Mail carrier links two universes
Buford Pusser is in a whole
mess o’ trouble.
Columbia House Record
Club, the scourge of college students
everywhere, is coming down on my
roommate Buford, along with his
friends Jack Crow and Tuhg Maikok.
I ’ m not sure how Columbia isgoing to
collect, because none of these people
exist in what we think of as “reality.”
But then, reality is so fleeting, after
all. One minute, everything seems so
simple—but then the next, you can’t
understand anybieth aisd ligkc
aiei9vn.
You see, although I live with
Pusser, Crow and Maikok according
to official Columbia House records,
I’ve never actually seen any of them.
But they always order more and more
CDs and tapes — coincidentally, the
ones my roommates and I like to listen
to.
So when Buford was turned in to a
collection agency, I was upset, and,
yes, full of sexual anxiety. What is my
role in this society, I wondered. Then
I went for a long walk, like the one
Ringo goes on in “A Hard Day’s
Night.”
Unfortunately for Columbia
House, Buford is never going to pay
up on his debt, because as a non
person, he cannot hold a job or open a
checking account or even buy a money
order.
He can’t even keep me warm at
night like my moochmatc Gabc docs
oh-so-well.
However, Buford can and has
joined a dating service. A lady from
Dcs Moines called just the other day,
inquiring about Mr. Pusser, who, ac
cording to the information we sent in,
is a UN L professor. He holds a doctor
ate and makes all kinds of money, but
he is nervous about the budget cuts.
,,, “He’s out of town for a few days,”
my commune-mate Greg told the lady.
I hope she finds a soul mate in life.
They say there’s someone for every
one, but in her case, someone is a no
one.
My grand theory is
that all of these
people — the mail
people and the
Columbia House
members — exist
in another plane,
slightly out of
phase with our
own.
Another set of no ones at the Isle
Broddick arc the mysterious entities
who receive more mail than we do.
John Schofield tops the list. All sorts
of interesting mail shows up at our
door for John, who evidently left no
forwarding address. Not that we open
his mail or anything. That would be
wrong.
Kevin Howell, Rick Somebody,
Resident Aland Khiev Bun Chum arc
just a few of the apparently former
renters of the House of Old Man Bill.
Many are the times I have pondered
about where these people arc now.
Perhaps they arc all together, renting
a house somewhere else, with
Schofield as the ringleader.
“Resident, Khiev, go buy some
groceries!” Schofield yells. “And
where is all my mail! Damn it, Rick,
get a move on.”
My grand theory is that all of these
people — the mail people and the
Columbia House members—exist in
another plane, slightly out of phase
with oiir own. They actually do live in
our commune, but not in the same
universe as my Islematcs and me.
Occasionally, the most powerful
force in the two universes, the U.S.
Postal Service, is able to “bend” space
—in a sense, “curving” our existence
—and link momentarily our universe
with the Schofield Realm INSIDE
OUR MAILBOX.
This temporary “sharing” of
continuums happens every day —
except Sundays, of course—at around
two in the afternoon, when our post
man activates the gate regardless of
rain, sleet or snow. I have, on occa
sion, heard a strange crackling and a
brief-but-intense flash of light when
the postman drops mail in the box.
Greg usually brings in the mail. I
asked him if he had ever seen any
evidence — residue, anti-matter or
whatever — of my theoretical gate.
“There’s some kind of weird rock
and dust at the bottom of our mail
box,” he said. But he added that he
could not say if the dust was from our
universe or not.
I wanted to travel back through the
gate to try to meet Buford or John, but
my mailbox was too small for me tofit
in.
So I suppose that until the day
when we discover the secrets of the
strange powers commanded by the
U.S. Postal Service, my ethereal
friends will simply exist in nonexist
ence, trapped between hither and
lilhcr, louging in a netherworld of
which we cannot even conceive.
Our puny minds might strive to
comprehend how a being can be and
not be at once, how Buford can belong
to a record club in our universe, or
why people listen to Rush Limbaugh.
But these things arc not for us mortals
to know.
Bam., r, r
Phelps is a junior news-editorial major,
the Daily Nebraskan managing editor and a
columnist.
