The Mailing Wall

I sometimes buy a salty greasy snack before walking up the hill from the city to my secret mountain hideaway. Two thirds of the way along my route I pass my brewery's northern wall. By this time I am thinking of beer, so I put my empty food wrapper or napkin between the metal grate and bricks to let the brewery workers know that I'm thinking of them.

I got the idea from a Jewish friend who told me about faxing god. She said there's a Jerusalem fax machine that accepts calls from anywhere; the faxes are then wadded up and stuffed in chinks in the Wailing Wall so god can read them between appointments.

So far I'm the only person leaving messages for the brewers. The West End Wall is almost new; far too young to have its own fax machine.