Alone

Author's Note: This is for my Creative Writing class and is due on Tuesday; any honest feedback before then is gratefully appreciated!

It was precisely 2:17 in the afternoon. John had been watching the clock intently, focusing solely on the minute hand as it made imperceptible twitches across the numbered face. Sitting at a table piled with stack upon stack of correspondence with hundreds of people, he had been staring for hours, scrutinizing the meticulousness the clock endured, waiting for this exact moment. John threw back his chair in triumph, strapped on his shoes, twisted a scarf about his neck, and strode out the door. It was time to get the mail.

John lived on a dirt road that harbored several other houses on either side. The road was relatively straight, with a slight deviation to the north to avoid a large pothole about two-thirds of the way down. The houses were relatively straight, with slight deviations in the shingling and shuttering. His own residence was painted a cream color, which had faded into lovely shades of brown and gray from years of neglect. The houses were spaced sparingly along this dirt road, to allow its occupants a meager acreage and room for a horse or two.

John strode down the aforementioned road with obsessed determination. The muddy fields to either side of him were webbed with frost, and were vacant of their customary inhabitants. The meadows, usually harmonious with birds, lay eerily silent. The empty skies seemed to bore down, watching the world wither away. John would have felt quite alone, had he not been preoccupied with a neighbor he just spotted, who was gazing under the hood of his old Ford.

“Hail, Frank!” cried John amiably. Frank looked up from his truck.

“Well howdy, stranger!” Frank replied. “Getting the mail, John?”

“Yes sir! Maybe there’s a letter from my aunt down in Mission!”

“Mission! Whoo-wee! Ain’t that a bit of a ways from here!”

“Sure is, Frank. Way down in Texas. Say, did you wash your truck?”

Frank grinned. “Sure did. Ain’t she purdy?” Frank always referred to his truck as one would refer to a Southern belle. Unfortunately, ‘purdy’ did not quite describe the curling paint, dirt-ingrained windows, and bald tires.

“She’s a beaut’. All nice and red and all. You’ve made her up real nice, there, Frank.”

“My thanks, sir. Well, best of luck to you, John. You’d best be on your way.” Frank tipped his hat, and John continued down the relatively straight dirt road.

John returned his attention to his ultimate goal: the daily mail. Several months ago—in August to be specific—John decided he loved mail. He hunted down and gathered all of the addresses to all of the people he knew. His estranged wife, his aunt, his pastor, his tax collector; with anyone he knew, he wanted to correspond. On this particular day in August, he bought a sheaf of velvety paper and three books of stamps and began to write letters. Writing well through the night and into morning, John produced over two hundred letters, each with a different addressee and a different message.

That day, John mailed the letters. That afternoon, at exactly 2:17, the postman drove up to his ramshackle house and politely asked if John was crazy, and, if so, why was he still there. John smiled and told him, no, thank you very much, he was not crazy, but thank you for asking. He would gladly inform the postman in the occurrence that he DID become clinically insane. And John would have, too.

So every afternoon, John watched the clock, waiting for the beloved hour of 2:17. And every afternoon, when 2:17 arrived, John without fail would jump up euphorically, throw on his shoes, and march down his relatively straight dirt road.

John identified his neighbor Phil, a cowhand on the McGregor’s farm, who was wrestling with one of his wild-looking broncos. Being indisputably cheerful to see Phil, he marched straight towards the horse-grappling cowhand, who was quite content with keeping the horses hoofs from caving in his head, rather than shaking John’s hand.

“Hail, Phil!” cried John enthusiastically.

“Howdy there, John! How are you this fine day?”

“Just swell. I’m going to get the mail. What are you doing?”

“Just playing with old Jezebel here.” He gestured to the rearing bronco with a twitch of his head. “She hasn’t been out much. Would ya like to help me out with her?”

“I’m much more inclined to get the mail, but I thank you kindly.”

“Ah, of course,” Phil acknowledged philosophically. “Well, I’ll see you around, John.”

“Sounds good to me, Phil.”

Right before John turned to continue his journey down the relatively straight dirt road, he watched the bucking mare smash her hoof through Phil’s face, who in turn crumpled to the ground. John thought about this for a moment, stared fixedly on the escaping mare, and pivoted back to the road.

As he reached the mailbox, perspiration poured down his face with anticipation. His hands quavered and breath quickened. He gradually pulled open the door and the letters spilled out onto the ground. Inside lay an unyielding wall of envelopes, each addressed to Mr. John Lawrenceson of Dakota Ridge in the same slanted, cramped handwriting. It was the same handwriting that had three months prior sent over two hundred letters to various persons that didn’t exist. Nor did Frank or Phil exist, nor the wild Jezebel. Of course, none of this occurred to John. He had no idea that he was completely alone.