Part the First: Letter Opener
According to the Federal Government, I’m a wanted criminal. At the very least, a commiter of misdemeanors.You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I guess that’s exactly what every wanted criminal is hoping to achieve. I suppose, then, that I’m in good—or, at least, like—company.
By “criminal,” they (the government, the Man, the Bureau, the Big Guns, etc.) mean that I opened another person’s mail. If it helps any, it was an accident, at least the first time.
You see, my apartment is a month-to-month rental. Nothing fancy, but it’s put-together enough that I can bring my parents by once in a while without feeling too embarrassed. (Of course, they’re bona fide homeowners—the McMansion kind—so to them, anyone living in an apartment might as well be squatting in a dumpster-lined alleyway. And based on the view from the window of my twenty-square-foot bathroom, I guess in my case, they wouldn’t be too far off.) Anyway, all that is to say that people shuffle in and out of here on a regular basis, so it’s not so strange to get a couple of envelopes in the mail each week that have some Joe Schmo’s name on them. I usually just throw them out (I’d perform my due diligence and shred them if I had the money or space for a shredder), but sometimes I open them outright, because why wouldn’t I? They were sent to me, after all. What, so it’s my fault that the last five tenants in my unit didn’t perform their due diligence and submit a change-of-address form to the DMV, or City Hall, or wherever? (This, by the way, will be my self-defense to the Feds if the occasion arises.)
But back to business: The letter-opening started just a few weeks back when I was checking my mail after an absolutely brutal day at work. Whiny customers, whinier manager, bathroom vomit, the list goes on (actually, it doesn’t, but are not those three misfortunes enough?). My mailbox was stuffed since I hadn’t checked it in a few days, so I just grabbed the whole bundle of envelopes, coupons, and junk mail and waddled to my door. I said hello to my across-the-hall neighbor on the way in, but only because it would’ve been rude not to—he’s a creepy sort, not necessarily in the perv-y way, but in the nosy, watchful way, which is only slightly less annoying. His name’s Dave, and I swear he wants to be a tipster for some splashy tabloid the way he stares and listens and lingers in the doorway. I’ve even seen him write a few things down on a grimy little notepad while he stares and listens and lingers, with his six-foot-seven frame leaning up against his also-grimy doorframe. But hey, if I was a retiree with nothing better to do, maybe I’d also take up the mantle of local snoop—sounds entertaining, at least.
When I said hello, Dave just nodded, then peered at the stack of mail gradually tumbling out of my left arm (my right was busy digging in my bag for my keys). By the time I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and turned around to close it, he was staring at the mail stack like there was a live, squirming rat buried in it that I just hadn’t noticed yet. (Don’t worry, I checked—no rats to be found.) I’d never seen him look at anything like that before, but then again, it’s not like I’d ever paid attention. If I remember right, I just muttered a “Bye, Dave,” and shut the door on him. Who knows, he could still be standing there, dumbstruck, to this day.
Maybe his wide-eyed reaction seeded something in my subconscious, but I didn’t notice it at the time, or my conscious didn’t. Instead, I went about my business for a few hours after dumping the mail on my tiny kitchen counter (and yes, half of it did slide off onto the ground, thanks for asking); I showered, folded some laundry, made a grocery list that I swore I was going to go shopping for the next day, promise (surprise, I didn’t), then watched TV until I woke up sometime after dark, groggy and bewildered. I think I woke with the chiming of the cuckoo clock on my kitchen wall (a gift from my grandma, if you can call it that when the giver is already dead. I like the clock fine, but I’d like it more if I could figure out how to make the bird stop “cuckoo-ing” every hour, and if I could stop it from popping out every sixty minutes to taunt me about the relentless passage of time, and if the hands on the clock’s face would stop going around and around and around in endless circles like some cruel stopwatch tracking my gradual cell degeneration. But you know, what can you do?).
