Quiet Souls, Forgotten

Dear Morris,

Mike and I went out to the old bar last night, the one down the highway into town. It’s the kind of place where you can watch hockey on giant television screens, but I’d rather watch people anyway. Isn’t that why people go to bars? I mean, sure, we all want to drink and be with our friends. But some of the most memorable introductions I’ve been a part of have been over a pint of Keith’s, in some shit hole of a pub. The old fuckers, with no wife and no one to go home to — they’re the ones who have the best stories. In a lot of ways, I think they must be looking for someone to talk to. Otherwise, why not just drink at home, in your recliner? We’re all looking for human contact.

I have to work at the warehouse again tomorrow. Bright and early. I’ll rise before the sun, body weak and brain fuzzy, and begin another day in the freezer. That’s what we call it now, the “freezer”. It’s colder than anything I’ve ever felt before in that place. All day long we stand at those machines, trying to stay warm. I tried asking the owner to turn the heat up, but his heart is as cold as his warehouse. In the end, it’s a paycheck.

Nobody ever pays attention to the sort of people who work at the warehouse. Quiet, forgotten souls with no desire other than to work and feed their families. They are the silent heroes of our towns and cities. Without them, and their ilk, our society would grind to a halt. The buses wouldn’t run. The mail would sit undelivered. The grass would overtake the sidewalks and the heavy lifting wouldn’t get done. They work the hardest for a society that shits on them.

I apologize if my letters have been a little disorganized. I’m writing them every night by the window in my room. At night, I watch the neighbours burn leaves and brush from their lawns. Really, I think they ran out of leaves a long time ago. But I hope they enjoy the flames as much as I do and continue to burn their fires. I like to watch the flames jump and dance, lighting the night. Down the street, the drunks yell and complain, but nothing ever seems to change.

That’s the way it is ’round these parts. Nothing ever changes.