-—1_I
_j?yr‘ " : r :" - ■v
Home better place to face phlegm
1 should have jusi moved out the
first time she sniffled. It never
fails. Whenever my roommate
catches anything, be it virus, bug or
disabling tropical disease, I always
catch it.
This time she caught it — a nasty
cold — from her boyfriend. Figures.
I was so careful. I washed my
hands promptly each time I talked to
her, and I opened the door to our room
with a paper towel.
But I just wasn’t careful enough.
I know the exact moment I lost the
battle. Last Thursday at 11:02. The
phone rang, and my roommate an
swered it. “Just a minute,” she said
with a tremendous hack, “I’ll gel her.”
I look the phone from her outstretched
hand and held the wet receiver to my
mouth.
That was it. The beginning of the
end. Here I sit, a week later — a
living, barely breathing mucus ma
chine.
I’ve shifted into sick mode.
I’m dropping vitamin C like acid
and drinking my Triaminic straight
from the bottle I carry with me every
where in a brown paper sack.
Actually, Triaminic is always a
bright spot in my sick experience. As
a college student I rarely enjoy good,
thick, can’t-wakc-thc-dcad sleep. I
appreciate just about anything that
makes me sleepy, especially if it’s
catatonic cherry-flavored.
I’ve never understood those com
mercials for cold medicine that doesn’t
induce drowsiness. Who would buy
that? Apparently just high-rise con
struction workers.
I understand that 200 stories up is
no place to lake a nap; but I live on the
third flow, so who cares? I’m sick.
Why would I want to be awake?
Unfortunately, cold medicine al
ways seems to make me pleasantly
dazed all day, and then abruptly slops
It wouldn’t be so
bad if I were still
at home. I could
sit on our couch,
swaddled in
afghans, and
watch Fat Albert
reruns until I felt
better.
working when I’m ready to go to bed.
So I lie there for hours shifting
sides and feeling the sludge in my
head heeding gravity’s call, filling
one nostril and then the other.
About 3 a.m., I can't lake it any
more. but I’m loo confused and achy
to find a K Iccncx. In a stale of drugged
incplncss, panic and shame, I blow
my nose in an obscure section of my
pillowcase, hoping I won’t find that
spot again before I wake.
And, my glands! At least I think
that’s what’s swollen and sore be
neath my chin, making me resemble
Theodore Chipmunk.
It wouldn’t be so bad if I were still
at home. I could sit on our couch,
swaddled in afghans, and watch Fat
Albert reruns until I felt better. My
mom might even buy me a fresh col
oring book to help pass the lime.
And then when I got belter, I could
lie around for two or three days just
pretending to still be sick and inhaling
popsiclcs.
But now when I get sick, what do
I do? Take drugs and hope I don’t die
until AFTER I turn in my economics
paper.
Now I have to take finals? I don’t
think so. I’m tired. I’m phlegmy. I’m
burned out. Get away from me with
your number-two pencils and Scan
Trons. I’m not having any this semes
ter, thank you very much.
Slay back — I’ll cough on you.
I should be able to just slay in bed
for the next week, and bring a note to
my professors from my indulgent
mother. “Please excuse Rainbow
Rowell from her finals. She didn’t
feel good.”
I just want to go home. I miss my
mom. I miss Omaha, my hometown.
If I have to be sick, I want to be sick
in a city with at least two or three
people who don’t own Birkcnslocks.
I may be loo sick to drive, but I want
to know I’m in city with a legitimate
freeway and gas stations with free car
washes. I want to know I’m in a city,
even a small one.
I want to go to my doctor. I want to
sleep in my bed. I want to throw all my
snotty Kleenexes op my floor, and I
don't want to pick them up until I feel
better.
With my raspy, nowjuitc-Bonnic
Raitl voice, I try to sing myself to
sleep with the Omaha song.
Omaha, Omaha, finest place you
ever saw. Come along, join the throng,
because you simply can’t go wrong.
(They say it’s great in ...) Omaha,
Omaha, boost your hometown all day
long. And at night when you lie sleep
ing, dream of Omaha.
Rainbow Rowell is a junior news-edito
rial, advertising and English major and a
Daily Nebraskan columnist
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