub, catching up with the roadrunner. Just as he got close enough to grab it by the tail (not recommended), its funny gait sped up, tearing away with its feet emulating the pedals on a bicycle in the Tour de France. The mailman was already breathing heavily, his face beginning to show the look of sad resignation. Images suddenly flashed through his head of friends, of family, of his victories.
“Look at that man! He’s faster than a horse!”
“When I grow up, mister, I wanna be just like you!”
“Nice race, Roger, wanna go get a beer?”
“Here he is, ladies and gentlemen, the fastest man in the west!”
“I’m proud of you, son.”

Roger Borotra, professional athlete, was not losing to anyone. His brain tried to tell him “Roger, you chased a train once, tripped and fell, and had to be hospitalised. Do be careful.” He wasn’t listening. Gripped by the madness of a man being chased by every monster imaginable, he put everything he had into his speed. His face formed a snarl, mouthing a battle cry as he tore after the roadrunner. Roger’s feet hurt, his lungs hurt, but nobody was listening - winning the race took priority over safety. It sounded as if both the surface of the road and his shoes would break. He was gaining. Finally, the roadrunner helpfully spread its wings and flapped away from the crazy person, landing in the brush and disappearing. Suddenly the pain of what he was forcing his body to do caught up with Roger, and he ground to a halt. But he had won. An elegant bow in the direction of where the bird disappeared, a minute to chug some water and calm down his breathing, and the mailman resumed his original pace.

By the time Roger neared his destination, the sun was setting. The clouds had gathered overhead, resulting in a colourful mosaic above his head. Purple, red, orange, and yellow clouds looked like a reflection of a landscape, with upside-down mountains, ridges, forests, and then puddles of sky. The red-stained mesa which the mailman had been chasing, almost Martian in appearance, was now off to his left, catching some of the setting sun’s golden rays. He found keeping his eyes on the road difficult, not because he wanted to continue to crane his neck upwards, but simply because it was starting to get dark. He finally ran past a column of short, almost spherical trees that somebody had planted, revealing the light streaming from a building’s window. For Roger’s job was not to deliver the mail to the people of Gallup. His destination was the Churchrock pub, which lay on the outskirts of the scattered town. As a rural mail carrier, his job was to deliver the mail to the neighbouring areas, ranches and houses with very few people around for kilometres. Their horse was apparently not up to it today, so the post office had hatched another plot to deliver the mail. As much as Sundays discouraged it, Saturdays encouraged drinking. At the start of every weekend, those who lived in relative solitude would travel long distances to the nearest pub, where they would socialise, and share news with their far-off neighbours. So rather than going to several far-flung, almost empty places, Roger could catch all of the mail recipients in one, much-closer pub. Or he could at least rent a horse for the next day. The darkening clouds startled him back to the present with a few raindrops. Stomach rumbling, lungs worn out for the day, and canteen empty, he jogged towards the rectangular mass with light streaming from the windows, and stopped at the door. First, a long gulp of air. Finally, he flung the door open ceremoniously, calling, “Mail’s here!”