Burn Letters

 This is the first story, in the line of many short stories, for a series I will be writing entitled Burn Letters. It will follow the adventures and readings of one Robinson Cross, as he uncovers the life and stories of a variety of characters in his position of Undeliverable Mail Custodian(UMC) for the post office.

     "Do you understand?" Roger Cole stood there a little more than annoyed as he posed this question, once again, to the wandering young man who walked around the small basement room looking at all the letters as if he was looking at priceless pieces of art in a museum. The young man, Robinson Cross, wasn't amazed as much as fascinated by his new job in the basement of this post office. In the bowels of the tiny post office the two men stood inside this small, dark room filled with thousands of unopened letters.  There also stood a menacing black furnace that took up one side of the room. The furnace stood like a hideous monster waiting for its moment to be awoken. To be free to destroy. Robinson blocked out that side of the room, content on fantasizing of the possibilities that were captured inside these thin, white envelopes. As a writer, Robinson always thought in pictures and as he walked by each stack of letters he could not help, but feel an impending sense of mystery and possibility that lay within each letter. Robinson could not wait to get started.
     "This one is from 1957. What is the oldest date you have found unopened?" Robinson said finally turning his attention to Mr. Cole.
     Mr. Cole found his normally cold demeanor turning toward an irritation at this young man that he had hired. Had this kid heard anything that he had said or had he been too caught up in this basic task that was given? Mr. Cole unfolded his arms putting his clipboard down emphatically on the empty wooden surface of Robinson's desk. Well, what would be Robinson's desk; that is if Mr. Cole didn't fire him first.
     "Mr. Cross, I need-"
      "You can just call me Robinson or Rob, though I prefer Robinson if it's all the same to you. Mr. Cole you can't actually expect me to burn these letters here. These are treasures." Robinson picked up a few letters and began to examine them. "They were meant to be delivered. You can't just burn up the words of others. There could be something important buried in all of this."
      Mr. Cole closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He walked over to Robinson Cross and jerked the letters out of his hands. Mr. Cole placed the letters back down in their place. He figured that he now had Robinson's full attention "Now, Mr. Cross, I need your full attention. I need to know that you understand the importance of your job and how to do the job properly. It is imperative that you are on the same page in understanding the inner workings of this post to maintain-" Mr. Cole paused a moment to register the affect of his words upon Robinson. It was important to Mr. Cole to control each and every detail of  post office operations to his specifications. Mr. Cole not only enjoyed order, but demanded it and the post office afforded him that order in its meticulous schedule and time honored tradition. He engaged  Robinson's eyes, knowing he would not allow some newbie to throw off his operation with dim witted questions or an inability to execute his exact commands.
       Mr. Cole moved quickly to the furnace and bent down. Feeling around the base of the large contraption he pressed a small button. A low rumble arose from the beast as if awakening from a long winter slumber. Mr. Cole moved slowly away from the furnace making sure to never look away as it slowly came to life and began to breathe hot angry fire in anticipation of its feeding time. As the furnace breathed angrily on the room Mr. Cole found himself staring down his young employee, capturing his full attention that now allowed for him to finish his poignant statement "the integrity of not only the the post office, but to the many whom felt this method of delivery would afford them the privacy that they commanded with their personal ruminations that they felt us worthy to accommodate their wishes. And now that the command was unable to be delivered we must uphold that bond of trust by destroying the very contents we were entrusted with."
       Mr. Cole took a letter and coldly dropped it inside the furnace as the flames of the furnace ate away at the lost words as the smoke drifted upwards through a shaft and into the cold winter air to be lost again, but this time forever.
      Mr. Cole looked upon young Mr. Cross for any type of spark or recognition that would mark an understanding. A look that would state that Mr. Cole was in control of this department like he was of all other departments. He did not receive that indication; instead, Mr. Cross was met with an icy stare and words that rattled within him, "Mr. Cole, I thought the post office's purpose was to deliver mail. Wouldn't we be better served trying to locate these people and giving them the words of their family or friend or whatever is inside of these. Burning them will only leave an emptiness inside of them that was meant to be filled."
