Postcards Short from Sundance Collab // Writer's Café
“Another day” thought Alexander, cranking open a can of lager. He sat on the set of stairs leading to his apartment on a second floor of a two-story building. The sun was just setting over the horizon, he could barely make it out behind the multitude of buildings. A low hum of city slum life and his neighbours fighting downstairs - someone trying to sell or settle something - he was only half listening. A child started crying, and a dog barked in rebellion. His mind settled on the dog. There was something primal and relatable to it. He could hear the barking over everything else, louder and louder, his thoughts only partially actually there. An emptiness washed over his eyes. He searched frantically but couldnt find anything. What is the point of this bleak existence? Every day is exactly the same. “Would anyone even notice…” He blinked himself back to the present, getting up with a small grocery bag. Inside of his apartment the light of the tv dominated the room. Passing images that also didnt matter. Alexander boiled a cattle and watched the steam rise over his noodles. He mixed the contents and walked over to the tv. He sat there in the low hum of the news, finishing off his beer, but his gaze was elsewhere again. He went through the motions of the rest of his day, same as every day. Clean up, take the garbage out, set his clothes for tomorrow, brush teeth - all in robotic precision of practiced, almost military, discipline. He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom for a while, emotionless, listening to domestics of his neighbours - a daily lullaby.
The next morning was the same as the others, Alexander did his routine diligently and walked out the door to head to the office of the law firm he worked at in town. He almost didnt notice it at first, in a cacophony of morning rush and half-interested nods. There was a letter sticking out of his mailbox. He never received any. Alexander pulled out the envelope and briefly scanned over the sender address with no name. His name was clearly written on the front. He ripped it open.
A postcard with scenery from the city he lived in, he recognised the mountain hills. It was beautiful in a way he never noticed before, but only because it was exaggerated for tourists, he thought. The card read: “I thought today is a good day to start. I’ve never seen this city, but the picture inspired me to go to the green cafe I keep seeing on the way to work. I like an americano with two cups of milk on the side. The smell of coffee appeals to me but I don’t like the bitter aftertaste. The article I wrote today was about the quality of that shitty lager I had the other night. Disgrace. This country is supposed to know how to make a decent lager, at least. I think I shall come back to this cafe again tomorrow.” Alexander frowned at the writing, there was something vaguely familiar to it, but who the hell writes a postcard like this? Maybe it was meant for someone else? No, the address and the name are his… He didnt recognise the sender’s address but he didnt think much on it, tossing the envelope into his shoulder bag.
As the day went on and Alexander got on with the usual procedures - complains about property lines, unpaid or underpaid services, taxations and the like - he found himself dissociating again. Everything was always about money or processions. He joined the profession what seemed like a lifetime ago, even though he was only in his forties. He thought what better way is there to fight injustice than by playing the very game that cemented it. If he knew all the ins and outs of the laws, he could outsmart them, find a loophole, bend the system just enough not to get bent over by it himself. Yet the more time went by, the more bend over he felt. The more he knew the more it felt like there is nothing he can do, no way around the rules. The more he searched, the tighter his hands were tied. More disappointed faces staring back at him and another “I’m sorry, there is nothing else we can do” and the almost-sickening, unbeatable hopefulness and pleading in their eyes. His fingers ran over an envelope in the bag. He read the words again. It still didnt make sense. He frowned, typing in the name of the town in the sender line into google search. Error. What? How can the city not be on the map? A small village perhaps, around the town? The postal code points to somewhere in the city, but not the town written on the envelope. He worked with an old man recently who seemed to forget things, like the names of his children and how many he had, or even where he lived sometimes. Maybe he meant to send this to someone. Alexanders eyes fell on the paperwork on his desk he was filling out earlier, then back to the postcard. A slight tinge of fear ran through him and more confusion. The handwriting was unmistakably identical to his, same tilts and dots. He jolted from his chair. Then picked up the postcard and the rest of the desks contents with the shoulder bag and shoved them to the side and thought nothing of it for the rest of the day.
