70: Other People's Mail

Pete

So to kill two hours, I was just wandering around in the alleys, digging through the dumpsters around there, seeing what there was. And as much as I like to look through dumpsters, there's not a whole lot that I'm excited about finding. I'm not real big on eating food out of dumpsters. So the one thing that really gets me excited is finding other people's mail. I love reading other people's mail. I actively look for it on the streets and in people's garbages, in dumpsters, at post office.

Pete

They were in no chronological order, so I just had to open the first one that I could grab. And read one after another that way, which was kind of confusing at first because I jumped right into the middle of what appeared to be a relationship between a woman and a man. But I slowly put it together as a puzzle.

Pete

I think it is just she never had somebody to really lean on and to seek advice from or just to tell her problems to, or at least nobody who was stable. And so he says it's going to be platonic. And she says oh, that's fine, that's fine. But when you read between the lines, she just wants to see him and maybe once they reunited then the sparks will fly again.

Pete

I had to keep in mind that he had just thrown these letters out apparently. And so no matter how important she may say that he is to her, at some point he puts it behind him. These letters now are in the dumpster.

Richard Lyons

The inspiration for my project came about in the spring of 1994 while visiting a local automobile wrecking establishment in Contra Costa County, California. While searching for a Bendix spring for Negativland's company mascot, a 1976 Mercury Monarch Ghia, I made a shocking discovery. I stumbled upon a metallic root beer 1971 Dodge Demon that I'd previously owned and meticulously maintained until selling it two years earlier.

To my horror, the car had been broadsided with great force and the occupants had been neatly extracted with the jaws of life through a perfect cut over the edge of the roof line. Upon further inspection, it became obvious that the car had not only been wrecked, but trashed over a period of time beforehand. Curiosity led me to search its interior for clues on what methods of torture could have brought my once beautiful car bomb to this endscape.

And what I found was fascinating. The melted plastic seats and orange carpet were littered with an assortment of paper scraps documenting the life of a 17-year-old single mother and her tumultuous relationship with an abusive 38-year-old boyfriend. The car smelled of sewage water and empty Pepsi containers attracted bees. But I continued to collect and collate everything I could find, love notes, hate letters, personal records, receipts, photographs.

Woman 1

Dearest Jack, if you love me as much as you say you do, will you please spend time with me and the baby? You said you'd take care of me and I don't know what I should do to make you keep your promise. I love you, Jack, and I hope you'll forgive me for not being able do some things good enough. But I want you to at least be here for all of us. And I hope you can see my point. Will you please come back? Love, Erica.

Richard Lyons

Several days passed before I fully realized the extraordinary effect this experience had on me. I couldn't help wondering if she'd been killed or badly injured, and what about her infant son? Was she even in the car? Perhaps her drunken beau, in a fit of uncontrollable rage, had taken the Demon on its fateful joy ride.

Woman 1

If Jack doesn't want to be with me or Max, he can do whatever he wants. I don't care if he wants to do crank and everything else to get high. I can find someone who will be better for me and I know will be around at least sometimes and care about me and us both.

Richard Lyons

I recalled observing similar remains in other discarded vehicles. And upon further consideration, I picked up my camera and left to see what else was out there. The older cars were the most interesting-- unpaid parking tickets, failure to appear notices, unopened mail from collection agencies, lottery receipts, losing game cards from fast food restaurants. Then there were the letters. I found one letter in a 1977 Buick Regal, whose roof had been completely torn off and the body was twisted in half.

Woman 2

My love, Joe. Hi. How are you doing? I hope I can get through this hell hole. I love you with all my heart and miss you very, very bad. I got four months, that's 102 days here in jail. Joe, if you love me like you say, will you wait for me, please? Whatever you do, don't leave me. Come see me on Saturday. Visiting hours, 2:00 to 4:00 PM.

