Oh, Mister Mailman...

One of these days, I'm gonna bite off that fool mailman's head and serve it to him on a cracked china plate.

My name is Dani, with an I at the end, Sciulla, with the first three letters spoken like a librarian's 'shh', and I live in building 12, unit 3. I am not, repeat, most emphatically not Dana-with-an-A Scully-like-Vin in building 3, unit 12.

And I am getting really totally sick of finding her mail in my box.

Usually, I just stick it on top of the box in the mailroom for the postman or whoever to find. But this time, the envelope was stuck between the bills and magazines, and I didn't find it 'till I was back at my apartment. And I was not about to go out in the icy winter rain and put it back.

Real interesting looking envelope, too. Beige, with a sort of lacy watermark on the envelope -- the type they include with really fancy, expensive greeting cards. The address done in a sloppy scrawl -- well, at least the dumbass mailman has an excuse for getting it wrong. Maybe it's her birthday or something.

Well, y'know, it's raining cats and dogs and lizards outside, and Miz Dana-with-an-A Scully can just wait a day or two for her birthday card.

I don't even know her, but already I don't like her. I have trouble just paying my rent, but Dana-with-an-A gets catalogues from highfalutin' stores, and bills for her Amex Gold Card. Bet she never slaved away at Denny's for a double-shift and came home to ramen noodles and warm beer. Bet she never had to decide whether she wanted to live without cable tv or telephone service. Yuppie bitch.

Nobody sends me birthday cards, not even the ninety-nine- cent Hallmark special. And look, someone went to the trouble of buying Miz Dana a card from the expensive end of the rack...

Screw her. I'm not going out in the rain for this.

Hunh. You know, I forgot all about this.

When was it, two weeks ago? I woulda taken it back to the mailroom, but I just forgot -- and here it is, underneath the pile of papers I've been meaning to sort through.

Miz Dana-with-an-A's birthday card.

Hunh. Wonder who sent it.

It's over two -- no, three -- weeks old now. I bet whoever sent it already called her to say, did you get my card? and she already told 'em, no I didn't, and the whole thing's forgotten. And y'know, maybe whoever-it-is sent her money. Cash, like when I was a little kid, and Aunt Emma used to send me five-dollar-bills for my birthday.

They disconnected my phone today for non-payment, and my cupboard is so bare that there are cobwebs forming inside, and I don't even have the money for ramen noodles.

If there is cash inside, Miz Highfalutin' Yuppie Bitch ain't gonna miss it... and I'm hungry.

For all anyone knows, it got lost in the mail. Nobody'll ever know if I open it.

Hunh.

It's not a birthday card.

Fancy card, lacy pattern, shimmery gold trim. And a long note written in a careful, neat handwriting on the inside.

Let's take a look at Miz Dana's secret life, shall we? ...Sure, why not.

Scully. It's addressed to Dear Scully. Who the hell sends a card like this, and uses the last name? Weeeeeird.

Oh, jeez. Do women ever really fall for bullshit lines like this? 'I've loved you for years, but never had the courage to let you know...' --what bad romance novel was this copied from, anyway? 'But I can't hide my feelings from myself or from you any longer.' Gawd, whatta load of crap.

'If you feel the same way, please -- let me know. And if you don't, if I've somehow misread all the signals... I'd appreciate it if you'd pretend you never got this letter. It's easier that way, for both of us. Yours always, Mulder.'

Well, well, well.

Y'know, no one ever sent me a love letter. The closest I ever got was when Frankie wrote 'love' before his name on the refrigerator note that told me to buy him more beer. Bastard couldn't even pay his half of the rent before he ran off with that teenage slut from Fort Lauderdale. I hope he catches something really nasty.

So what if Miz Dana never knows she has a secret admirer? Bet she has a ton of 'em, with that expensive wardrobe she can afford to buy. Not like me, mending patches on patches on my last pair of jeans. She's got it easy, that bitch.

And any guy who uses that sort of crappy romance bullshit for a come-on line... she's better off without him. Besides, I can't put it back in the mailroom now, not after I opened it.

Screw her, the little yuppie bitch.

Okay, now I'm pissed.

One thing for Dickhead Mailman to misread scrawled handwriting. Another thing completely for him to screw up a preprinted return address.

Miz Yuppie Bitch can afford printed stationery on expensive paper, I see. I can't afford to pay my power bill -- lucky me, the weather's getting warmer, so I can live without heat -- but Dana-with-an-A can squander her money on writing paper. She won't even care that she wasted an envelope on a letter that got returned for sender for lack of a forwarding address. She won't mind that she wasted thirty-two cents on a stamp that got canceled for nothing. She's got an Amex Gold Card; what does she care?

Oh, look, it's a letter to her secret admirer.

This I have got to read.

'Dear Mulder.' Well, at least he's not the only one with the last name habit. 'I'm writing this in the hopes that you've left a forwarding address...' Think again, babe; he's gone.

'I don't understand how you could leave me this way.' Oh, she doesn't, does she? Wise up, woman: that's what men do. They make you think they're here to stay, they make you think it's forever, and just when you're starting to feel secure and happy, they ditch you for something with a better-lookin' ass.

