Rachelle and I live in a building on Queen Street East that’s over 100 years old. It used to be a hotel, but is now home to four apartments, one of which is ours. For whatever reason, the landlord has been unable to arrange any sort of mailbox system for his tenants, and so our mail is pushed through a slot at the base of the door leading from the street up to the apartments.
And so our mail, gummy with finger and footprints, is daily sorted by the tenants of the building. We take our stuff, and leave the rest piled as neatly as possible, on a step for the rest to discover.
The one thing that this system does is give me the opportunity to catch glimpses– through the form of unclaimed mail still delivered to the building– of some of the past lives that dwelt in our building.
I introduce you to a few of these ghosts.
Greg Latham—his most recent piece of mail came from the Ministry of Community and Social Services.
I imagine him bearded and wearing a baseball hat. He would have moved quickly down the stairs, avoiding eye contact. With an implicit hostility built into him, he’d burst out onto the street, ready for a fight, his cigarette already lit.
Crystal Maurice—her most recent piece of mail came from Shoppers Optimum.
She missed home, Thunder Bay, but was feeling optimistic about the future, as the people at work seemed to like her and her last date on eHarmony went pretty well.
John Wayne Trylowsky—his last piece of mail came from the CIBC.
Nicknamed, “The Duke,” he loved playing pick-up hockey at Jimmy Simpson Park, thinking of himself as a kind of mentor to the young kids who skated there. For Christmas, his girlfriend knitted him a sweater with a crown on the front, the words “The Duke” written beneath.
Daniel Orchid—his most recent piece of mail came from Bell.
Daniel hated his office job and wore sweaters that were given to him as gifts 15 or 20 years ago. Twice a week he would go to Jilly’s, the strip club on the corner. Quietly he would get drunk, hoping the strippers thought he was different, unlike the rest of the vulgar customers.
Mr. Wang Flynn—his most recent mail came from an Air Miles Club.
Wang kept the company of two cats named Hall and Oates, loved to cook and was embarrassed by his love of miniature trains, always hiding them in a back room when a guest came over. He had been divorced three times.
Shelagh Galbavy—her last letter came from a person who lived in Scotland, not an institution, and it was decorated with stickers.
Shelagh was in love, moving from her apartment in Toronto back to Scotland, to be with the man who had always made her laugh, ever since they were just children in elementary school.