I heard you were here to see me, but I never seen you. What happened to you? Well, my love of my life, I won't be here too long. I'm hurt because I never seen you in court with me. Calvin said you was here. I'm trying to get a three-way phone so I can call you. If you can find someone with a three-way phone, please get the phone number and let me know. Well, Joe, this is just a little letter to let you know what's going on. When I get more paper, I'll write you more, longer letters. I love you, Joe, with all my heart. Miss you real bad. Forever your love, Debbie.

Joe, Virginia said you don't want to talk to me so we are through with each other and I am getting abortion. I don't want your baby, so leave me alone. Love, Debbie.

Richard Lyons

I photographed every car I searched and compiled the information in the form of a xeroxed book, transcribing the text exactly as it was written and positioning it next to the photo. I pulled a list from a crushed 1987 Volkswagen Fox entitled, What I Need. Couch, love seat, chair, coffee table, dinner table, TV, radio.

I found a writing assignment by a local community college student in a totalled Chevy van. Apparently, he hadn't learned his lesson. James D., English 122, November 22, 1993. One, a car accident two years ago taught me the dangers of drinking and driving. A car accident, it's bad. Two, Who? Him and his buddies. What? Drove drunk. When? 11:30 PM, Easter eve. Where? Route 11. Why? Young, stupid, high on beer. Three, Yes, he answers all questions. Four, Monte Carlo Super Sport, night before Easter, Route 11. Five, Yes, it all leads up to driving drunk.

I came upon a 1979 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham, whose front end was so mangled that the engine was pushed through the firewall and up into the windshield. In it was another student paper, only this one was probably passed quietly in class.

Woman 3

Natalie baby, so how are you sweets? You look so cute. Say, next time you talk to Marge, tell her I hope she feels better. Why is she so sick? Well, how's your baby? I can tell it's going to be so cute just because you look so cute. Happy 25-week anniversary. Yeah.

So what you been up to? Since you forgot to write me, I wrote you. Cool, huh? Well babe, pretty neat note, huh? Not. I gotta go, but you better write back to me. See ya, Audrey. Tell baby I said hi.

Richard Lyons

I found a letter in a 1978 Toyota Celica Liftback. The car was so badly crushed on the left side that the driver's door took up the entire front seat.

Woman 4

Bill. Hello, how are you? I am OK. A week ago, I got burned on my right hand. We had a grease fire in the kitchen and I received second degree burns on my hand. We were going to make tacos. We left for three seconds and it went up in flames. That's why my writing is not that good. It's really not as bad as it sounds.

I can't remember if I told you, but I had a miscarriage July 8. But it's almost been a month and I'm doing a lot better. I was in the hospital six hours. I thought I had three IRs, but my ex-roommate, Michelle, said I had five. I'm kind of glad I lost it since I wasn't in love with the guy. I told him I was pregnant and he really seemed like he didn't care. That's OK. I didn't love the guy. He was hooked on crack and the baby probably would have come out mental.

Here's a picture off-guard. I don't have any more pimples. And I am not that white. My hair is getting a little longer and better shaped. Well, I'm going to let you go for now. My hand's starting to hurt. Write back, please. I'll enjoy it. After you send the money order, don't write because I'll be on my way. I'll call and let you know as soon as I get it. Love always, Ginger Joy.

Richard Lyons

In about a month's time, I'd collected more than enough documents to complete my book. But the act of gathering them had become an obsession and it was difficult to know when to quit. I finally stopped myself after an eerie discovery in a car that had been demolished beyond recognition. It must have belonged to a member of the church choir, and strangely, it was the only thing in the car-- a single photocopy of a hymn by Dion de Marbelle, "When They Ring The Golden Bells."

"When our days shall know their number, And in death we sweetly slumber, When the King commands the spirit to be free, Never more with anguish laden We shall reach that lovely Aiden, When they ring the golden bells for you and me."

Drive carefully.

Mona Simpson

I steal. I've stolen books and money and even letters. Letters are great. I work in the mail room of my dormitory, Saturday mornings. I sort mail, put the letters in these long narrow cubbyholes. The insides of mailboxes. It's cool there when I stick in my arm.

