The Complaint Box - Ron Osso-2016
He trudged out to
the old mailbox that was situated at the end of his long driveway.
Most days he wondered why he even bothered to make the trip. All
there ever seemed to be was junk mail and a bill or two. It was
beginning to get cold; dried leaves crunching under foot with each
step, and his knees were beginning to complain. As he reached for
the small pull down hatch, something caught his eye; something that
hadn't been there yesterday. It was a rusty old metal box, the
kind a secretary might keep petty cash in. It was about eight inches
wide, six inches deep and three inches high, and it was sitting on
top of a 4" X 4" wooden stake that had been planted in the ground
to the left of his mailbox. Someone had cut a slot in the top. It
was jagged, crude and on the front of the old box was written the
word "COMPLAINTS". The letters were the gold and black stick on
type often found in hardware stores. There was also a lock that kept
the box closed, designed he thought, to keep whatever complaints
safely inside. He tried to pick up the box, but it was attached to
the wooden post.
"Goddam kids" he
thought to himself, turning away and opening his mailbox. There was
a flyer from the local grocery promising deals on bacon, toilet
paper, cough syrup and other stuff he didn't need. An electric
bill, a card promising eighty-nine percent off news stand prices for
a magazine subscription, and a small key taped to a piece of
cardboard.
He picked it up, and
tore the key loose. He inspected it for a moment, then slid it into
the lock on the box, gave it a twist, and it opened. Inside was a
piece of khaki colored paper, something that appeared to have been
torn from a grocery bag. On it was written,
"Why don't you
ever smile?"
"Goddam kids",
he muttered aloud this time.
He closed the box
lid, and wiggled the post it was attached to. With little effort he
pulled the whole thing out of the ground. He set it against his
mailbox, and with his foot brushed surrounding dirt back into the
hole, stomped on it, and slid some leaves into place over where the
hole had been. To a passerby, it would have appeared nothing had
ever been there. He looked up and down the street, with a furrowed
brow, then an idea came to him, an idea that made him smile.
The man picked up
the box that was attached to the pole, and walked back up the
driveway to his house. Not that an onlooker would actually notice,
but he had a bit of a spring in his step, and his knees didn't seem
to hurt as much. His eyes were a bit brighter and although no
melodic sound actually came out, his lips were pursed, and at a
distance one would have thought he was whistling.
The stairs creaked
in complaint as he stepped up onto his old, weathered side porch
where he set the post and box down. The squeak from his screen door
seemed to get just a bit louder every day. He never used the front
door anymore, it was badly in need of repair, and the side one suited
him fine. He stepped into the old sitting room. There were three
ancient wicker chairs he had painted dark brown years ago, all of
them with well-worn cushions, although one chair, the rocker, was
worn considerably more than the others. He passed through the
sitting room, turned left into the kitchen, walked to the far end,
opened the door that led to his shed, and looked around for it. He
hadn't used the thing in years, but was sure it must still be
there. He walked forward, further into the shed, just beyond the
wood pile and there it was, propped up against the wall, rusty,
sitting in a tangle of cobwebs, but it appeared serviceable.
Once back in the
sitting room, he sat in the wicker rocker, put a newspaper on the
wooden floor and began to clean up the old post hole digger. After
removing the webs, he gave it closer inspection. It was rusty and
the hinge that held the two parts together was tight but he thought
with a little more work it would ably do what it had been designed
to. He rested the tool against his wood stove, got up and went into
the kitchen. There was an old cupboard to the left of the
refrigerator. It was covered with a white and blue, small flowery
print cloth curtain his wife had made many years earlier. He'd
hung it back then with a simple curtain rod. He pushed aside the
fabric, just as he pushed aside the sadness of his wife's absence,
and picked up the can of WD-40.
As he sprayed, he
carefully considered who would be the recipient of his prize. He
thought about the three neighbors to each side of him, but quickly
ruled out the two closest; he wanted to be more surreptitious. After
some spraying, and wiping excess lubricant off of the rusty tool, he
opened and closed its jaws, and slowly the squeaking and resistance
began to disappear. He sprayed a bit more and kept working the jaws.
After only fifteen minutes he had resurrected his old digger.
Again he rested it
against his wood stove, and sat back in his chair. He reached for
his pipe, took out the small plastic bag of tobacco, stuffed some
into the bowl, tamped it down, and struck a wooden match on his pant
leg. He took several puffs.
There was the new
young couple, he couldn't remember their names, they had a young
baby; he ruled them out. The Dawson's, they'd lived there for a
while, seven or eight years he thought. They had two sons that were
teenagers. One of those little bastards probably put the goddam
complaint box on his property. He'd consider them for some time.
The widow, what was her name? Beth. She had brought him a pound
cake when his wife passed. She'd never do anything like this. He
couldn't place it next to her mail box. She would only think he
was being playful, trying to return her childish advances.
Later that night,
after dark, he walked to the end of his driveway, turned right and
started up the road to a mailbox, the sixth one past his, the one on
the left, on the other side of the road. It was a bit difficult to
carry both the box on its post, and the digger, but he managed. He
felt quite well tonight, even stifled a giggle as he shuffled along.
The most difficult part of everything had been deciding what to write
on the piece of paper.
Tonight
it was cold, not quite freezing he thought; and a bit windy. He set
the box and post down quietly, he heard the distant bark of a dog,
then another a bit closer. He stuck his digger into the ground,
thankfully it was still soft from the recent rains. He pulled the
two handles apart and removed a little soil. He stuck it in again,
and again, and again. It was difficult to see in the dim of the
night, but he figured the hole was about six inches deep; deep
enough. He picked up the box and pole, placed it into the hole,
quickly kicked the dirt back in and stepped on it securing the post...
at least well enough to keep it upright. He looked up and down the
road, then into the house. There was still a dim light illuminating
the living room. He figured the house's occupant might be reading.
He was sure he hadn't been spotted during his covert operation.
Several minutes
later, as he sat in his rocker smoking his pipe, a broad grin crossed
his face, then he actually chuckled audibly. The widow Beth stood
outside his window, as she had many nights. She witnessed his smile
and it warmed her heart.
The next morning, a
young mother asked her seven-year-old daughter if she would go out to
the mailbox and retrieve the morning newspaper. The young girl ran
out the door, down the gravel driveway and was about to pick up the
newspaper when she noticed a rusty metal box on a stake. She looked
at it carefully and saw it had a slot in the top. She tried to open
it but it was locked. On the front of the box was a strip of
cardboard taped into place. It said, "Look in your mailbox".
The little girl opened the mailbox and in it, along with the
newspaper, was a key taped to an index card. She removed the key and
without hesitation placed it into the lock. She tried to turn it,
but at first it wouldn't open. With a little wiggling however it
did turn. The little girl was excited. She lifted the top of the
old rusty box and inside was an envelope with her Mom's on it.
She didn't bother
to close the box, or remove the key from the lock. She even forgot
the newspaper. With the envelope in her hand, she ran back into the
house yelling to her mother,
"Mommy, somebody
sent you a letter. It was in an old metal thing right next to our
mailbox."
Mom took the letter
from her little girl and opened it. Inside was a crude drawing of an
older man sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. He was
smiling.
"What is it
Mommy?"
With a tear in her
eye, the mother told her daughter that she thought it was a drawing
of Mr. Quincy, the gentleman who lived down the road.
"Does it say
anything?"
Mom turned over the
drawing and on the back it said,
"I remember when
you were Cindy's age. She looks just like you, ya know. Sorry for
being such a grumpy old coot.
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