Letters From G.

6

After I left 1114, I kept walking, away from my house, and didn't stop until my stomach grumbled like the beast. I hadn't taken off the disguise and no one else seemed to notice. I took a small victory in knowing that at least one part of my plan had been well prepared.Attending to my hunger, I went into a small no-name deli, the kind you find existing in the space between two skyscrapers.

A cute, quirky looking, redhead stood behind the counter. She looked up from a book and seemed to be staring at my outfit. I told her I worked for the city and was on my lunch break. She asked me what division and that her dad worked for the city as well. I told her I was delighted to meet the kin of a fellow city builder and she stared at me again, this time with a smirk creeping across her lips. She asked me what I was in the mood for and I asked to see their menu.Pointing above her head, she instructed me to choose from a list of eight and to decide what kind of cheese I would need.

It was at this moment that I made a choice. I chose to continue participation in my plan and continue on in the role of the city worker. I needed to give the right answer. What kind of sandwich would a man working for the city choose? What kind of cheese would that kind of man eat? These questions gave rise to new questions that gave rise to new that continued ad infinitum. Luckily, being the astute viewer of people that I am, I was able to answer these questions with relative speed and took only several minutes of menu staring uncertainty to answer.

I informed her that I, of course, would be having the trio. Salami,pepperoni, and ham, toasted, with provolone. A glob of mayo, a splash of mustard, two pickles, please and thank you. She asked if I would like a drink and I declined, telling her that I had some drinks in my truck. City workers, as you may know, are well known to drive city trucks. I, as you may remember, did not have a truck, especially one from the city, and regretted the remark as soon as it had left my mouth. Hoping she had overlooked my error, I watched as she looked out the window and I assumed she was searching for my truck. Wanting to catch the mistake preemptively, I told her that it had been parked in the neighborhood I was working and that I had walked here for some fresh air. She asked what I was talking about and told me that she had seen someone pressing against the glass, staring inside. I turned back to look and she told me they had already gone. I felt, oddly,like my privacy had been violated but shook the sensation as soon as the girl handed me my sandwich.

As I walked away, I noted the location of this hole in the wall,planning to come back and hopefully gain more insight into the life of the redhead. Not that I had any intention of romanticizing our relationship, mind you, but I did find her quirkiness quite refreshing among the staleness of suburban housewives. Obviously, I had more pressing matters at hand, though, and I made haste to backtrack to Henry's. Creating the character of the city worker had convinced me to try again at the house, knowing certainly that he should be home by this time.

It was pressing into afternoon when I made my return and again knocked,thrice and with authority, upon the door. Once again, I found myself waiting impatiently, watching nature live on, oblivious to the perils of man. In particular, this man, me, standing at the door of a stranger, waiting for them to invite him into their home. But still,there was nothing. I waited for five full minutes, knocking at intervals of a minute, and no one came. I realized then, with horror and excitement, that Henry may have killed himself. There may very well be two corpses laying inside the home I was now standing in front of and had been seen at on multiple occasions. Flashbacks of reruns of real-life police drama on TV flickered into my soul and I looked around guiltily. There was no one on the street and I didn't witness any curtains fluttering or eyes following me. I walked casually, heading in the direction opposite my home, heading in the direction of the deli, away from Henry, in whatever condition he may reside.

There is a certain calm one finds when turning their back on uncertainty.The wind was still whirling around and I wished a desire that it befall and that the leaves were twirling with it. I fantasized about the season when the hues of orange, red, and yellow cover all and the nights grow longer and darker, giving rise to the seasonal death of the trees.

Coming to, I found myself downtown, buildings peering down on me. I was deep into the once barren concrete jungle, blinded by lights and signs,advertisements for all things unneeded. Long ago, displaced from the world, I had passed by the deli with the quirky redhead. I was past the courthouse four blocks from that. Past the fountain and small park designated town square, past the string of porn stores, bars,and alleys full of broken glass. I had been walking, aimlessly, so long that I was nearly to the end of the district.

Walking a bit further, I could see the line ahead. The line that separates those with and those without. The line where the houses become decrepit and the windows become boarded. The grass standing as tall as fences, broken scraps of metal and debris rusting in the moor. As much as I love private information, there is a certain limit to the amount of hazard I am willing to put myself in. Knowing how these areas are represented on my trusty TV, I found no reason to enter this should be deserted death trap. Turning on my heels, I retreated cowardly, and went in the direction I hoped was home.

It was getting dark by the time I walked through my front door and collapsed in a chair at my kitchen table. There, still scattered across the table, was my collection of mail. The junk mail I had yet to throw away, the electric and gas bills I had yet to pay, and the original letter from G, the letter that haunts me to this day. As now seemed my customary mood, I found myself feeling defeated and resigned to sleep; leaving the sun still hanging for a few hours.