I've stolen cash-- these crisp, crackling, brand new twenty-dollar bills that fathers and grandmothers send, sealed up in sheets of wax paper. Once I got a fifty. I've stolen presents, too. I got a sweater and a football.

Mostly, what I take are cookies. No evidence. They're edible. I can spot the coffee cans of chocolate chip. You can smell it right through the wrapping. A cool smell, like the inside of a pantry. Sometimes I eat straight through the can during my shift.

Tampering with the United States mail is a Federal Crime, I know. Listen, let me tell you, I know. I got a summons in my mailbox to go to the Employment Office next Wednesday. Sure, I'm scared.

The University cops want to talk to me. Great. They think, suspect is the word they use, that one of us is throwing out mail instead of sorting it. Us is the others. I'm not the only sorter. I just work Saturdays, mail comes, you know, six days a week in this country. They'll never guess it's me.

They say this in the letter, they think it's out of LAZINESS. Wanting to hurry up and get done, not spend the time. But I don't hurry. I'm really patient on Saturday mornings. I leave my dorm early, while Lauren's still asleep, I open the mailroom-- it's this heavy door and I have my own key.

When I get there, two bags are already on the table, sagging, waiting for me. Two old ladies. One's packages, one's mail. There's a small key opens the bank of doors, the little boxes, from the inside. Through the glass part of every mail slot, I can see. The AstroTurf field across the street over the parking lot, it's this light green. I watch the sky go from black to gray to blue, while I'm there. Some days just stay foggy. Those are the best.

Once you open a letter, you can't just put it in the mailbox. The person's going to say something. So I stash them in my pack and throw them out. Just people I know. Susan Brown, I open. Andy Larsen, Larry Helprin. All the popular kids from my high school. These are kids who drove places together, took vacations. They all skied. They went to the prom in one big group. At morning nutrition-- nutrition, it's your break at 10 o'clock for doughnuts and stuff, California state law, you have to have it-- they used to meet outside on the far end of the math patio, all in one group. Some of them smoked. I've seen them look at each other, concerned, at 10:00 in the morning. One touched the inside of another's wrist, like grown-ups in trouble.

And now I know, everything I thought those three years, worst years of my life, turns out to be true. The ones here get letters. Carrie's at Santa Cruz. Lily's in San Diego. Kevin's at Harvard. Beth's at Stanford. And like from families, their letters talk about problems. They're each other's main lives. You always knew looking at them in high school, they weren't just kids who had fun. They cared. They cared about things. They're all worried about Lily now. Larry and Annie are flying down to talk her into staying at school.

I saw Glenn the day I came to Berkeley. I took a walk through campus and I'd been walking for almost an hour. And then I see Glenn coming down on a little hill by the infirmary, riding one of those lawn mowers you sit on, with grass flying out of the side. He's smiling. Not at me, just smiling. Clouds and sky behind his hair. Half of Tamalpais gone in fog. He was wearing this bright orange vest and I thought, fall's coming.

I saw him that night again at our dorm cafeteria. This is the first time I've been in love. I worry. I'm a bad person, but Glenn's the perfect guy. I mean, for me at least. And he thinks he loves me. And I've got to keep him from finding out about me. I'll die before I'll tell him. Glenn. OK, Glenn. He looks like Mick Jagger, but sweet. 10 times sweeter. He looks like he's about 10 years old. His father's a doctor over at UC Med, gynecological surgeon.

First time we got together, a whole bunch of us were in Glenn's room, drinking beer. Glenn and his roommate collect beer cans. They have them stacked up. We're watching TV and finally everybody else leaves. There's nothing on but those gray lines and Glenn turns over on his bed and asks me if I'd rub his back. I couldn't believe this was happening to me. I knew I didn't have to do anything. I just had to stay there. It would happen. I was sitting on his rear end, rubbing his back, going under his shirt with my hands. All of a sudden I was worried about my breath and what I smelled like. Glenn's face was down in the pillow. I tried to sniff myself, but I couldn't tell anything. And it went all right anyway.