     Those words nearly sent Mr. Cole through the roof. This simply would not do he told himself. He demanded an understanding, "For God sake's Mr. Cross, I feel as if I am always talking to myself. You gaze about the room like a five year old on Christmas Day. As if you will unearth a prize unknown to any other. This is serious work not an Easter Egg hunt. We cannot waste the time trying to solve these mysteries. Most things are better left done away with as the ashes of the past. This role you want may not suit you fore I am afraid that you are not ready to handle such an immense task. I require an unabashed assurance be given to me of your competency. And well, I do not know if you have the slightest or requisite knowhow that is desired."
     Mr. Cole walks over to the desk and quickly picks up his clipboard. He flips through it and begins to scribble a few notes down. He then stands at attention between the doorway continuing to scribble as he addresses Robinson, for what he believes will be the last time, "As you have really nothing to say for yourself I would like you to excuse yourself from the room. I obviously have made quite an error in judgment. Good day."
     Robinson holds his position amongst the mass of letters that would engulf him like a tidal wave with the slightest shake of the room. He looks around the room wide-eyed and can hear the voices of ghosts speaking to him in unison. They pleaded with him to stay in a compelling whisper of stories that needed to be uncovered. The fact of the matter is Robinson never had any intention of leaving. There had been a strong allure he felt when he read the advertisement for the position. He was even shocked to find that he was the only person that had applied for the position. Robinson looked toward Mr. Cole and smiled, "I apologize Mr. Cole for any perceived lack of acknowledgement. My role as curator of this department requires me to the strictest confidentiality with regards to the numerous letters that reside here. It is my duty to retrieve any and all merchandise- jewelry, money, and any other items of value into a secure collection box to be itemized and shipped to the postal headquarters. It is not my duty to read or report on any letters that I find within these confines, but rather to burn the lost, insufficient, and all undeliverable letters in this department. Also, I will leave the contents of all items within these walls upon my departure everyday. All of this I understand."
     Mr. Cole put down his pen and clipboard and looked upon young Robinson. He had his reservations about the young man as he did not seem all too bright; a little rough around the edges in terms of efficiency and time management. This kid was a dreamer. He could tell upon his introduction to this mess of a room that he saw possibility instead of loss. He did not see a job, but an adventure. Mr. Cole frowned at the thought. However, that was the challenge for Mr. Cole- to mold this worker into his image. To change the dreamer into a serious and accomplished worker.
      "Mr. Robinson you will start at eight sharp every morning. That means you must be here by seven-thirty. Punctuality is key in this business. You will report to me every lunch with a detailed report of your activities. You will do the same thing in the evening before you leave. Mr. Sanders our security officer will also be checking all items on you. If even a trace of an item leaves this room you will be immediately terminated and the authorities will be notified. Mail theft and tampering is something I take very seriously and I will see you receive the maximum punishment. Do we understand each other?"
        Robinson looks around the room at his new life as the whispers grow louder and louder. He smiles at Mr. Cole and nods affirmatively "yes".
       "Good" a blank faced Mr. Cole states, "I think you will do very well here if you follow the rules and  do your job. There are no shortcuts and there are no hand outs here. Just work. Figure that out sooner rather than later."
       Robinson walks around to his station in the small office to embark upon his new adventure. As Mr. Cole is about to close the door he stops and sticks his head in the door, "Oh, and to conserve energy and cut costs we turn off the lights in here. You will see we have supplied you with a desk lamp and if that goes out a small flashlight resides in the cabinet drawer by your right knee. Any questions?"
       Robinson looks around and turns to ask a question. "Mr. Cole why does the door need to be-"
      Mr. Cole declines to hear the rest of the question as he breaks in with a casual order, "See you at lunch with my report." Roger Cole begins to shut the door, but not before hissing one last demand, "And remember under no circumstances are you to read the letters."
