That Pile of Flyers in Your Mailbox

Please note: this piece contains strong language

My first job was to drop supermarket flyers around the neighbourhood. The annoying pile of clumped paper in the mailbox burying your bills, that was me. I walked with white sneakers one size bigger because my toes were still growing. The job was money under the table and didn’t pay much, but I ended up knowing every side street in the area. We moved in teams of two and my plus-one was my friend, Tony. I always buzzed to houses with odd numbers. Tony worked the even ones on the other side of the street. We talked to each other shouting from pavement to pavement. We’d disappear inside a building and pop out with fewer flyers in our hands and one more question to ask.

One day, we’ve just walked by this woman screaming from a window. She’s telling us to go to hell, and all our ancestors with us. Then from the other side of the street, Tony says, 'Do you ever think about it?'

Tony’s always been the spiritual kind. Even as a kid he saw the world with a twisted perspective. Looking at reality through his personal distorted lens.

I slip eight flyers in a building with only four mailboxes, and when I come out I say, 'Think of what?'

We always tried to speed up the job. Pre-folding the flyers to fit in the mailboxes. Holding enough of them in our hands to cover a whole street. We turned it into a race, just to spice up the afternoon.

Tony springs out with no flyers on his hands and says, 'How are we going to look at this moment of our lives in twenty years? Do you ever think about it?'

No, I really don’t. This was primitive philosophy delivered on everyone’s doorstep.

The flyer in my hand says that you can get three red wines for the price of two. Bargain. And Tony says that whatever we’re living in this moment, it’ll slip into memories we’ll treasure or regret. We’ll tell our children about it.

He disappears into another building and I think I should tell my mum that there’s thirty percent off on washing-up liquid.

I drop fifteen flyers in a single mailbox and when I pop out, he’s saying, 'Living something without being aware of it. Do you know what I mean?'

No, I really don’t.

Tony and his philosophy. Tony ended up working for one of those startups where you can crash at someone’s house pretending it’s a hotel and it’s not awkward for either of you. It pays his mortgage and gives him time to think.

We bumped into each other in San Francisco years later. By then we both had a degree and were trying to grow a beard without success. None of us lived in California, but we happened to be in the same neighbourhood after a ten-hour flight from home.

If you pay attention close enough, your life is a thick spider web of curious coincidences.

We walked on the even-number side of the street and I asked him if he minded jumping to the other side. He said, no, that’s idiotic.

I crossed the street by myself and started shouting like we used to do with flyers on our hands. With lines of cars parked between us, I said that I didn’t have a girlfriend anymore. She dumped me. Or I dumped her. I still had to figure that bit out. Tony shouted back that he was about to marry his high school sweetheart.

And I thought about it. How we’d look at that moment of our life ten years later.

It turns out that life is more or less the same. It’s just your eyes, how you look at it, that always makes a difference.

This morning I found a supermarket flyer in my mailbox. Someone must have sneaked inside the building pretending to be the postman. They sell frozen shrimps for less than a fizzy drink. And I only hope the flyer guy was wearing gloves.

It’s so sunny outside, you’d say the weather keeps taking the piss. A guy is jogging with a face mask and a pair of shorts too short to even get out of bed. Then he trips on his shoelaces and topples down with his cheek on the asphalt. Blood dripping over his shins, he’s screaming so much that couples cross the street trying not to meet his eyes.

These days no one wants to give you a hand. Step too close to strangers and they’ll mirror back your steps. Dancing with your shadow. Avoiding your breath.

And I thought about it. How I’ll look at this moment in the future. The story of the shops shut and all my burnt attempts of baking bread at home.

I’ll probably sound like my grandad when he came back from war. All those stories about fighting in the trenches. Maybe I’ll pump up my version a bit. Because this might be annoying, but sitting by your bed mourning the loss of someone you love, it seems a much harder job than simple boredom like mine.

So I text Tony and ask him what he thinks about this all mess. Tony answers that he’s covered in shit. His daughter pooped so much that everything splashed out of the nappy and dropped all over his shirt. He says, 'The present is already tricky enough. You can’t live in the future looking back at the past.'

Tony and his philosophy evolving over time.

Me, I feel like I’m stuck in my future present past.

Tony says, 'It’s going to be alright. You can walk on the side of the street you prefer. Odd or even house numbers.'

Tony and his twisted perspective of the world. Reality through his personal distorted lens.

'What’s important,' he says, 'It’s to keep your flayers pre-folded and try to make it to the end.'