Just like Frankie did, the bastard.

Obviously, she's never been ditched before; look, she's being all sweet and reasonable and understanding. 'Whatever is wrong, I wish you would share it with me...' '...we've become so close over the years...' Close? You didn't even know he was in love with you, bitch.

Oh, this is the kicker. 'I don't understand why you felt you needed to leave, without saying goodbye...' Because that's what men DO.

Jeez, someone needs to give this woman a lesson in the realities of life.

Looks like I really did do her a favor. Even if she is a yuppie bitch, nobody needs a loser like this in their life.

Unless...

Nah, that's nuts. No sane person would leave their home and their apartment over a bad case of unrequited love. No way. He probably ran off with some bimbo. Yeah, that's what happened.

An' it wouldn't have made a bit of difference if Miss Thing had gotten his love note. No difference at all.

'If this letter finds you, wherever you are... know that my thoughts, and my love, are with you always.'

What a load of sappy bullshit.

I put a note inside my box: "Sciulla NOT SCULLY!" and it hasn't made a bit of difference. Stupid shithead mailman's still leaving me her mail.

It's a postcard this time. Nice sunny beach. Florida, maybe, where Dickhead Frankie's off boffing his bimbo. I hope he chokes on a margarita.

And look, it's from Mister Secret Admirer.

'I thought I could escape how I feel, but I can't, and distance only makes it worse. I can't stop missing you, can't stop needing you... can't stop loving you, no matter how hard I try. I can't live without you, and I can't stand being around you, knowing that you don't feel the way I do... I can only hope that you've somehow changed your mind. That somehow, you've lost all rationality and common sense, and decided that you do love me, after all.'

Signed Mulder, with an address.

A Florida address.

Florida. Maybe he's hanging out with Frankie. Frankie and his teenage bimbo, with the big tits and the skinny ass and the gold ring through her navel. Maybe they're drinking margaritas together on the beach.

And dammit, why should I care? Why the hell should I care about the love life of some yuppie bitch with a silver spoon in her mouth? If I don't pay the rent this month, I'm gonna get evicted, and this Mulder guy has enough cash to go running off to some sunny beach just to escape a broken heart? Life's not fair, not for anyone; why should I care?

Screw him. Screw them both. I have problems of my own.

All right, all right, I'm coming. Just lemme throw on my robe -- I was in the shower, dammit! and once I get evicted, showers are gonna be few and far between...

Who the hell...?

Oh, so YOU'RE Dana Scully? Funny, I always pictured you as some tall blonde aristocratic bitch. Weird. You look almost human.

"The postman put this in my box by mistake," she says, and hands me an envelope.

Wise up, bitch; he's been doing it for a long, long time now. Hunh, what's this? Looks official. The eviction notice, probably.

Yep, a lawyer's stationery inside... oh. Oh. Poor Aunt Emma. I didn't even know... of course, my family never bothers to tell me anything. Then again, my phone's been disconnected for a long time, now...

What's this about an estate?

Hey, this looks like a check.

Oh. My. God.

I have never seen so many zeros in my life... I can pay the rent. I can pay all my bills and have money left over! I can eat...

Because DANA SCULLY BROUGHT ME MY MAIL.

Right away, even.

Shit.

She nods at me, and turns to leave.

"Wait a minute," I hear myself saying. "I have something of yours."

And I bring them to her, all three of them.

I begin stammering some ridiculous explanation, about opening the envelopes by mistake, but she isn't even listening. She's reading the greeting card, her eyes widening as they take in the words, tears beginning to form. She barely even glances at the return-to-sender... then she gets to the postcard, and the tears spill over and begin to stream down her face.

"Thank you," she whispers -- reaches out and hugs me, swift and hard. "Thank you..." and then she is running, high heels over gravel without stumbling, running like her life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

I shut and lock the door, and go racing toward the bedroom, to throw on clothes and grab my ID and my checkbook. The bank won't cash a check this large, but if I show it to the apartment manager, maybe she'll hold off on the eviction proceedings just long enough...

Jeez, and here I'd thought the mailman had finally gotten a clue. It's been so long since I've gotten any of Miz Dana's mail...

Takes me a moment to realize it's hers -- I get my own Amex bill now. Yeah, and a phone bill, and a cable bill, and I can pay 'em all. I don't have to pay the rent anymore, though; or at least, not all of it -- Joey covers more than half of it. And most of the grocery bill.

And he pays for his own beer, too.

An Amex bill... they want their money on time. Guess I'd better truck it back to the mailroom. Ah, hell with it; maybe I'll just walk across the complex and give it to her in person. It's a nice sunny autumn day, and... and I owe her that much, at least.

Something strange about the envelope, though...

Hunh. Whaddaya know. Well, that explains the mail situation, I guess. Kinda hard to mistake those last names for each other, innit?

Now I have to go knock on her door. After all that's happened, I just gotta see what this guy looks like...

I pick up my house keys, and head out to bring "Mrs. Scully-Mulder" her mail.

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