End of a day
The last day of the month when Mr. Mahan woke, his mouth had a strange bitter taste. After
breakfast he checked his mailbox and found a letter, one with no sender’s address. When he
looked at the recipient’s address he was puzzled, it was written in his own handwriting as if he
had written it today. He was more shocked when he noticed the postmark date. The letter was
mailed over 30 years ago.
He wondered how he could have received a letter after all these years, a letter he’d sent to him.
He held the envelope with two hands before his dazzled eyes and murmured, “In the last thirty
years, I’ve moved three or four times. Now I’m supposed to believe that the post office is so
dedicated as to track me down after all these years to deliver this letter? A letter I never wrote?”
Perplexed by the letter in his hands, he opened the envelope and warily touched every word of
every line with his trembling fingers and when he was convinced the letter was real he dared to
read it.
It was a chronicle of his life. His most personal thoughts and ambitions were written down, every
childhood dream and youthful mistake. Memories and events had never shared with anyone. For
a moment he thought maybe he had written such unusual confessions in a hallucination. But this
simple explanation was not acceptable to someone like Mr. Mahan. He then carefully folded the
letter, placed it in the envelope and put it deep in his coat’s pocket determined to decipher this
mystery later.
It was end of the month, the day he went to the retirement affairs office to receive his pension
check, his only income. Not a lot of money but sufficient to keep his life running, to pay rent for
his one-bedroom apartment, food and spare change for cigarettes and occasional newspaper.
When he arrived at the office, he faced a long line of people already formed. They always
arrived an hour before time and stood in line, waiting was their favorite hobby. They always
shared their life stories with total strangers in line, complained about their emotionally distant
children, small size of their retirement benefits and missed golden opportunities in life. And if the
line was long enough, they bragged about their passionate loves, heroism in wars, and political
activism.
In the company of his peers, Mr. Mahan always made up remarkable stories about his life and
dazzled everyone and the way home, he laughed at his sizzling lies and the foolishness of
others. Pulling their legs was his favorite pastime. Today he told everyone story of the letter but
surprisingly, no one was amazed. He even took the letter out of his pocket and paraded it before
their eyes and still didn’t receive much reaction from his audience.
When he realized he couldn’t convince them of the bizarre nature of this event, he turned his
back and cursed them under his breath, “These idiots don’t know the difference between the
reality and fantasy. The older they get, the dumber they become.”
Finally it was his turn to receive his check. He approached the desk and stated his name, date of
birth, and birth certificate number. The chubby clerk fanned through the checks and asked his
name again. He made a funny face while spelling his name this time, “M A H A N”. Once again
the clerk went through the checks and searched the computer list and informed him that his
name was not on the list. Therefore, he would no longer receive a check.
Mr. Mahan was startled, “What do you mean you can’t find may name? My life depends on this
check? What do expect me to do, lay my head down and die?”
The clerk politely responded, “Your name is not on our payroll. As far as we are concerned you
don’t exist, therefore not qualified to receive monthly benefits. Sorry, but there is nothing I can
do. Next, please.”
Mr. Mahan frantically screamed, “Only government work can be this stupid! I am standing in front
of you and you are telling me I’m dead. I’ll prove how alive I am.” He turned his back to her,
shook his butt, and said, “Can a dead man dance like this?”
The clerk took a deep breath and pleaded, “Don’t waste our time. People are waiting!”
Mr. Mahan humorously continued, “I don’t blame you for mistaking me for a corpse. But don’t
make a hasty decision based on my appearance. I haven’t shaved today and I look a little pale,
but don’t tell me I’m dead.”
He then extended his hand across the desk, pinched her rosy cheek, “Honestly, have you ever
seen a dead man this jolly?”
The clerk lost her temper and leaped out of her chair and slapped his hand away. Before Mr.
Mahan had a chance to explain, two security officers threw him out of the building.
Embarrassed by the humiliating treatment, he tucked his shirt into his pants, picked his hat up
and whispered to himself, “Maybe I was out of line a little, pinching was out of order. I should
have had a word with her supervisor instead. This is how the government treats its employees.
After 30 years of service and paying taxes, these bastards tell you you’re dead right in your face
to cheat you out of your money. This is not the first time either. Last time they pulled this stunt
news leaked to the papers and created a scandal.”
He gently tapped on his chest to feel the letter in his pocket while thinking of a quiet place to
read it again, “What a day, first this damn letter and then the fiasco over a lousy retirement
check.”
The bewildered Mr. Mahan strode for a long time in the maze of crossing streets until he found
himself in a calm and serene area. At first he thought he’d entered a park, but to his right he
noticed a group of black-clad people with gloomy faces. He wondered, “Cemetery or park? They’
re both peaceful and green. The only difference is there are no benches in a cemetery.”
He then noticed a tombstone on a fresh plot a few steps away. He walked to it and sat down. A
shadow covered his head. He took a deep breath and removed the letter from his pocket and
read it once more. Overwhelmed by the letter’s mind boggling content and the day’s bizarre
events, he suddenly lost interest in making sense of his day.
As he crushed the letter in his fist to toss it on the ground, he noticed the epitaph on the
tombstone on which he was sitting. He stood up and took a few steps back to see it better. He
read his first and last name on first line and his date of birth hyphenated from today’s date on
the second.
“What kind of senseless mockery is this?” He wondered. Mr. Mahan fixed his hat, shook his head
in disbelief and walked away and vanished into the garden of stones.