The Letter Editor

Danny was leaning on the back two legs of one of those hideous old orange desk chairs, the ones you used to find in every public school in the country during the eighties.
It should have been decommissioned at this point, and stacked among its ugly relatives by the back wall in the college’s expansive storage room/ janitor’s closet, but it wasn’t.
It became the chair of choice for Danny on these rainy November days, when he needed to pass the time in an empty “learning center”, at the rural Mountain Community College.
Leaning back, he steadied his weight on the sturdy old steel legs, while simultaneously balancing his old critiquing pen on his nose. His record so far this morning was 21 seconds, counting in “one-one "thousand, two-one-thousand’s.”
His old sharpie had two current duties. One, pointing out the extensive grammatical errors of the local student resumes. Two, keeping its very accountable stability while on the bridge of his nose.
No, he hadn’t done any work today, unless you count writing a haiku about the “learning centers” manager Mary Modgin, which he had tacked above his desk where everyone could see it. It read:
“You’re my manager
And the cruelest of people
Please, go fuck yourself.”
He re-read it, shrugged, and gave himself an 8.2/10 score at the top of the page, and then returned immediately to his record breaking, pen balancing attempts.
It must have been a good “pen balancing on the nose” type day for Danny, he had already had got to 15 seconds in a row on his last attempt, and had done so without even really trying. That was a pretty good warm up, he thought; now time to break world records.
He took an easy breath, and steadied the pen. Then quickly, but gently, he leaned back on the rusted orange chair. It creaked loudly, but steadied obediently.
He held his breath, and moved his arms up and down to balance himself, all the while looking like a newborn bird trying to fly for the first time.
5 seconds passed.
He made a few swift flaps, keeping balance.
10 seconds…
His stomach tightened, he kept holding his breath.
15 seconds…16...17...18...
His arms were perfectly still now.
19...
“Mr. Grant?” a sudden voice said.
“Gawwwwd!” he yelled, followed by a hard “Thud!”, and the almost world breaking, close to perfect balancing sharpie hit the carpet with one last defiant bounce, popping against Danny’s desk, then smacking the floor face down.
Danny stared at the pen like a fallen comrade, and then turned his gaze towards the intruder.
Standing halfway inside the cubicle with a half serious-half confused look on his face was a boy, a kid really. He had the typical country look that Danny had seen all around town for years. He wore a black Carhartt jacket, with matching black boots, jeans, a black shirt, and a beat up camaflouge hat that covered untamed, dirty blonde hair. He had a few whiskers starting to show on the bottom of his chin, and around his lips, accentuating his scowl.
“Are you Mr. Grant?” he said, looking from the name on the desk.
“I suppose,” Danny said, realizing how he probably looked leaning back against his cubicle wall, opened mouthed, with his arms out like an airplane. He put the chair back on all fours, then gazed jadedly out the window.
“Are you the Writing Instructor?” the boy pressed.
“Mmm.” Was all Danny said, continuing his gaze out the window.
“I need some help writing something… It’s important.”
“You have a 10 page essay you put off all term?” Danny asked dully.
“No it-it's, nothing like that. I just need your help writing something.”
Danny could see himself roll his eyes in the windows reflection. “I can’t write for you, you’re the student, that’s your job. Go write down some bull shit, come back, and we’ll turn it in to something your professor might give a passing grade to.”
“I’ve already wrote some of it, I just need help finishing it.” The boy said quietly.
“Again, can’t help you with that, it needs to be your work.”
“Look,” the boys voice rose,” It’s not even an assignment, okay? It’s personal.”
Danny leaned towards the window, watching a cute brunette in skinny jeans walk by.
“We don’t help students with personal writing,” He said, clearly distracted, “Again that’s up to you.”
“I’m not a student anymore.”
Danny snorted, really leaning more towards the window as the brunette walked farther and farther way. “Then you should know that you have to be a student at the college to get help by instructors. Obviously,” he said, his nose was almost in the corner of the window, vibrating back his words “ My time in valuable, so if you’re not a student and not needing something revised for class, then I’m very very sorry to say, tough shit.”
“No freelancing or moonlighting huh?”
“Nope.”
Danny heard him shuffling around behind him, followed by the smallest thump of something falling on his desk.
“I’ll pay you 500 dollars.”
Danny’s head jerked around, and he stared at a roll of fresh looking 20’s still rocking back and forth on his desk.Andrew Jackson was nodding at him again and again, as if to say,” C’mon, do it, do it.” For a minute, they were both quiet, as Danny watched the money rock.
He looked back at the boy, and this time he really looked. He realized now that the boy didn’t seem quite so young. The weight on his shoulders was too heavy, much too heavy for someone his age. His eyes carried a grave, unnerving sadness that Danny just couldn’t comprehend. They did not brim, there would be no crying, they held a much more profound pain. He looked half insane, like he was going to start screaming and pulling out his hair.
The body tried to defy the sadness of his eyes, his jaw stayed set and his shoulders stayed back;They were his reinforcement.The sadness in his eyes was a disease that his body was trying to keep from spreading.
Danny found his voice in the back of his throat. “What do you need help with?” he asked with hushed voice.
“Just a letter.” The boy placed some overly folded pieces of notebook paper on the desk, right beside the money.
Danny looked at the money one more time, and then to the stack of crumpled papers.
“A letter?” he asked.
The boy gave small nod.
Feeling dazed,Danny gestured for him to take the chair next to his desk. With his stare fixed, he reached down and picked up the pen off the ground, then settled slowly and quietly into his seat. “What kind of letter?”
The boy leaned against the desk, resting his arm on his crumpled papers and letting go of a deep breath.
He looked up and gave Danny a small smile, full of old pain and new acceptance.
"Mr.Grant," he said, holding out the stack of papers." I think you know the answer to that question." Danny took them carefully, looking down at his hands. He saw the rush in the scribbled sentences, and the dark hard strokes of the pen into the paper and realized what the boy meant. He looked back up into his eyes, and waited.
" Mr.Grant...I need your help finishing my suicide letter."