After stumbling around my apartment for a few minutes looking for the light switch (wall-dwelling creatures hide them whenever you’re not looking, you know, and that goes double if you’re drunk), I finally got the single bulb that hangs ominously above my small, grease-stained kitchen to flick on. Immediately the room looked dank and sickly in a way that made me squirm. I never leave that light on by itself, never have since I moved in—bare minimum, I turn the couch-side lamp on, too, or else the apartment’s small windows and dingy flooring make the place look like a murder basement. But my eyes were still blurry from my surprise nap anyway, and the wall creatures had hidden all my other light switches, so I simply let the murder-basement chic wash over me. Feeling somewhat watched but also horrifically alone, I rubbed my eyes and began picking up the mail from the kitchen floor, doing my best to ignore the prickling at the back of my neck. Most of the mail was spam, just a bunch of coupons and credit card offers from banks who couldn’t possibly know my FICO score, or else they wouldn’t bother. The very last envelope I recognized as a bill and groaned—probably my bank demanding I pay back the student loans I borrowed when I was seventeen and didn’t know how credit worked. Or maybe it’s my bank (again), but they want another one of the car payments I signed up for when I was twenty-three and knew how credit worked but didn’t think too hard about it because I hadn’t lost my cushy office job yet. Well, not cushy, but cushier than what I do now. I tried to tell myself the letter was probably just a standard monthly statement or some kind of benign notice, but my morbid curiosity kicked in, and soon enough, the envelope was ripped open and on the floor.
Inside was a single piece of paper, standard-issue white, with some kind of insignia at the top—not my bank’s. The symbol was blue and really convoluted, lots of loops and swirls and patterns made out of other loops and swirls. I started looking for a company name, but there wasn’t one—just the insignia. My eyes skipped down to the body of the notice, which is a bit of an exaggeration since the “body” in question was only four lines, double-spaced, in Times New Roman. This is what it said:
After reviewing your application, we have decided to select you from among our top candidates. Congratulations, and welcome to our little family.
Your acceptance means you will hereby receive a monthly sum of $16,666.00, non-taxable and in perpetuity, in exchange for the services discussed prior to the initial questionnaire.
Following your acceptance of our offer and the completion of your trial period, your first payment will be transferred to your account on the first of the following month via direct deposit.
If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to contact us. We look forward to working with you.
No signature, I thought. Now this is definitely wacko. I knew for a fact I had never submitted any “application” that would qualify me for almost seventeen grand a month. I returned to the top of the page and spotted an opening line I hadn’t seen the first time, though to be fair, it’s no wonder I missed it since the whole line was only one word: “Joan”
Well, no wonder, I thought. Joan. I vaguely remember getting mail for a “Joan” before.
I read through the letter again, then picked up the envelope and read that instead. It said, simply, “Joan McMillan,” followed by my address, unit number and all. I returned to the letter, read that through once more. It didn’t take long; it was only four lines—well, five. To my frustration (if not surprise), it said the same thing as it did the first time. No more, no less. It was a hell of an offer if it was genuine, which I doubted. But doubt can only sour a good deal so much.
Joan is missing out on quite the opportunity, I mused. Too bad she didn’t tell whoever this is about her change of address. I wonder how long ago she lived here. Probably not that long if they’re just now replying to her application. In fact, wherever she is, she’s probably thinking right about now that this organization hasn’t gotten back to her, which probably means they denied her application. Too bad she can’t be a part of their “little family.”
Joan. Hm. Interesting.
This was all I thought for the next several days: Joan. Hm. Interesting. While I was eating one of the dozen or so mediocre frozen meals in my fridge: Joan. Hm. Interesting. While I showered after work to wash the sweat out of my chopped-off hair: Joan. Hm. Interesting. While I listened to customers bitch and moan at my third minimum-wage retail job in the last six months: Joan. Hm. Interesting. While I felt Tony, my well-meaning but overbearing manager, practically breathing down my neck as I listened to customers bitch and moan at my third minimum-wage retail job in the last six months: Joan. Hm. Interesting. While I looked at a picture my mom had texted me of her and my dad in Jakarta on one of their many cruises, cruises I knew I’d never be invited on—not after, you know, everything: Joan. Hm. Interesting.
And it wasn’t until the fourth day, give or take, that my one thought, that one inescapable thought, finally transformed from Joan. Hm. Interesting. into what I suspect I had actually meant all along:
Hm. Interesting. I could be a Joan.
End of Part the First
The Raven Post 