I don't open Glenn's letters, but I touch them. I hold them and smell them. None of his mail has any smell. He doesn't get many letters. His parents live across the Bay in Marin County. They don't write. He gets letters from his grandmother in Michigan, plain, even handwriting on regular envelopes, a sticker with her return address printed on it. Rural Route Number 3, Gunn Street. See, I got it memorized.

And he gets letters from Diane. Di, they call her. High school girlfriend. Has a pushy mother, wants her to be a scientist, but she already got a C in Chem 1A. I got an A+, not to brag. He never slept with her, though. She wouldn't. She's still a virgin down in San Diego. With Lily, maybe they even know each other. Glenn and Di were popular kids in their high school, Redwood High. Now I'm one because of Glenn, because I'm his girlfriend. I know that's why. Not because of me. I just know, OK. I'm not going to start fooling myself now. Please.

Her letters, I hold up to the light. They've got fluorescent lights in there. She's supposed to be blonde, you know, and pretty, quiet, the soft type. And the envelopes, she writes on these sheer cream-colored envelopes and they get transparent. And I can see her writing underneath, but not enough to read what it says. It's like those hockey lines painted under layers of ice. I run my tongue along the place where his grandmother sealed the letter. A sharp, sweet gummy taste. Once I cut my tongue.

That's what keeps me going to the bottom of the bag. I'm always wondering if there will be a letter for Glenn. He doesn't get one every week. It's like a treasure, Crackerjack prize. But I'd never open Glenn's mail. I kiss all four corners where his fingers will touch, before I put it in his box.

I brought home cookies for Lauren and me. Just a present. We'll eat them or Glenn will eat them. I'll throw them out, for all I care. They're chocolate chip with pecans. This was one good mother, a lucky can. I brought us coffee, too. I bought it.

Yeah, OK, so I'm in trouble. Wednesday at 10:30 I got this notice I was supposed to appear. I had a class, Chem 1C, pre-med staple, your critical thing. I never missed it before. I told Glenn I had a doctor's appointment. OK, so I skip it anyway. And I walk into this room and there's these two other guys, all work in the mail room, doing what I do, sorting. And we all sit there on chairs, on this green carpet. I was staring at everybody's shoes.

And there's a cop, University cop, I don't know what's the difference. He had this sagging, pear-shaped body, like what my dad would have, if he were fat. But he's not. He's thin. He walks slowly on the carpeting, his fingers hooked in his belt loops. I was watching his hips. Anyway, he's accusing us all. And he's trying to get one of us to admit we did it. No way.

"I hope one of you will come to me and tell the truth. Not a one of you knows anything about this? Come on now."

I shake my head no, and stare down at the three pairs of shoes. He says they're not going to do anything to the person who did it. Right. Want to make a bet? They say they just want to know. But they'll take it back, as soon as you tell them. I don't care why I don't believe him. I know one thing for sure, and that's they're not going to do anything to me, as long as I say no, I didn't do it. That's what I said, no, I didn't do it. I don't know a thing about it. I just can't imagine where those missing packages could have gone, how letters got into garbage cans, awful. I just don't know.

This tall, skinny guy with a blonde mustache, Wallabees, looks kind of like a rabbit, he defended us. He's another sorter. Works Monday, Wednesdays. We all do our jobs, he says. None of us would do that. The rabbity guy looks at me and the other girl for support. So we're gonna stick together. The other girl, a dark blonde, chewing her lip, nodded. I loved that rabbity guy that second. I nodded, too. The cop looked down, wide hips, and the coffee-with-milk-colored pants. He sighed. I looked up at the rabbity guy. They let us all go.

I'm just going to keep saying no, not me, didn't do it. And I just won't do it again, that's all. Won't do it anymore. So this is Glenn's last chance for homemade cookies. I'm sure as hell not going to bake any. I signed the form, said I didn't do it. I'm OK now. I'm safe. It turned out OK after all. It always does. I always think something terrible is going to happen and it doesn't. I'm lucky.

