The Letterman

Inspired by The Crying of Lot 49, but I could never really get into continuing this one.

People are always asking me if I know where the mailbox is. It can happen any time and any place, a total stranger kindly imploring for "the location of the poor mailbox". They all say it so melodically, and always in the familiar jolly fashion. Donnie says (alternately) that I'm imagining it, or that it's some kind of top-secret code.

Nevertheless, I point them always in the direction of the nearest letterbox, be it the ornate contraption by the mansion drive or the rough blue one used by the commons at the metro. And off they scoot in the direction of my outstretched arm, no visible parcel at all on their persons. And no thank-you.

But, and this is the strange part that Donnie ignores, after my inquisitors turn to leave, the very same exact salutation exits my own lips.

"Let letters light!"

I don't try to do it. It's not as though I prepare for it, either. I am always ambushed into the question before I can clear my head at all. It just emerges, like lighting from a high spire. And should I ever been in company at the time of such a kindly request, I am dually forced to justify my sudden alliterative burst.

Just that very thing happened today, though I hardly noticed through all the surrounding commotion. Donnie complained of the traffic, red lights back up the whole boulevard, the whole way he drove me home from school. Nearer and even nearer to our house it remained, and a dull siren choked from some distance away. And when we turned the corner to where our house comes into view - or should have, more accurately - there was no house. There was the ornate mailbox, as always, but it stood now proudly before a scene of ash and quiet blazes. Donnie screeched the car to a stop. The mansion was in embers.

Donnie bolted from the car and stampeded towards the resolving flames, fell to his knees when it got too hot. I watched from a distance, next to the tired firefighters who looked as though the better part of their mission was already done. Mom and Dad weren't home, I remembered, and that made me happy. And Fritz is usually out and about.

I was about to step forward to go talk to Donnie when a soft tap found my shoulder. The woman behind me was quite ancient for one so quivering with energy.

"Pardon my oldness, young lad you, but could you please tell me where the nearest mailbox is?"

I grimaced and pointed vaguely towards the only intact artifact that remained of the mansion. She started to it immediately, and I fought to suppress the words rising.

"Let l-letters ... !" I groaned aloud and called, "Wait!"

She turned terrifically. "You'll need the key."

At precisely this moment, the realization that the key was inside the mansion flew into my mind like Fritz would through my open window each night. Fortunately, Fritz seemed to have heard my realization and came flapping even as the old woman turned. A warm bronze key with a curled shaft fell into my hands. Fritz was a very intelligent pigeon.

The ancient woman and I gathered round the mailbox, Donnie looking at me blankly. I twisted the key into its position as the woman produced an envelope of paper at least twice as ancient as she was. But when the mailbox door fell forward, the woman immediately stuffed it back into it's hiding place.

"Why, there's already some letters in here!"

Sure enough, two envelopes slid smoothly onto the mailbox's decorative platform. One was bright red, the comforting color of Dad's usual stationary from his trips abroad. And the other was plain but for a single large seal of wax on its reverse, but I did not find it nearly as comforting. The seal was an image of a burning house.

"Oh, so it IS you!" the ancient woman exclaimed.

Author's Note

Please be nastily brutal in your review.