Fiction

Dear Morris,

It’s been raining all day today, making everything feel miserable and gray. In the warehouse, all day long we could hear the raindrops pit-pattering against the metal roof. It sounded like little footsteps, like kids were running up and down the length of the building all day. When we weren’t busy finding pails to collect the water coming down through the rafters, we worked in silence. Like I said, it was a sad sort of day. Not even a hot meal at lunchtime could cure the blues.

A new guy started in my department today. The Lad. Lad and I opened things up, first thing this morning. I showed him the ropes, how to warm up the machines and get everything ready for the day ahead. After, we told each other stories. He told me about moving here from British Columbia, about how he spent time in prison there. He calls everyone “boss”, an old habit he says he can’t seem to break. I wanted to ask him what landed him in prison in the first place, but everything in time I suppose. We stood in one of the loading docks and smoked cigars, watching the drops come on down.

The rain has made everyone antsy. The young couple, in the house across the road, tried to get a fire going during a lull in the downpour but everything was already too wet. I watched them drag sticks and lumber across the front lawn, only to fail at producing any sort of flame and drag it all back again. I opened up the window in my bedroom, Linus and Mary had the place closed up all afternoon. I need fresh air to have any chance of sleeping soundly tonight.

I received a letter from Taryn today. It didn’t really say much of anything new, just a re-hash of everything we’ve said before. I don’t know where her head is at and it’s unsettling. We’ve both grown up so much in the last four years. We’ve changed. She’s changed. She’s different now. More confident, more sure of herself. Her words have more meaning and passion than before. No matter what happens, I’m glad to have known her. Kind, generous people are in short supply these days. Especially out here. Around here, it seems, everyone is running from something. Actually, most people are running from someone. But, in the end, we’re all running.

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.

Cold and wet from the rain, out of breath from the long run home, Jack threw open the bathroom door, shut off the light and sat down on the floor. His back against the counter, eyes shut, he concentrated on slowing his breathing — slowing his thoughts. The house was quiet with an eerie silence, one he had not yet fully gotten used to. Reaching up with the only arm that seemed to work — his right — he fumbled on top of the counter until he found the can of energy drink he had left that morning. They were a new addiction, something he couldn’t quite explain but had trouble escaping.

Outside, he heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He didn’t stir, he knew that muffler sound all too well. His ears followed a string of noises — footsteps down the front walk, keys fumbling in the front door, cautious steps to the bathroom door. He didn’t bother opening his eyes, there’s wasn’t any point. He knew damn well who it was.

After what seemed like entirely too long of a pause, the door creaked open slowly and a voice poked out from the darkness.

“You used to dream about the future. You used to dream about a lot of things.”

As Jack stepped out of the shower and onto the cold bathroom floor, he slipped and hit his head on the counter. This, he decided, was not the best start to his day. Though, his mission was now clear. Some sort of mat was in order.