This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue of cc&d (v240) (the January 2013 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Guilt by Association cc&d 2013 collection book		get the 374 page Jan. - June 2013 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

You Check is In the Mail

Bob Johnston

Case No. GC834982        Lafferty, Thomas J.
Male        White        65        U.S. citizen

    He limped slowly around the room. One step from the sink to the bed, two steps along the bed, one step to the flyspecked window, and back to the sink. Each time he went to the window, he peered out into the street. Dark out there, dirty brown fog, street lights already on at four o’clock.
    He shivered and turned up the collar of his sweater, a frayed gray cardigan, elbow-patched and missing three buttons. Beneath the sweater he wore insulated gray coveralls. Above the collar, a skinny neck led to a gray-frosted face and a sparse growth of white hair. A yellow-stained moustache and light blue eyes were the only touches of color.
    He stopped pacing and sat on a straight chair by the window, where he could watch the street. A red-covered Bible rested on a box beside the chair. He put on a pair of cracked glasses and picked up the Bible. He couldn’t make out the small print in the dim light from the window. A single light bulb hung in the center of the room. He limped over and pulled the switch cord. Nothing happened, and he batted the cord and swore under his breath. Then he went out into the hall to check the mailbox. Empty.
    Back in the room, he opened a cupboard and took inventory. One can of chicken soup, one can of dog food, half a loaf of bread, and two potatoes. He opened the can of soup and poured it into a pan, added a canful of water, and carried the pan over to a hot plate set on a card table. He stared at the hot plate for a few seconds, then sat down at the table and laid his head on his hands.
    At the window again, he peered out into the street. Nothing moved, and the fog seemed even darker. The pan of soup still sat on the hot plate. He pulled the chair over to the table, sat down, and ate the cold soup slowly, getting up twice to check the mailbox. Then he rolled a cigarette and smoked it down to the end.
    Footsteps and a rattle outside the door brought him to his feet. He stumbled toward the door, catching himself on the knob. The mailbox now contained three envelopes and two circulars. He carried the mail over to the window and examined all five pieces carefully. The first was an official-looking envelope. He held it up to the light, trying to see what was inside. Then the other mail. One letter addressed to him personally, Dear Mr. Lafferty, telling of a wonderful prize that could be his just for making an appointment to look at a building lot near Bear Lake. “Both husband and wife must be present.” Another letter urging him to save his soul and send a contribution to the Moral Crusade for Christ. An ad for Heavenly Hibiscus perfume, guaranteed to drive the man in your life mad with desire or your money cheerfully refunded. A batch of coupons for dog food, pizza, deodorant, popcorn, and other assorted goodies. He tore out the dog food coupons, then bundled up the rest of the ads and two of the letters and threw them into the wastebasket.
    He picked up the empty pan and the spoon, and rinsed them in cold water with a rusty piece of steel wool. A chunk of something was stuck to his moustache. He picked it off, decided it was chicken, and ate it.
    Again at the window, he picked up the government envelope, tore it carefully across one end, and removed a single sheet of paper. He turned the sheet to catch the fading light and squinted through his glasses, but he could barely make out the lines of type.
    Holding the letter by one corner, he walked out through the hall, down the front steps, and out under the yellow street light. He raised the letter toward the light and read it through. Then he read it again. The mail truck was still parked down the block. He raised the letter above his head, shook his fist at the truck, and shouted in a cracked voice FUCKING BUREAUCRATS!
    He limped back into the room and slammed the door. The dog food coupons fluttered to the floor. He picked them up and set them on the card table. Then he lay down on the bed and watched the fog seep into the room.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...