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We've all had the grim experience of waiting for the mechanic to call us with the verdict on our car, right? Having bought a new car last November (well, new to me), I was all set to have this experience be several decibals (or however you measure stress)less than when I would take in my dented '93 Subaru Imprezza to the mechanics, being sure that it would be diagnosed as terminally ill and ready for the junk yard. Back to the bus then. Now with my lovely Subaru Forester, I can hold my head high at the mechanics once again. The auto repair shop doesn't fill me with cold dread, and I can get out of my car and look those snooty drivers of 2011 Toyota Camry's in the eye (well, I always could since they're probably just making payments). So you can imagine my horror when, roaring down the 190 Southbound in my semi- new car, my check engine light went on! Since this had never happened to me before, I shakily got off the next exit, expecting at any moment for the complex network of pipes, brakes and nozzles that comprise my engine to undergo some kind of catastrophic failure. Well, needless to say I made it home, and immediately took my car to my more level headed mechanic, who fixed it for me. Thank you, Fortuna, for the invention of the automobile and its graceful twin, the auto repair shop.

Episode #9: The Journey

Gathering himself, Tom had taken advantage of his lucid state and known exactly what to do. A cold sheen of sweat coating his face, he had (with a stealth unknown to him) coolly retrieved the spare key that he'd secretly copied for his mother's prized possession, a 2000 Toyota Camry. This car was the only material object that Mrs. Ozanksi kept from her boys, and her meticulous care of it had made the local auto repair shop as standard an errand as the grocery store. Once, when the check engine light had gone on, the atmosphere at the Ozanski household had been so grim that one would have thought that a member of the family had been struck with a terminal illness. Tom had known that he would need a key for his mother's car one day with his peculiar foresight, and he was certain that his furtive trip to the local Home Depot's key copy center one afternoon when his mother had been sick with the flu had been intended for this very moment. Putting his large loafers on and fumbling for his 'lucky' football jacket, Tom walked purposefully towards his window and quietly opened it. Barely seeming to notice the seven foot drop in his elevated state of mind, he dropped to the ground with a resounding thud, rolled over several times and calmly climbed into the driver's seat of his mother's car.

Episode #8: A Revelation and a Scream

While Mrs. Ozanski had been attempting to pry Chris' day out of him (she often complained that trying to get a word out her boys was like pulling teeth), contrary to her fears, no intruder had 'assaulted' her son. In fact, Tom's window had remained tightly sealed. Had some sort of thief been possessed with the idea of intruding upon Tom's highly coveted space, it was unlikely that it would have resulted in something as highly emotive as a scream, anyhow. There most likely would have been the confident spray of Tom's can of mace which he, with his anthropological hyper- awareness of the extraordinary violence peculiar to American culture, kept safely clipped to his blue jeans' belt loop, followed by a slight scuffle and a calm telephone call to the police. No, it would take more than an intruder to squeeze a scream out of Tom; his brother had been correct. So what did cause the scream and thud that had sent Mrs. Ozanski into such a tizzy? Tom, upon narrowing and modifying his google search several more times, had been led to a link which was the website for his very own job site- Jefferson And Co. Online Lobbying Inc. After staring at the link with shock, everything had started to fall into place. This, combined with another of Tom's moments of lucidness, had forced a shrill victory scream out of his throat, a scream that had seemed to originate in some primal depth of his being, a trans- cultural center of his humanness which ensured his survival.

We Interrupt Our Program....

You may wonder all the mention of mail boxes, my faithful readers? How do mailboxes fit into the story of Thomas the Anthropologist? Believe it or not, but mail boxes are a staple unique to the developed world. Do you think that the African Bushmen have mail boxes? Think again! Further, these seemingly innocuous containers are in fact highly indicative of the increasingly stratified social structure of our American culture- the long, bleak rows of residential mail boxes peculiar to the rapidly diminishing middle class, the ornate mail boxes of those who reside in high society, the common mailboxes of those who reside in group homes... and the decorative mail boxes which are highly symbolic of those who choose to step outside of the cultural box and think for themselves, those who fight for an egalitarian, individualist society- like our own dear Christopher Charles. Embrace this cultural phenomenon and express your individuality. Initiate your rise above the unthinking masses with a unique mail box. If nothing else, impress your mail person with a personable mail box that expresses YOU. And next time you look at a mail box, thank your lucky stars that you are in a country which not only HAS mail boxes, but allows you the freedom to choose your own personal mailbox. Click on the links to explore the world of mailboxes!

Episode #7: Fantasies, Mysteries and Mailboxes

Mrs. Ozanski hurriedly grabbed the ball of mac n' cheese off of the floor, tossed it in the trash and clumsily traipsed up the stairs.
'Thomas!' She cried, 'For God's sake, answer me! Is there an intruder? Have you been assaulted?'
Chris, who had remained seated, raised his eyebrows and blinked his eyes slowly and exasperatedly. This ridiculous situation was not even worthy of comment, and he, Chris, would not grace it with one. An intruder? For Benjamin's sake, the closest thing that they got to visitors, much less intruders, was the mailman, or mail woman. Even he, or she (the only aspect of the 21st century that Chris clung to with startling tenacity was gender sensitive pronouns) rarely had mail to put in the mail box, as Tom, with his partiality to things of the technological nature, had insisted on going paperless years ago. Further, Chris'creative energy extended to all walks of life, and in his spare time he spread his personal flair on everything from ceiling fans draped in tinsel to decorative mailboxes, which reflected the times and the seasons. Often, he failed to take into account the mail person, whose attempt to deliver the Ozanski's their rare piece of junk mail would many times involve peeling through tape, papier mache, glue, and one brisk Mayflower day, several layers of ribbon. The Ozanski's mail box posed either a refreshing challenge or a teeth grinding bother to the mail person (whose days often blended into a blur of bland residential mailboxes yawning in boredom to accept bills, documents, advertisements and the occasional anonymous threatening letter) depending upon their perspective.
Sighing, Chris stretched out his nylon breaches and pondered the situation. If, in fact, a highly unlikely scenario had indeed brought Tom face to face with a masked intruder, Chris doubted that Tom would invoke any interest for them- both in terms of finances and in terms of a victim. He, Chris, would be a better option- not only did he carry a pouch of coins about with him in case of an emergency, but he would give any sociopath in search of a fearful victim a far more satisfying experience than Tom's stodgy rationality. He, Chris, would scream a high pitched scream and attempt to flee, only to struggle and fall limp under a chloroform soaked stocking. Tom would simply try to reason with the villain.
Chris' grisly meanderings were interrupted by his mother walking slowly down the stairs, her hand clutching the railing and her face slack and white as a sheet. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, she gathered herself and made a visible effort to be a source of strength for her son.
'Christopher Charles,' She whispered, 'Your brother, my son, Thomas, is missing.'