There's a hole where hope used to be. See that trick of words, how one letter can change everything. The world I see is now the word I see. Sometimes when the night is black, I look for stars and all I see are scars. My heart is bound with barbwire, and despair is a prison of my own design and execution. Funny, I wanted to be a writer, now I'm a waiter. I guess it's only people and words, and words tell lies.
I used to play the existentialist, all that heavy stuff about the individual and the freedom of choice. Well, Camus and Nietzsche are dead, so what does it mean? Maybe that's the point. Enough philosophy, I know that stuff always bored you silly. I'd love to hear from you, so drop a note (not a not) to say you're alive and that somewhere there are butterflies and sunshine. I'm not asking you to understand, I just want to hear from you while I figure out if life is worth living. One letter makes all the difference.
Best wishes,
Jason
Charlie had a feeling that Jason was reunited with his old friends Cay-mus and Nietzsche, whoever they were. Well, if Jason wanted to feel good about himself, he should have gotten the hell out of Kansas. Wait a second, Charlie thought. Didn't Nietzsche used to play middle linebacker for the Packers?
Charlie shook the gloom off like it was dandruff and stuffed the letter in his back pocket. He took a leak and went back to the sorting floor.
Red Stallings, the regional postmaster, was there, his postal blues pressed so sharply that they wore like wood instead of cotton. Red was a Viet Nam vet, and tried to run the office like it was a military unit. Charlie wished Red would choke on his 'oh-seven-hundred hours' and his referring to sacks and jeeps as 'ordnance.' Red glared at Charlie as if expecting a salute, but Charlie just waved and rolled a cart of mail over to the loading bay.
Charlie killed the rest of the day, dodging Red when he could, then drove his jeep home. He pulled into the drive and looked at his small brown house with its blistered yellow trim and the window screens with fist-sized holes in them. He didn't think of it as his castle so much as a place where his mail got sent. He went inside and changed clothes so he could mow the grass.
His wife caught him as he was about to go out the door, her face sweaty. 'I found this in your work shorts. It about went through the washer,' she said, waving the letter in the air as if it were a stick she wanted him to fetch.
'Oh, I found that in the trash.'
'Since when did you take up stealing people's letters?'
'When you started sticking your nose in my business, that's when.'
'Why are you getting all mad over somebody you don't even know?' She shaded her eyes with the letter.
'There's something funny about that letter, and I'm going to try to figure it out,' he said.
'Well, I read it, and it's crazy. Says here 'despair is a prison of my own design and execution.' What's that mean?'
'Maybe it means sometimes people ask for help and they never get an answer. It's like those letters addressed to Santa Claus. All these kids writing letters telling how good they've been and what the elves can make for them.'
'It makes people feel good. What's wrong with that?'
'Those letters are nothing but a pain in the rump to the postal service. Because of junk like that, sometimes the real important messages get lost.'
She crossed her arms. 'You're getting strange on me, Charlie. That's just one little letter. Just think about the good news you deliver every single day.'
'Yeah, I wonder. Sometimes I wonder if any news is good.'
'Well, don't let that bad stuff rub off on you. Now get the grass mowed, and I'll fix us up some pork chops.'
After dinner, Charlie spent the rest of the evening parked in front of the television set, sipping beer while the Lions ripped the Vikings on Monday Night Football. He forgot all about the letter.
But in his dreams, he was in a prison camp and words circled overhead like black buzzards and he was digging, digging, digging, trying to escape the oppressive unseen eyes of Jason, who was on guard duty in the barbwire tower above and Charlie was burrowing in the dirt when the searchlights found him and the dirt turned into mounds of rotting mail and a gate lifted and a lion came out to eat him and…he woke up tired and sweaty.
He made his rounds that day in a haze, as if he were underwater. The letters seemed to burn in his hands. He noticed that it wasn't the electric bills that bothered him, it was the personal letters. He found himself wondering what heartaches he was bringing to people's doors.
He cursed his imagination and ground the gears of the jeep. He pulled into Poplar Hills and didn't even stop to razz the punters. As he was bringing mail to 106, he almost fell over when a surge of heat flashed through him. He dropped the bundle he was carrying and gripped his knees until the spasm passed. He stooped to collect the mail- a coupon book, a catalog, a telephone bill, and a letter- but he jerked his hand back when he touched the last item.
Charlie knew what the letter said, as plainly as if he could read it. 'I'm coming for the kids,' came the words, in an unfamiliar voice. 'The courts can't keep me away from my own kids. And in case you're thinking about a restraining order, you go to the cops and I'll make you sorry you ever met me. Even sorrier than you already are. Only this time, there won't be any lawyers, just you and me. Just like the good old days.'
Charlie shoved the mail in the slot and backed away. He shook his head and went to 107. He didn't believe in ESP crap. Must be his blood sugar. He'd take off tomorrow and go to the doctor.
He opened the box at 107 and was about to shovel in the mail when the odd feeling struck him again.
'Howdy, Hank,' came a sultry female voice. 'I know you told me not to write you at home, but your wife doesn't open your mail, does she? Anyway, lover, that money you said you'd send hasn't gotten here yet. I like the little games we play, but the rent has to be paid. I'd hate to start sending letters to your wife, with a few photographs dropped in the envelope. What I'm asking for is cheaper than a divorce…'
Charlie slid the mail in and closed the box. He wiped his hand on his shorts, trying to get rid of the slimy feeling. The letters were talking to him. What was it his wife had said? Something about bad stuff rubbing off?
He picked up Mauretta Whiting's mail A single letter was among the sweepstakes bundles, and it spoke in a tear-soaked young woman's voice. 'Aunt Retta, I'm sorry to hear about your cancer…'
Charlie jerked his hand back as if he had touched live snakes. If he was going nuts, madness wasn't slowly shadowing him like a moon eclipsing the sun, the way he always figured things like that happened. It was more like flipping off a light switch. Blood sugar, hell. It was the letters.
He hurried back to the jeep. The out basket sat in the passenger's seat, and voices rose from it, old and thin, raspy and squeaky, bass and tenor, speaking in snatches:
'…and when Robbie overdosed…'
'…going to have to apply for food stamps…'
'…I'm afraid I have some bad news…'
'…died in that car wreck…'
'…don't blame you for running away…'
'…real lonely in here…'
The voices crowded each other, babbling in Charlie's mind, murmured lullabies of pain that carried him special delivery into a secret land where words bled and paper wept and postmen only rang once. He drove back to the office, making a stop along the way.
Charlie nodded to Susan at the back door of the post office. The Virginia Slim in her right hand had cherry lipstick stains on the butt. Her other hand was on her round hip.
'Hey, Mr. Sunshine,' she said. 'Why don't you come back and join me at break time?'
'Maybe later. Can I borrow your lighter?' Charlie wasn't sure if he had thought the words, or spoken out loud.
'You don't smoke,' she said, handing him the lighter.
He entered the storage area. Bob stood just inside the door, grinning and fanning himself with an L.L. Bean
