Most Wanted

By Paul Juhasz

As I stand in a long line waiting to mail a package to my sons, I find myself wandering back in my mind, in time, to the drab periwinkle post offices of my youth, and to those faces on the wall. Not just “wanted,” but “most wanted.” The worst men, the worst crimes. Their black and white scowls a promise (“See you in your nightmares, kid”). The world now vast and fulsome with evil.

I’m older now, and supposedly wiser. I do adult things like go to post offices. And I wonder. A lot. It helps with things like long lines, mundane errands, and regret. I wonder, for example, about our collective need to make lists. Football Top 25s, Top Movies You Need to See Before You Die, Top 5 Signs You May Have Heart Disease, or Be a Pirate. I wonder about a compulsive need to rank so great even the FBI had to get in on it, then share their list in post offices, of all places. Because sex traffickers and terrorists, I suppose, send Christmas cards, need money orders, buy stamps too.

And I wonder about the man who just missed making the list, coming in at #11. What of him? Is he disappointed? Does the list chastise? Challenge? “Hey, brother,” does it say, “you better up your game. This ain’t CandyLand”? Is Number 11 angry or upset? Does he track down Number 10 and off him? Or does he perhaps find comfort in his anonymity? His ability to step out of his fugitive life for a few moments, mail jars of homemade chokecherry jam to his cousin in relative safety? Does he breathe in the air of temporary normalcy, and become wistful? Does he fill his idle time with wonder?

The line shuffles forward, bringing me one step closer to the only worker, who will apologize for the wait. I remind myself not to blame her. I also remember I need to buy stamps.