“why do they have Mailgirls anyway?”

They lean against the pillows.  The girls have shed their towels though Sam stays wrapped up in his.  It’s hard for him to get comfortable but Mailgirls are apparently natural floor-sitters.  N’Stange, Kathy and Siobhan get out their laptops and do their assignments.

He hates to ruin the mood but he says, “Babe, I made reservations for us tonight, it’s a nice restaurant, Mexican.”  Her favorite.

“Thanks but -- that means I have to wear clothes!”

Janice says, “I think we have a sheet kicking around.”

“I suppose that will do, if you can find one.”  Apokni explains.  “It’s like at Blanke Schande, we sleep here without sheets or blankets.”

“In the dorms on campus the girls’ rooms don’t have doors.  Anyone can come by and look.”  This is Janice, speaking from somewhere in back.  “And the women’s bathrooms are out in the open.”  She emerges with a folded up blue sheet.  “The result?  Young women with no body issues!  Imagine that!”

Apokni looks at the sheet with reluctant distaste.  As Janice folds it just so, she stands up and submits to it being wrapped around her and knotted at the back so that it stays secure.  “Looks kind of nice,” Kathy admits.  Sam says, “You think they’ll let her in like that?”  “I think so.”

They get into the restaurant just fine, Sam fully dressed, Apokni in her “sheath dress”.  With her little clutch purse and her natural way of carrying herself she looks like she is going to an awards ceremony.  No one seems to notice her bare feet.  Apokni orders a diet soda.  Sam orders a margarita -- a slight disapproving glance from Apokni, but he says, “It’ll be just one,” and he keeps his word.  Fortunately, the food is excellent.  “These are the best enchiladas I’ve ever had!” Apokni says.

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” Sam says, in between bites.  “Why do they need Mailgirls?  Why can’t they email each other?  There might be an occasional need to deliver a package, but five girls working all day?”

“Well --”  She looks both ways and lowers her voice.  “Janice thinks it’s because there have been big security breaches.  A lot of stuff can’t be done by email any more.  It’s done in hard copy and then scanned.”

“Odd that the -- TrapCo folks won’t tell you that.  I tried to talk to that lady --”

“Mamie Grant.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t get far, I imagine.”

“No.”

“We think Homeland Security is involved somehow.  At least that’s Janice’s theory.  That’s why they can’t say anything.  Probably unnecessary secrecy.  Another disease of the White Man.  Like firewater.”

Apokni talks like this sometimes.  Sam often tells her, “Don’t cite racial stereotypes, it makes you just as bad as them,” but he decides to let it go this time.  Though she might be right about alcohol.  He looks out the window, at the crusty snow in the parking lot, which half an hour ago Apokni had negotiated in bare feet, toes grabbing, tough and unafraid.

“And why do Mailgirls have to be naked?  Is it something that this Blanke Schande place dreamed up?”

“No.  Mailgirls existed independently of Blanke Schande.”

“Why have only female couriers?  And why do they have to be naked?”

Apokni shrugs.  In fact she almost shrugs out of her “dress”.  She reaches back and re-does the knot.  “I’ve heard that women have more endurance, blah blah blah, with us being naked they save on clothing and sneakers, blah blah blah.  I think it’s just because some devious old pervy rich guy thought it up and it caught on.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Stupid things catch on for stupid reasons.”

“Not that I minded seeing five naked girls around me.”

Apokni smiles.  She orders a side of tacos.  Either she’s especially hungry today, or a life without clothing has increased her appetite.  “Blanke Schande has Mailgirl internships in other places too.  The really prize one is up in Regina.”

“What?”

“Regina, Saskatchewan.”

Sam laughs.  “I didn’t know that’s how you pronounce it.”

“Yes, rhymes with vagina.  I would love to get admitted into that program.  I heard it’s the best.  And -- it’s in the heart of Cree country.  My people!”

“I don’t know how your people would react to naked Mailgirls.  They probably think of --” Sam hesitates to say it.

“Yes, I know.  Un-Patchy’s.  Where taking off clothes becomes ‘dirty’.”

“And profitable.”  He has heard that some girls at Un-Patchy’s pull in five hundred dollars a night.

“The money is also dirty.”  Sam thinks: yeah, five hundred, in grubby soiled singles, fives, tens.  A few twenties.  That makes him smile: maybe the girls do the same thing Apokni does: whenever she gets a twenty dollar bill, she draws an arrow through Andrew Jackson’s head before passing it on.

Now the waitress, dark-skinned and with a Mexican accent, compliments her on her dress as she brings the check.  They both laugh.  “Where did you buy that?  Qué bella!”

“I, uh, made it myself.”  Sam is about to pay but he finds his wrist in a Cree death grip.  Apokni gets a credit card out of her clutch and leaves a big tip.

They go back to the motel.  Full of confidence, Sam from his experience in the pool, and Apokni just from being Apokni, and also being a proud nude Blanke Schande intern, they have the best sex they ever had.  Once, twice, they are inexhaustible.  When they wake up they go at it again, and Sam has to rush to get her back to TrapCo for the next day’s shift.

 Three weeks later Apokni emails Sam to tell him that she’s gotten the transfer to Regina.  He makes frantic plans to fly up there.

Then Covid hits and travel across the border is banned.