No Postage Necessary
A Short Story by Phil Smith
In a world where everything costs something…
One man risks it all to mail a postcard for free.
The Discovery
Beto wasn’t what you’d call ambitious.
At twenty-three, he still lived in his abuela’s spare room on the Mexico side of Santa Frontera—a town where even the wind felt unemployed.
Life here had one rule:
Everything costs something.
Gas? Expensive.
Tacos? Price went up again.
Even the bus station bathroom charged five pesos per flush—no refunds.
So when Beto spotted a postcard stuck in a chain-link fence after the storm, something deep in his soul clicked.
It read: No Postage Necessary if Mailed in the U.S.A.
No stamps. No pesos. Free.
He flipped it over: “Thanks again for the tacos! You’re the best!”
Didn’t matter who wrote it. Didn’t matter who it was for.
He held it to his chest like it was sacred.
“I will deliver this,” he whispered. “Because it’s free… and I am a man of the people.”
Operation: Mail Drop
The local post office? Corrupt. Everyone knew they charged extra for “handling.”
Beto pulled out a 1997 street map with mustard stains, circled “USA” in crayon, and muttered:
“Get in. Find mailbox. Get out.”
First Attempt – The Blockbuster Incident
Beto approached the border disguised as an “official tourist”:
Cargo shorts
American flag T-shirt
Flip-flops with mismatched socks
Fanny pack labeled “U.S.A. Tourist Official” (in Sharpie)
As the line crawled forward, he rehearsed: “Welcome to America… I am also from America.”
At the booth, the officer grunted, “Papers?”
Beto proudly slid over his laminated Blockbuster Video card—his only “official” ID.
The officer stared. “Seriously?”
Beto nodded. “Official.”
The officer just pointed back toward Mexico.
Second Attempt – Goose Warfare
Two days later, Beto stood at the canal. Goggles on. Flip-flops duct-taped to his feet. Postcard strapped to his forehead.
He dove in like a Navy SEAL in slow motion.
Halfway across—
DUN DUN DUNNNN.
Epic boss fight music blasted over the water.
On the shore, a shirtless teenager with a Bluetooth speaker grinned like a villain.
Then came La Bestia del Canal—Santa Frontera’s most feared goose—wings spread like a feathery warlord.
Beto thrashed and kicked as the music built, scrambling up the muddy bank just as the goose nipped at his heels like it had sworn an oath to end him.
The Taco Stand Prophecy
That night, Beto sat outside the taco stand, face in hands.
“One free thing… and I blew it.”
An old man in a cowboy hat ten sizes too big leaned over.
“You know the bus drivers take mail all the time, right?”
Beto blinked. “The bus?”
The old man nodded, dead serious.
“The bus is the way… but the bus takes only the worthy.”
Beto stood, clutching the postcard.
“I am the worthy.”
The Final Handoff
The Santa Frontera bus station looked like it had given up years ago.
But there it was—a Greyhound idling out front, driver leaning against the door, blowing smoke rings like a man who’d seen too much.
Beto jogged over, panting.
“Sir… I have a letter… for freedom.”
The driver squinted. “Got a stamp?”
Beto lifted the postcard like Excalibur.
“No need. It says… No Postage Necessary.”
The driver shrugged, stuck it on the dash under a sun-faded bobblehead hula girl, and climbed aboard.
Beto crossed his arms, chest swelling with pride as the bus rolled toward destiny.
The Long Walk Home
Beto walked the dusty road, each step heavier with victory.
As he reached his crooked shack, the Greyhound rumbled past, kicking up dust.
He grinned and waved like he’d just sent off a national treasure.
Then—WHOOSH.
The wind tore through town. The postcard launched out the bus window, twisting and spinning through the air like a telenovela villain making a dramatic exit.
It flipped. It twirled. It somersaulted.
And with a final flutter—
It lodged perfectly back in the fence where Beto had found it.
The Next Morning
The rooster crowed.
Beto stepped outside, rubbing his eyes.
There it was. Waiting. Perfect.
He peeled it from the fence, read the words again:
No Postage Necessary if Mailed in the U.S.A.
He looked to the horizon, grinned, and whispered:
“I will deliver this… because it’s free… and I am a man of the people.”
Freeze frame. Cue mariachi.
Author’s Note
I’ve wondered about those “No Postage Necessary” envelopes since I was a kid.
Who mails them?
How does it even work?
And what if you’re not in the U.S.A.?
Somehow, the dumb little question stuck with me.
So here we are—one stupid idea, finished for no reason other than it made me laugh.
No postage necessary.
– Phil Smith
Disclaimer: This story is a work of absurd fiction and is not intended to offend or stereotype anyone—especially Mexicans or Mexican culture. The setting, characters, and events are purely imagined for comedic purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is purely coincidental.
