28 July 2007

The Letter



Registered letters are real attention-getters, or at least they are once you have received one.

That is what they call “experience,” which is actually the culmination of a lot of mistakes. It enables you to know when you are making one again.

They look so official, what with the green sticker and the stamps all over. They carry the full authority of the US Postal Service, who has their own police force to enforce the proper handling of the mail.

Ruth-the-Concierge had one for me at the desk in the formal lobby of Big Pink. When the air conditioning is running, it is an elegant way to enter the building, not like the plain concrete steps that lead up from the parking lot.

I was coming back from the Harris Tweeter grocery store over in Ballston where I had secured a few supplies to fix a nice lunch for my older boy. He is working the eve shift at the Pentagon this week, and when I can I like to send him off well-fed.

I like Ruth a lot, since she is unfailingly sunny in her disposition, but I could see she was concerned. Working at the desk, she has a chance to see just about every form of human emotion. Some are so severe that they have to be entered in the Red Book behind the counter in case follow-up action is required. She handed the letter to me, knowing there was bad news inside, and I put my groceries down on the desk and took it from her. She was eyeing the Red Book just in case.

I looked at the address, realizing it was from the Ex, and sighed. We had been fairly cordial of late, and I had hoped some of the bitterness had diminished. The green official return-receipt on the envelope indicated it has not.

I could have hurried up to my unit high over the pool to discover the contents, but decided I would get things out of the way. News travels fast in the building, and I thought it was best to get things out of the way by letting Rumor Central get the straight story.

The envelope was remarkably thin, which like a letter from a college normally means you did not get in. I slit the end of it and slid the one page out. It started out with a curious salutation; it was addressed to my full Christian name, which only my Mother uses. It went on to say it was very difficult to demand what the last paragraph was going to demand, and then it had a paragraph with some numbers, and concluded by a request for a certified check in the amount of $86,060.13 by return post.

There was another demand, for another $20,000 a year until I was dead, but there was no insistence that it be paid by return post, since the first installment is not due until next Wednesday.

I took a deep breath and smiled. Attitude is everything, and a positive one is the best medicine. “The Ex is trying to ruin me,” I said brightly, and slid the letter on top of the container of tuna salad I intended to transform into a nice melted sandwich with American cheese on a Kaiser roll. The puffy buns had looked appealing in the bakery section, and I thought my son would like it with some fresh lettuce and a side salad and pickle.

A list of numbers flickered through my head. After taxes and deductions, the letter insisted on a year's pay. Ruth looked concerned, and I told her not to worry about it. Then I picked up the groceries and walked to the bank of elevators and pushed the button. The door on the left opened, which was a little surprising. Normally when I have my hands full of groceries, the Service door is the one that responds, the one all the way to the right that closes just as you get to it. The contents, normally the eggs, suffer from the contact with the doors, so this was a bit of good luck.

I unloaded the letter first, putting it on top of what I earnestly hoped were the last bills from my younger son's college next to the computer. Then and unpacked the vegetables and tuna salad and fresh rolls. I had a couple nice cucumbers- .69 cents apiece- which I was going to peel and cut into nice rounds to make a nice cucumber vinaigrette. I thought would be refreshing on a hot day.

I had to watch what I was doing, since my hands were shaking and I did not want to slice the end of my fingers into the salad.

Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

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