He sat on the steps again, his lager half drunk, the same dog protesting the ruckus yet nobody paying it any mind. “I dont even like this brand, why do I drink it…” he thought, “Oh, right… I cant fucking afford the once I actually want.” Another robotic evening, noodles, tv, ironing the clothes, shower, brushing teeth and the lullaby of noise from every wall. He had almost forgotten about the postcard, yet he felt a strange pang of curiosity run through him as he noticed a corner of paper sticking out of his mailbox again the next morning. No name again. It was a picture of a sunset.
“Oliver used to be such a little thing, now his paws dig into my belly when he jumps on me while I read my books and it surprises me how heavy he feels every time. I got my Americano again at the green cafe. A different woman was serving it today, she had blue eyes and charming dimples in her smile. The editor liked my story about the shitty lager. So I will write about the price of beer, which is ridiculous. I am one of the lucky ones, but I imagine the average salary can hardly sustain a steady stream of anything decent. Oh, my friend Alice called, she wants to go up north on Sunday, the cherries are in bloom. They serve raindrop cake here, by the way. Have you heard of such a thing? I like the toppings.”
“What nonsense”, thought Alexander. “What is a raindrop cake?” He asked his neighbour, an elderly woman who always sat in front of her door like a statue. He usually tried to avoid her in the morning, even waited by the door a few times for her to go inside, but mostly she was always there. “Eh?” She shrugged in response.
“Who drinks an americano with two glasses of milk on the side”, he found himself mumbling on the way to work, “just get a different drink, with milk in it. Or dont drink coffee if you dont like the bitterness. Ridiculous old man…”
That very day the old man came over to talk about his case again.
“Are you pranking me?” Alexander found himself saying at the end of the appointment.
“It’s just the postcards… it’s just like my handwriting.”
“Postcards, what postcards?”
Before he locked up, Alexander found himself looking at the name of the city again. Nothing on the map. There is no city with that name, but there is a postcode. And a bus going that way in 15 minutes. He gathered his belongings and found himself on that bus, and shortly, at the location. To his surprise, he saw a small cafe with green exterior in front of him. Only a small table on each side of the entrance. He walked through the glass doors with eerie caution. There was an old woman at the counter.
“A new face? What can I get you?”
Alexander looked around the interior, searching for… someone, but no one in particular caught his attention. There were only a few people inside, space for maybe ten people in total, even that would make it insufferably crowded. There was a woman with a child, a teenager with a dog in his lap, and an older couple on the other side.
“Eh… an Americano” he founds himself saying,”with two milks on the side. Please.”
His eyes fell to the display of cakes and pastries. There it was, to his surprise, a transparent bubble slightly shimmering in the setting sun.
“Oh, raindrop cake. You can add the topping you like, we have three.”
“What do people get with it?”
“Cookie crumbs, usually. But we have coconut if you like it less sweet.”
“Cookie crumbs are fine.”
Alexander walked over to the seat by the window. You could see the sun from here, and it slightly blinded him, but felt warm on his face. He liked the cake, and surprisingly the bitterness of coffee was pleasantly washed away by the milk. He kind of liked the idea of tasting the bitterness, but also the fact that it didnt have to linger. A perfect life philosophy. He waited, what for exactly he couldnt tell. As the shop was closing, he turned to apologise for staying too long and thank the woman and noticed something. She had blue eyes.
“Don’t apologise”,-she said with a smile, “you know, my husband was the only other person who drank his coffee that way. He always said he didnt like the taste lingering in his mouth, so the milk helped wash it down. I didn’t understand it, but I loved watching him write and drink it. He sat at the same table. He died a few years ago, my lovely Alexander. But not a day goes by I dont still think about him. Thank you, for reminding me of him.” She squeezed his hands gently and walked away.
Alexander found himself saying nothing in return, he stood there, lost for words, for a long while. And then he decided - he wanted to go North tomorrow, to see the cherry blooms.
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