Currently Listening Shaken by a Low Sound By Crooked Still see related

Since Abby and I moved into our apartment nearly a year ago, it has almost felt like there were three of us. There is always some evidence of the third tenant lying around, normally in the recycling pile. His name is Jay.

Jay does not forward his mail.

Jay also has not changed his address with companies who may be trying to reach him, companies whom he may also have worked for. He doesn't get his magazines. He will miss his next dentist appointment. His investments may be flourishing or floundering, but he doesn't know. He will not be able to transfer his balances at 0% interest. Instead, his mail keeps filling our mail bin. There are some days when we check the mail only for Jay. It's true that Jay has more friends than the Schindlers, and judging by his mail, it's easy to see why.

Jay is what you'd call a man's man (or, in the Christian subculture, "wild at heart"). Or he at least wants to be. Jay, if he exists, is almost a self-parody, exhibiting the qualities of the stereotype to such a degree that you wonder if his life is genuine. He receives muscle magazines and motorcycle magazines. Hunting magazines also started making an appearance, as did water sports magazines. Today he received a cigar magazine, one that arrives with less frequency than his other hobby manifestations. We get a picture of Jay, the Harley handler, the Deerslayer, the jack of all trades who is everything to everyone. It almost makes us look cooler because of our association, albeit in mail only, with Jay.

I wonder what people would say about me if they saw the kind of mail I receive. Then again, I always remember to have it forwarded.