The mail slot was a rectangle cut into the front door. Brass flap on the outside. The mailman lifted the flap and pushed the letters through and the letters landed on the floor of the hallway. The mail slot was the apartment's mouth. The building swallowed information one envelope at a time.

The mail slot had a draft. Winter wind came through the slot and you could feel the hallway breathing. My mother stuffed a dish towel behind the flap to stop the cold. The dish towel stopped the wind and the wind stopped but the mail stopped too. The mailman knocked. She pulled the towel out. He pushed the mail through. She put the towel back. Every day from November to March. The insulation protocol.

The mail came twice a day. Morning and afternoon. You heard the flap and the letters hit the floor and you knew the world had something to say. Bills. Letters. Catalogs. The Sears catalog was so thick it jammed the slot and the mailman had to fold it. The folded catalog was the mark of a mail slot building. A mailbox building got the catalog flat.

The mail slot was the most democratic technology in the apartment. Anybody could send you anything. A letter from your mother. A notice from the landlord. A draft card from the government. A love note. A threat. A coupon for laundry detergent. The mail slot did not filter. The mail slot did not sort. The mail slot accepted everything and dropped it on the floor and left the rest to you.

They sealed the mail slots. The mailboxes are in the lobby now. Little metal boxes with combination locks. The mail goes into the box and you take it out when you feel like it. The mail does not touch your door. The mail does not land on your floor. The mail waits in the lobby like a patient in a waiting room. The urgency is gone. The mail slot said this is happening now. The mailbox says this is happening whenever.

See also: Door Knocker, Door Chain