Robinjazz

The Letter



Disturbed, Johnny sat on the bottom step of the concrete stairs leading into Christ the King’s Church, holding a letter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The nineteen-year-old brought the cigarette to his mouth, drew hard on it, and sent a stream of smoke into the chilly evening. He then looked down at the letter and began reviewing it for what must have seemed like the thousandth time. While he stared angrily at it, he heard the sound of a creaking door behind him, and turning quickly, he was surprised to see Father Quinn, standing in the doorway of the church.

Immediately, Johnny leapt to his feet to greet his friend. “Hi, Father, how are you?” He said, a bit startled, “I thought the church was closed.”

“Oh it is, Johnny,” the priest smiled, “I was just checking up on something. By the way, what are you doing here alone? It’s close to midnight.”

Johnny held the letter out toward the priest. “Father, have a look at this.” He said. “It came in the mail about a month ago.”

“What is it?” Father Quinn said, taking it from the boy’s hand.

“Bad news, Father,” the teenager said.

As the priest started to read, his eyes were drawn instantly to the bold-faced words on top: ORDER TO REPORT FOR ARMED FORCES PHYSCAL EXAMINATION. That was all he had to see. He shifted his gaze back at the boy and said, “When do you take the physical?”

“It’s Tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Why didn’t you come to see me sooner, Johnny? We could have spoken about this at length.” Father Quinn said, deeply concerned.

Johnny said nothing as the priest returned the letter to him.

“After you finish taking the physical tomorrow, come to see me at the rectory and let me know how you made out, okay?” the gray-haired priest said.

“Okay, Father, I will.” The boy said, offering his hand to shake good-night.

When Father Quinn had left, Johnny stuck the letter into his back pocket and decided to go home. The chat with the priest did boost his spirits somewhat, but it did nothing to alleviate his nervousness. While walking home, passing one rundown tenement after another, he kept thinking about what might happen to him. He realized that if he were to pass his army physical tomorrow, he would, more than likely, end up being a soldier fighting to remain alive in the jungles of Vietnam. And all because of a letter—how he wished he could just destroy it and be left alone.

Near the building where Johnny lived, there were some old trash cans filled to the brim with all kinds of garbage. A lot of it had spilt over and lay in a disgusting heap near the entrance of the building. Johnny tried to clear away some of it by kicking a few empty beer cans, some soda cans, and some empty cereal boxes into the gutter. Satisfied, he stopped and began staring at names scrawled on the wall of his building. His eyes became fixed on one name in particular. It was written in a white paint, now barely visible, which he himself had put there in 1959, when he was just eleven years old. The name was "Johnny Boy."

Almost the entire wall was covered with names, and he didn't stop at his own. He sought out others, and right below his, he observed two more—"Frankie" and "Dicky." Both of them had been childhood friends who no longer lived in the neighborhood. For a moment he thought about their whereabouts. Where might they be living now, and what might they be doing? Then, let his imagination come into play and remembered all three as they were years ago, as innocent kids playing games in the street and as not-so-innocent kids stealing five-cent chocolate bars from the countertop in Charlie’s Candy Store.

The fond memories flooded his head, taking his mind off the letter, the army. Once again, He was climbing fences in the back yards with his buddies, safe and secure, far away from the perils of war. By dwelling on his past, he detached himself from his current worries. The memories had propelled his uncertain future further away. They relaxed him, even though he knew attempting to escape reality was futile and foolish. But, on the other hand, if he could squeeze some comfort from the past, he intended to go on squeezing and squeezing his yesteryears until every joyful moment completely obliterated the fear the army had mailed him.

When he entered his apartment, he seated himself in the dimly lit kitchen, and in the bedroom to his right, he heard sheets ruffling. Immediately, He knew what was going on. It was his mother tossing and turning, unable to sleep. She too was a nervous wreck, since the letter had arrived. Johnny wanted to comfort her, but he didn't. He remained silent. And listening even more closely, he thought he now heard soft crying coming from her room, but he couldn't be sure.

Not wanting to disturb her, he quietly pulled the letter from his pocket and clutched it with both hands. Just above him, the plastic crucifix hanging on the kitchen wall received all of his attention. He found solace staring at the tiny figure of Jesus on it. Then, he sank in the chair, buried his face in both hands--in the letter--and, once again, thought he heard a soft crying. Only this time he was sure.

Shyox

well written, believable characters, and once again just well written. Interesting insight.

The only problem is that it doesn't really go anywhere, though I wouldn't change a thing.