The Post Office Didn’t Sell Envelopes.
By: Lisa Martens
Tags: Short Story, Creative Writing, Travel, Fiction, Culture

The Post Office Didn’t Sell Envelopes.

A visit to Atenas, Costa Rica.

Photo Credit Unsplash User Anniespratt

The iguana ate the fallen yellow flowers covering the grass. Then it nodded its head up and down, up and down, an act I was taught was an act of aggression. I decided to walk away. This bus stop was big enough for the three of us.

My friend and I were going to town to buy weed, candles, booze, and perfume that would make men want to have sex with us. We wanted to bring in the new year right. We wanted cookies, chocolate, and lovemaking. There was a pandemic, so we probably couldn’t get everything we wanted, but we could go on Tinder and dream of negative covid tests and positive sexual experiences.

A man on the side of the road tried to sell us cake.

“He knows us thick bitches want something to eat,” my friend said. I laughed. Thick bitches was right. I hadn’t fit into a size small of anything since I starved myself and all my hair fell out. Then I ate and everything grew, and my hair was once again lush, my skin overly sensitive.

We made it to town. We paid a dollar for the bus. I paid for us to get there. My friend would pay for us to come back.

Her guy was named Stryker and he was selling something called Creepy. It was supposed to be of good quality. He wanted to smoke a little in his car so she could see if it was to her liking. First, we had to go to the post office. She had to mail a letter to the United States.

We were sweating through our masks. We got to Atenas right when the post office opened, but we couldn’t go inside. Only the elderly could use the post office before 10 a.m. Besides, my friend needed an envelope for her letter.

“They don’t sell the envelopes here?” She sighed, clearly exasperated.

“I guess not.”

I thought about it. It was, perhaps, a cultural difference. In the United States, everyone was anticipating the needs of others. But it didn’t seem to be out of genuine kindness.

Nobody wanted to be wrong, to be caught off guard, to be sued. No one wanted to be accused. And so everyone tried to accommodate everyone else. On the surface, it seemed nice, but that “customer is always right” attitude seemed more like coercion than true kindness.

After all, if you’re afraid of being fired, is your smile and friendliness truly a kindness, or are you being held hostage?

“They should sell envelopes.” We walked to a nearby store to look for some. I nodded. I understood where she was coming from. But, at the same time, the post office could turn right back around and say, “you should have brought your own. We are a postal service. Not a postal products vendor.”

Both were right. You can expect others to anticipate your needs, or you can anticipate your own, or both. But whose responsibility was it?

She mailed her package. We found Stryker in the park. He was wearing a hat covered in playing cards. Aces, of course. He bragged a bit about how he was so good at online poker. She got into his car and made the transaction. I watched out for her. Then we went to a local restaurant and bought rice and beans and pupusas made with cheese. We wondered if the people in the kitchen were wearing masks, and decided they probably weren’t.

We bought chocolate from a German man who had opened a store in Atenas, and then hit up the liquor store.

“I wonder if that man holding his dick is still there,” I said out loud. He hadn’t been literally holding his dick. The first time we went to the liquor store had been at night. A beautiful man had pulled up on a dirt bike. His girlfriend had hopped off and run inside. And he stared at us, undressing us with his eyes, completely unashamed, fully aware that he was beautiful. His girlfriend came back and they rode away, leaving us in a bit of a daze.

He was not there, but we had chocolate, weed, and booze. We were almost complete.

Then we took the bus home. She paid. We were even. When we returned, the iguana was gone, as were all the yellow flowers. The bus stop was clean, as though nothing had ever been there.