The Letter - (from Big Lie, Small World)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
Be careful of what you say, especially if you write it down...

Submitted: May 07, 2008

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Submitted: May 07, 2008

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The Letter

By

Gussy

(Based on the song "Big Lie, Small World" by Sting)

What had I done? I had lied that’s what I did. I had lied to myself. I had lied to her and what was worse was that I put that lie to pen and paper. Dude, never make a hard copy! Had Erin Brockovich taught me nothing?

I just stood there in front of the mailbox staring.

It was so close, yet so far. My letter.

My “I’m better off without you” letter.

No, no I’m not. I didn’t mean it. I’m an idiot. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. And further more she needs me too. She knows it and I know she knows it. She wants me back. Of course she wants me back.

But not if she reads that letter.

I looked around. I was all alone. Slowly opened the slot on the box. It was dark and smelled like piss. Who takes the time and energy to piss in a mailbox? I tried getting an arm in. No good, too well engineered against that approach. I looked down at the legs of the thing. Bolted to the concrete. These postal guys weren’t messing around.

My vacuum! I could use the loose change retrieval attachment.

I went back to my apartment and grabbed my trusty Dirt Devil.

That sounds like a truck?

I went to the window. The fucking mailman! No, no, no…
I ran back downstairs. I live on the 7th floor, no elevator.
I didn't make it.

I watch forlornly as the instrument of my romantic downfall drives off in the white truck with the blue eagle on it.

This is terrible. This is beyond terrible; this really sucks. I was beside myself with angst so I just started walking and walking and walking.

It started raining. I had no coat. A bear with the tag “cuddles” around its neck chased me for two blocks and then I found myself in front of the last place I wanted to be.

Her new apartment.

Talk about ostentatious, I mean really. I guess if you’re one of those people who goes for that two story town house with the bay windows large enough for a pterodactyl to fly through and the crushed, bleached gravel walk way sort of thing, it's ok. But seriously, I didn't see a single pizza place or 24 hour Laundromat in the entire neighborhood. How pathetic is that!

I went up to her new buzzer. The one with only her name on it now. I was about to push it when a garbled voice came over the speaker by the door asking what I wanted. I think it was the landlord. I was probably on some sort of close circuit camera. I told him I was there to see her, he tells me she's out of town. How the hell does he know where she is? She's only been here a week and he has her itinerary?

Fine, it just made what I had to do that much easier.

I looked at my watch. Six o'clock. That meant only sixteen hours before the mail got delivered. I'd wait and when the mail carrier showed up, I'd just ask him for the letter back and tell him it was all a big mistake. It was, after all, my letter.

The sun went down.

The rain kept up. Haven't they ever heard of awnings for Christ's sake? Guess they spent all of their money making this sissy wissy foofy poofy flower garden that surrounds the entire building. Again, pathetic.

What's a light doing on in her place? Is that a guy? That's a fucking guy!!

It's been a week!!

Oh no way. Is this that guy? The one she works with. The one with the bacteria neurosis? “Mr. Clean” her sister had nicknamed him. I couldn't get a good look at him through the rain soaked window. He looked taller than me but then again I was looking up at him from the street.

I should go kick his ass.

Of course I’d have to actually get inside first.

Rain comes down harder. I find a bush to sleep under. I’ll get that letter back and prove that I’m the only man she needs. Not some germaphobe spork boy.

I’ll get the letter back and then I’ll get pneumonia from exposure and she’ll feel bad for me.

I feel bad for me.

Morning comes. Suns up. I’m not. What’s that smell? Bacon? No. Eggs? Grease? No, that’s not it. Oh wait, that’s exhaust. Exhaust? Exhaust! Mail truck! Mission time!

I get up quickly.
Too quickly.

Forget about the stone window sill. Good thing I’m not a bleeder but I start to loose consciousness. Shake it off man, the letter, the letter.

It’s not the mail truck after all.

But wait, there he is! The mail man, my savior! I go to him, he jumps back. I guess I look pretty strange because he pulls out mace. I tell him it’s ok I’m not going to mug him for the coupons; I just need my letter back. What does he mean “is it addressed to me?” Of course it’s not addressed to me shit for brains otherwise I’d be sitting at my house waiting for it.

Did I say that out loud?

I think I did because the mace is back in my face.

Door opens behind me. Footsteps. “Is there a problem here?” I turn, and then it’s my stomach’s turn to turn.

Mr. Clean. In a fucking pink fuzzy bathrobe.

What a sally.

The letter; I must concentrate on the letter. Stick to the mission soldier. Suddenly they are both talking at once. The postman. Mr. Clean. The postman. Mr. Clean. What the hell are they saying? Is that English? They’re plotting against me aren’t they? Ok this is getting out of hand. I just want my fucking letter back so I can get back the woman of my dreams and we can get on with our happily ever after. Why can’t they see that is all I want? I think I have a concussion from the window sill.

Lack of water and food and coffee begins to kick in I guess ‘cause I deck Mr. Clean right across the chin. And with unsanitary fiststoo, muhahaha!

Or maybe I kicked him in the gonads. I’m moving with warrior like precision so it’s hard to tell. No I guess it was the postman who got it in the jewels because he’s doubled over and the mace rolls to my feet.

He drops his bag.

The bag! My letter! But there’s so many of them. A dog starts barking. Neighbors start to open windows. I do the only rationale thing.

I take them all.

I’ll sort it out later back in the safety of my own neighborhood not this pizzaless realm of insanity. I look back once to see my foes still reeling. I toss my head “Ha” and I’m off.

“Stop! Thief! That’s a federal offense! You’ll hang for this….” The post man yells (an octave higher). Ho no my black socked friend, I will be redeemed. My fate is my own once again. I made a near folly with my hastily written words but the Lord has seen fit to give me another chance. From this day forward my world will be a world of love, a world of laughter, a world of flowers…

…a world called "Block C”, second cell on the left.

It smells like the piss from the mailbox. I don’t know how they found me so fast. It was those damn fireman. Lead the police right to me. I don’t know what all the yelling was about. I had the blaze completely under control. Absolutely no cause for alarm. And I never liked that chair anyway. Besides, it wasn’t my fault. Burning the bag was a good idea, far more efficient than sifting through all those envelopes. What kind of sadist treats a burlap bag with flammable water repellant? Sucker went up like flash paper. Whoosh!

I tried to call her, you know with that one phone call they give you. I got her answering machine.

Mr. Clean’s voice is on the fucking message.

So here I sit. Despondent as a wet dog with a big “L” branded on my forehead. I have to talk to her. If she will just listen to my side of the story she’ll see how dedicated I am. How I’m willing to walk through fire for her. How I did walk through fire for her.

Ok was carried through fire for her but only because that firewoman sucker punched me and threw me over her shoulder.

But how can I reach her? How can I appeal to that tender, understanding heart of hers? How can I make her understand why we are meant to be if I'm stuck in a ten by ten cage?

…I know, I’ll write her a letter…


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