Withershins

I tried explained to my girlfriend that this has to be a mistake. Right away she thinks something bad, like I forgot to pay the rent or the utilities and this my final notice. It is 2014, who uses snail mail anymore? That was my argument. Her's was get your overweight fat ass off of the couch, drop the game controller and head over to the Post Office, Special Deliveries Branch.

As I made my way down the street I held and read the yellow slip used to let you know that the mail was undeliverable. She was right, it might be important and as she pointed put out, the slip was dated a month ago. On the plus side it was a nice spring day for a walk, a good day to get outside.

The Post Office, Special Deliveries Branch, was one of those relics, a throwback from the depression era complete with a WPA mural on the wall. Heroic workers toiling in the fields, the factories, and offices all looking very angular and well built striving for a new tomorrow. It reminded me of Soviet Art in praise of the worker.

A gaunt bearded man with a cigarette and a woman in cat’s eye glasses were behind the counter talking quietly with one another. I stood there waiting patiently behind a faded dirty white line painted on the dark aged stain floor with the words “Wait Here Please”. I rubbed my shoes over the letters which were now faded and distorted from the ravages of age and countless feet.

He coughed, not once, but one of those prolonged smokers coughing spells. I thought he was going to choke to death. The lady in thick glasses who was holding up envelopes to her eyes reading each address aloud sotto voce and then tossing the envelopes in to separate chutes, never moved, never wavered as his spasm wore on. He wiped his hand on his pant leg and without looking up whispered next.

I placed the slip in his outstretched hand. “Yellow, yellow means undeliverable. Where were you when he tried to deliver this?”

“Work probably.”

He shook his head, pulled down his reading glasses from atop his head and read aloud. “One eight six three two four seven. This is an old one.”

“How do you know?”

The last two digits. Four Seven. That's the date of delivery, last month. You just getting around to picking this up now are you?

“No, really it was in the mailbox this afternoon. I was kind of surprised to actually receive a letter by snail mail.”

“Oh?”

“You know mail the old fashioned way.”

“Get all your correspondence from the computer do you? Helen?”

The woman looked over.

“Helen, I am going out back to pick up an undeliverable. Entertain the nice young man.”

“I'm busy.” She went back to reading envelopes and tossing them in to various chutes that all led to one large wheeled canvas bin behind her.

From in the back he yelled complaints that he was too old for this. Something went toppling over with a crash. Through the commotion Helen never deterred from her task. When she reached the bottom of the pile she was working on, she grabbed some letters from the canvas bin and began rereading and resorting them in a never ending loop. Sorting to be remixed, a kind of perpetual postal hell.

“She say anything about me while I was gone?”

“No.”

“She runs our complaint department.”

“Her?”

“Helen Waite.”

“Huh?”

“Yes, all complainers can go to Helen Waite.”

I laughed. “Stupid, man, really stupid.”

He laughed. “Private joke. Are you Thomas Withershins?”

“Yes.”

“Twenty One North Upland?”

“Yes.”

“You have ID?”

“Of course.” I opened my wallet.

“You seem a bit young. I hate it when we deliver to the young ones.”

Helen looked over. “Yes, it breaks my heart. But all part of the plan.”

“You want to tell me what you are talking about.”

He handed over the envelope. “It is rare that we attempt to make a delivery and not collect.”

“I can pay if there is a late charge.”

“Oh, there might be.”

The envelope was large, bright white with a red wax seal complete with a ribbon on the back. Fancy embossed printing. He placed his hand on mine stopping me from opening the envelope. “Are you sure that you are the addressee?”

“Why?”

“It is vital that I confirm that you are indeed the person listed on the front.”

“It's me. I showed you my driver’s license with my picture and address.”

“There is no turning back once you accept the letter and open it. There are no returns.”

“Stop it. You are acting like this is a matter of life or death.”

“Believe me, it is.”

From the envelope I pulled out several heavy sheets of handwritten parchment paper. “It's a record of my life. Where I went to school, my friends, the time I stole money from my mother's purse, the car accidents, the times I cheated on my girlfriend and my taxes. Is this some kind of joke?”

“No joke. Please read on.”

“This is, this is…”

“Yes, it is your life story and this” he pointed to the last paragraph, “was how it is supposed to end. But you were not home to accept delivery and meet your scheduled demise.”

“By heart attack? On my sofa?”

“Yes, years of sedentary lifestyle, smoking, drinking, unprotected sex, unhealthy food, high cholesterol, the list goes on.”

“Ha ha. So what? I beat death. Fuck you death.” I screamed.

Helen shook her head. “Denial, the first phase.”

“Ahem, excuse me young man.”

“Yes.”

“There is an addendum.”

“What?”

“There's always an addendum. Son, nothing lasts forever.”

“In case of noncompliance with option a, option b will be in force. The decedent will mysteriously disappear on a bright spring afternoon supposedly on his way to the post office. The end.”