I was walking just a little while ago today, down Telegraph with Glenn. And these two policemen, not the one I'd met, other policemen, were coming in our direction. I started sweating a lot. I was sure, until they passed us. I wish sure it was all over. They were there for me. I always think that. But at the same time, I know it's just my imagination. I mean, I'm a 4.0 student. I'm a nice girl, just walking down the street with my boyfriend.

Lauren Dicosad

Sometimes there will be mice, dead mice, naturally dead mice. Or bugs, they're sending it to somebody and telling them to bug off. And they'll throw in a real bug that used to be live. Things like that. When you're scanning, you just open it. And then you jump, because you don't know what it is. And then you'll dump it out and you'll find it. Dog poop, we hope it's dog poop. Cigarette butts, they'll empty their ashtrays into an envelope and send them to somebody.

Lauren Dicosad

That's in letters. It's amazing. They'll put things in the letters that should never be there. Never, ever should be in a letter, but they'll put it in there. Tape it shut and throw it in the mailbox. And we end up with it.

Ken Grolkey

I came across a Christmas card and it had a bunch of photographs. And one of the photographs, there was a-- I know it was the person that had sent the letter. I could tell because she was showing off her house and her Christmas tree and her presents. And she was standing by the fireplace. And there's a whole bunch of her Christmas letters along the mantle there. So what I did was I took a magnifying glass and me and a friend were able to piece together her address from these five or six different Christmas cards that she had on her mantel piece. And a little bit of eye strain, but we couldn't get her name, but we got her address, her street address and her city and ZIP. Looked up the ZIP. Then we sent back her photographs. She probably never knew how we found that out. But I'm sure she got her photographs back.

Greg Hawthorne

We have a-- it's called the Mail Recovery Manual. And I think it's 106. And all the regulations are in there. And we've had the same regulations for years and years and years. So somebody, somewhere down the road came up with these. And that's what we go by.

Greg Hawthorne

When we receive 150,000 letters a day, we don't have time to sit and read everything. So personal letters are basically shredded.

Anne Zeemer

There are policies on what our limits are. But we make our own exceptions. If we see a piece of foreign mail, for instance, that looks important, a wedding invitation that would still be able to be returned in time, something like that, policy says no, don't return it. But probably, in my judgment anyway, I would return it. And most of those other girls feel the same way, too.

Betty Jones

What is important to one human being is maybe not important to another, but these people that are sending--

Betty Jones

And I'll give an example. And this is something that I do, which probably not a lot of people do. For example, people send little angels through the mail. And it's a real positive thing that they're saying to someone who is in real bad-- having a really bad life or they're very depressed or they're on the verge of suicide. And you kind of scan it and see that there wasn't maybe enough postage on it, there wasn't enough whatever. I send it forward to the person that they're trying to send it to.

And it may seem unimportant to someone else. And perhaps the postal service wouldn't think it was maybe important, but I feel it is. And I feel it's within our realm to make that judgment.

Betty Jones

You see a lot that's going on, just like you see in the news. And you think oh, I see that in the news. I see that at work all the time. This goes on or that goes on. These people's lives change. And we see it in the letters that we have to scan.

Betty Jones

It bothers me to see a lot of people that are in so much pain and problems and they're sending these sad letters to someone and it doesn't get to them. I've seen a couple letters that were like long lost loves, trying to contact each other. And it was sad when you couldn't find an address to send it on to or back to.

And then there are people in the world that are very needy. They have very little in their life. And you feel like you wish you could reach out and take all the names of all these people, which we're not allowed to do, and write down the names and addresses and go out and try to help them out. Just take up a collection for them or something.

Betty Jones

Someone telling someone, it's over, I don't care for you anymore-- or gee, so-and-so died, or so-and-so got killed last year, or your daughter is dying of cancer. People writing-- oh, they'll have maybe a birth certificate or something inside. And they're writing to someone, here's your daughter's birth certificate. You can take care of the kids. I'm leaving. Or people breaking engagements--

Jerry Jacobson

On the machine that we worked at, they would call them LSMs or MPLSMs, multi-position letter sorting machine. There's actually like 12 consoles. And it would take a crew of about 18 people to run it or operate it.