     "I have no intention of doing so-" The door shuts with a dull thud behind Robinson as he looks around the room. The lights soon shut off and he sits alone in the darkened room fumbling around for the lamp switch. He finally locates the switch, but not before knocking off stacks of letters to the ground. Robinson gathers the letters off the ground like one would gather a pile of leaves. He takes the small flashlight from the drawer and turns it on as he sorts through the letters making his way to the dark furnace. He bent down and, like Mr. Cole did, hit a small button on the bottom of the furnace once again awakening the fury of the black monster. He moves back slowly towards the desk as the furnaces breathing becomes heavier and heavier. The smell of burnt ash permeates the room, stinging Robinson's nostrils.
     With the small flickering light shining only upon his desk, Robinson Cross, having returned to the desk to place the flashlight back in the drawer, feels an eerie loneliness inside the room. Robinson, having watched the hissing tongue of fire become ready, stands up and suddenly the room begins to take on a different mood that gives young Robinson a painful shiver as he tries to adjust his eyes to the new atmosphere of the room. Where once he was surrounded by possibility he is now surrounded with a spinning uncertainty of his senses. He starts to feel queasy as he stands up to deliver the mail to its final resting place. His senses, though, are panicked as he tries to control his breathing in this dungeon inferno. Gripping the edges of the desk tightly to regain his balance; his knuckles turn a papery white as the letters spill to the ground. His breathing is uncontrolled as his heart pounds manically. Robinson feels an iciness upon him as he tries to inch closer to the furnace, but his steps become heavy as if dipped in cement; he tries to call for help only to find his throat restricting into a tightly coiled ball of distress. What is happening?
     Robinson tries to settle his nerves and reaches for a letter. Words always having the ability to calm and focus him. Frantically tearing open the letter he looks upon the handwriting to find a chaotic mess of words that are indecipherable to his mind. His eyes are trying to focus. Trying to decode and unscramble what is right there in front of him. He grabs for the light, but with his rattled nerves he knocks it over onto the ground with a crash. A queer gust of wind whips through the tiny room, causing Robinson to lock onto the desk, as the furnace returns to a grave slumber. The darkness engulfs him again, but now the panic and fear has subsided. Sitting in the dark he is now able to breathe slowly and fluidly. He slowly releases his death grip on the desk and his muscles relax. He sits in the dark and just breathes.
      A moment passes and he now feels comfortable within himself to open the drawer to grab the flashlight. He turns on the flashlight; slowly he moves it from one side of the room to the other and then back again. Where did that cold wind come from? The door is closed behind him and there is no window or vent in the small room. It must have been part of the panic he felt. His imagination running wild like usual. That would not be out of the ordinary. Just chalk it up to your imagination.
      He moves to the furnace and checks inside of it. Everything looks fine. Robinson tries to turn it on only to hear a low rumble and then nothing. What now?
      He definitely did not want to tell Mr. Cole. The last thing he wanted was to be scolded by him and lose his job. He already could hear the mocking "tssk, tssk" forming on his thin lips. No, Robinson would rather sit here in the dark with his flashlight in the ghostly silence. He checked his watch that stated it was nine-thirty. He still had time to kill. A lot of time to kill before lunch.
     Robinson took a seat at the desk trying to not make eye contact with the letter. Maybe this was a test: the darkness, the furnace, the fear- all just a test to see if he would read the letters. If he would slip up. The words on the letter in front of him were popping out to him as he tried to avoid their gaze. He had to resist.
     He couldn't. The temptation of what was written, of someone's unread words to another were to much for Robinson Cross to bear. Somebody had to read them. That was what was meant upon their conception was for the letter to be read. Maybe not by him, but sitting there in the darkness, armed only with a flashlight, maybe the letter was meant for him. Just maybe something good may come out of it. Who knows? Does anyone ever really know?
      Robinson Cross was about to find out.