‘It is likely by design that the ‘The Postcard Depot’ was built near the geographic center of the contiguous United States and, that, in violation of some soft traveler’s code, it stocks a library of postcards from across the country, available for a quarter each (or five for a dollar) and in seemingly infinite quantity. Among Wayside destinations, ‘The Postcard Depot’ stands out as both cleaner and more strictly organized than most. It is broken into sections by state and then alphabetically, by county, with clear tabs to indicate the popular landmarks one might be pretending to visit.
Conspicuously separate from the others are those that state, in one form or another, ‘Wish You Were Here.’ These are kept in a glass case, available at $250 a piece (or five for $1000), with no indication as to why they might be worth more. They are stiff and new, with crisp white borders and razor-sharp edges. These postcards take the ink of a pen as though thirsty for it.
Those in the know would have you believe that the cards do exactly what they suggest, which is to say that they compel the receiver to the advertised location. The cards are wishes in one form, fickle occult contracts in another- they must be sent through USPS- hand delivery will not do- and there are no guarantees as to when the receiver will heed the call. The only guarantee is that the card will sit with them, a window that overlooks a place far away, and nag until they finally crawl through it.’
By the time I understand the consequences of reading the card, it’s too late. The woman has realized I could outrun her indefinitely and now she’s cornered me with an over-priced souvenir. I should have guessed the moment a mail-carrier arrived at my tent in a dusty cornfield in the middle of the night. I should have guessed the moment I saw my full name written across the back, pressed into the cardstock so that I can feel the indention of it on the other side.
The woman compels me to Yellowstone and I turn myself toward it, somewhat relieved to have her in front of me now, rather than behind.
-traveler