People would be sitting at all 12 consoles. We had a couple of people that were loading. And then people that were on the back side of the machine that would sweep the mail. We had to learn to see a letter that was on the machine, on the console. And it would drop the mail into a slot, basically right in front of us, one at a time. And it would stop in front of us. We had 4/10 of a second to look at the mail, read the ZIP code or the address, decide where it was to go, and then the mail would take off. And as it was going into the machine, we had 6/10 of a second to key a series of buttons as far as a code or sequence for it. And then that was, of course, computerized. So it would go into the machine and the machine would drop it in a specific bin on the back side.

Betty Jones

They're in Washington. And they're far away from this facility. Some of them have never worked on a workroom floor. These people that are in charge of-- the Postmaster General, I don't believe, has ever been a postal employee. So they don't have any concept of what goes on in the system. The sad part is even if those people came here physically, they just-- I hate to say it, my opinion-- I don't think they would care. And that is sad for the customer and it's sad for the employee, because you take pride in your work and you want to do what's right for the customer. And these people are making decisions that are so illogical.

Phil Milstein

Here is one of my very favorites, a typed shopping list. And best yet, they have cheese twice in a row. They really want cheese-- garbage bags, beans, cheese, cheese, lysol, rug cleaner, sponge, and bread.

Phil Milstein

But they don't capitalize anything. So maybe they just were too lazy to hit the caps lock key on there. It's a manual typewriter, you'll notice. And so I can forgive them, not bothering with the caps-- those caps locks are heavy on those manuals.

Phil Milstein

There is an element of strangeness that this reveals. I think that you're really getting down into a person's real inner psyche when they draw up a shopping list. I mean there's something very raw about the way people write these things. And that's part of what I'm after.

Phil Milstein

Some of them really do kind of reveal a person's subconscious, because when you're just testing the marker you're not really thinking about what you're writing. And so perhaps some truth might emerge that you're not really in control of. This person made some nice drawings of pirates or something using different colored pens and some markers. They're very colorful. And I think they're really pretty just to look at. This person drew a lot of music notes.

Phil Milstein

I'm not sure that I do look at real art. I mean, I'm a sucker for these clashing, garish colors. Like hypnotizing a chicken, it's just not that hard to get art that appeals to me. Just put a lot of nice colors in and I'll be there.

Phil Milstein

I think what interests me-- and this is almost in direct contrast to classical literature and art that you refer to-- I enjoy the snapshot of a moment of an average person's real life. I find it more interesting and more revealing than classical art or self-conscious art, art created as art. It's hard. You have to really think. And I just find the average person's work more interesting. Maybe it's a matter of, as a person of limited ability myself, I relate to that more.

Phil Milstein

It's intimidating. I can't relate to it. It's beyond my abilities. And it makes me-- because deep down I want to be able to do great things, but I've never really been able to. So there is an unfulfilled desire that I'm forced to confront every time I see something great. In myself I just say, wow, that's above anything I could ever do. And it makes me realize all over again my own ordinariness.

Phil Milstein

Yeah. But a lot of that comes from the period of my life where I was striving for that myself. And much of the more recent acquisitions is from the period in my life where I resigned myself to never being great, and switched my interests instead to documenting the abilities of everyday people.

[MUSIC - "ELVIS" BY PAULINE D. WASSILCHAK]

Phil Milstein

Ethically, this makes me scum. She certainly comes across as vapid. And inane as she comes across-- ethically, morally, she's clearly superior. She's trying hard to be a decent person. And you get that sense through her letters. And I, in a sense, am a total scumbag for picking apart her private life and making fun of it.

Phil Milstein

Every time I go into the office supply store, I look at the shredders. And when they get cheap enough, I probably will get one because I do have personal things that I throw out. And I hope no one ever does to me what I do to them.

Woman 4

I don't have any more pimples. And I am not that white.