Letters From G.

1.

I know I shouldn't do it. I know that it's wrong. Let's establish the facts first. You can't talk me out of it because it has already happened and you're not actually here with me and I may not be hereby the time you've finished reading this. What I'm going to tell you now is a story that is currently in progress. Situations and events and characters and places and details have yet to be realized.I'll do my best to keep you informed as we begin our march through the treacherous world I've wrapped myself so deeply into.

It was a normal day in my normal town on my normal street as I went about my normal hobby of voyeurism in order to satisfy my curiosity of the lives of my neighbors. Far gone are the days where you could walk up to your neighbors' door, knocking belligerently in an attempt to force on them some stale store bought cookies that you claim to have made yourself. Just your way of welcoming them into the neighborhood,as some of you might have said. But, those days are over.

These days, walking up to a neighbor's house uninvited is more likely to result in you being greeted with a gloriously over-the-top gun and possibly never leaving the front stoop of the cheerful couple next door. These days, if you want to know anything about your neighbors,or anyone for that matter, you have to be a bit more creative in procuring your intel. It took me some time to come up with a full proof plan that not only would be noninvasive, but would also be like a constantly reloading magazine ready to fire off bits of information at whatever speed I decided.

I'll be honest. At first I wasn't as proficient a spy as I may have thought I was. I would walk around town looking for doors or windows slightly ajar. Just something large enough for me to peek an eyeball into or press an ear against in hopes of an argument or fight, both of which normally lead to sex, rearing its entertaining head. I tried getting my gossip from people on the bus or in well-populated areas where people scream their conversations to be heard over the chatter of everyone around them. I tried checking the online world, seeing a show people just talk and gossip and argue everywhere in that place.These all seemed like viable options at the time but there was a problem with the type of gossip I was finding. In all of these places, people seemed to be putting up masks and defending themselves preemptively against the barrage of insults and malicious words they came prepared to endure. I needed something with more heart.Something with more meat and drama and injury. Everything I was finding was too detached or felt theatrical instead of personal.

There was a small period where I would attend meetings or gatherings or groups or whatever the hell you want to call them. The places where people go and tell you about the horrible things they did in their lives or the things that someone else has done or is doing to them. A couple of months went by with my curiosity being subdued by these tales of woe and despair and that was all fine and well but then I started feeling empathy for some of these people and knew it was time to move on.

Empathy,as I'm sure you know, is a definite mood killer. You see your friend trip on the sidewalk and scrape their elbow or stub their toe and everyone laughs. You watch a movie and see a cheerleader get tortured and decapitated and then the killer starts dribbling her head and slam dunks it into a dumpster and everyone cheers. The greatest stories of all time are based on the idea of a tragic comedy when you really think about it. But once you start feeling those old emphatic pangs beating inside your chest, it's already too late.Empathy is here to ruin the show. Your friend becomes a helpless,bleeding, victim in need of sympathy. The cheerleader becomes a real person and the funny slam dunk becomes a disgusting, depraved action of a mentally ill person. God help their soul.

I was feeling restless and nothing seemed to give me the fix I was looking for and I had just about decided to move on with my life and possibly pick up a new hobby. I was thinking bird watching or something to do with wildlife since watching people usually felt like watching animals anyway. Another couple of meetings and I would have missed this whole experience.

I stepped out in the morning, like any normal day, and went down my driveway to check my mail. My neighbor drove by on his way to work and I waved and he nodded his head as people do when they're pretending to be polite. I opened my mailbox, flipped through bills and advertisements and then I saw it. Someone strangers' mail had been delivered to my address. It was almost my address except they lived at 1114 and I lived at 1141. I've never been one to intrude on federal law so I walked inside, intending to throw away the misplaced piece of mail. Once inside, I could hear the steam escaping my tea kettle, crying out for attention, and went to relieve its distress. I tossed the pile of mail onto the kitchen table and poured myself a cup. Sitting down at the table, I started opening and discarding the random post scattered in front of me. Bills, ads,credit card proposals, the usual tidbits of mail that take up space in dumps across the country. I made it through all of my pieces and was left with only the alien piece remaining.

It looked so different from any of my mail. I couldn't remember the last time someone had sent me an actual letter. It takes time and effort to put together a series of words, sentences, and paragraphs expressing your thoughts to another singular person. The personal nature of letter writing and receiving was like a beacon in the dark.It directed me and showed me where my habit, excuse me, my hobby was meant to be engaged. I picked up the lost letter and picked at the corner of the envelope. It bent and wrinkled and softened and I thought about the laws concerning mail tampering and wondered if it was considered theft if it was given to me. Technically, I hadn't stolen a thing and I used that logic to convince myself that what I was doing was fine. I reasoned that since they had never received the letter, that they could not miss something they never had. At the time, the logic was flawless. I was sure of it.

I sat there staring at it. Mesmerized by the potentially private information living inside the envelope. The possibilities seemed endless. What could it be hiding? What secrets were being locked inside so insecurely? Under that thin shell of white paper could be anything. Was it an invitation to a wedding, or even better, a funeral? Maybe it was a long overdue love letter from one unhappily married person to another. Something inside me had been lit and the heat I felt rising up could only be contained for so long. The teakettle, still set on the edge of the stove, glistened over to me inits most inviting manner and I had flashbacks of old movies and was standing over it in seconds, holding the envelope above the steam.

Just so you know, that does really work. It didn't even take very long.I just held the envelope over it and, soon after, the glue came unstuck and all that private information came pouring out all over my kitchen. I could feel the words reaching out at me before I even opened the flap. My hands were almost shaking with anticipation as I gently lifted the tri-folded letter and revealed the dreadful contents.