In the office where I worked there was Charles the mailman. Charles was a lumpy, middle-aged man who heaved through the side door once a day with the incoming mail. He didn’t say much, but when he did, the words came over his droopy lower lip with purpose. He answered every other question. Perhaps it was due to sheer ignorance or maybe he just chose his answers with care. He shoved his potbelly into his jeans, the ones with the elastic waistband. He wore leather gloves in the summer. The few hairs that sprouted from his gleaming head lay withered and separated, like onion roots. He paused to observe people. They talked about him. What was he staring at?
I had been working in the library offices for a few months when I first began to take notice of Charles. At first, I labeled him as grumpy. He never said a word to my supervisor except when spoken to; he never acknowledged any of us. He was a miserable old toad and I loved it. Over time, I grew fascinated with his character.
I would imagine that he was a mercenary mailman, a hired gun of the U.S. Postal Service. He was doing reconnaissance work, and his primary objective was to maintain an extremely unsociable façade so as to keep his cover intact. Or he was a governmental experiment gone wrong and was placed in one of the safest environments possible to keep it under wraps.
It wasn’t long before these fantastical tales took hold of me, often distracting me from the duties of my shift. I would put down the books I was organizing, and jot down in a notebook the details of his appearance and mannerisms. I would write down how loud his heavy breathing sounded and take note of the way he held the books close to his face while reading their covers, as if smelling the titles. Maybe he took this job because he was a connoisseur of ancient tomes, and was on a search for the secret language of lost civilization. Or maybe he was raised by a pack of dogs, and was searching for traces of food in the texts.
The rest of the office regarded Charles with a sort of childish contempt. There was Gayle, the older of my two supervisors, who always extended her wrinkled neck toward her computer monitor and I couldn’t help but think of a turtle’s head jutting out of its shell. She gawked at Charles when he dropped a package, and laughed at his questions. “Well, you should know that, Charles!” she would say, and then look around at Cayce, the younger supervisor.
Cayce, along with Gayle, was a steadfast vegan and would munch on her salads in the back cubicle. I imagined Cayce to be the product of a rural home school, with a real knack for identifying wildflowers. She would only snicker at Gayle’s outbursts as Charles continued to wheel his cart in between desks.
Gayle shared my curiosity about Charles and his life outside of the office, but she did it in a way that annoyed me. Once, she asked me if I thought he was homeless, because he wore the same faded striped shirt all week and his shoes were tattered and missing laces. Cayce giggled and nodded as she typed her report. I disagreed, but kept it to myself. I thought he was hiding something from us all. We were the fools. Charles was probably filthy rich from inventing Febreeze® or something. Either that, or he was the true heir to the English throne. He took dialect classes to hide his accent. Whatever he was, I don’t think he was homeless. That wouldn’t suit this man.
I often tried to coax him into conversation but found it difficult after a few feeble attempts. I first tried a simple, “Hello,” but he only continued to breathe heavily over his packages. A few days later, as I fumbled with a stack of books coming through the side door, I apologized for being in Charles’s way to which he responded with a deep groan. No eye contact. I was discouraged, but I knew there was some way to get through to this troll of a man. However, my third and last attempt was a little more encouraging. As he dropped a dozen or so large envelopes turning the corner by Gayle’s desk, I strode over to help him. I grabbed a few of them and placed them on his cart, taking in his reaction to my action. He wiped his brow with a stubby, sweaty forearm and looked at me through his foggy glasses. He stared at me for a few seconds and, in his deep groaning voice, said, “Thank you for that.” “You’re welcome,” I replied, and he heaved his cart away with a slight nod and a half-mumbled phrase, which I do not think was English. Gayle stifled a laugh.
Years passed, and my career path led me to an out-of-state university to pursue my studies. It had been over four years since I had seen the library or Charles, but he still wobbled into my thoughts from time to time. One day, I received an e-mail from a friend of mine who still worked in the office. We corresponded regularly, but this instance was much more enlightening. My friend rambled about football and upcoming exams for most of the message, but dropped a small line toward the end that mentioned Charles, the mailman. There had been accident. Charles was dead.
I didn’t know the poor man very well, I told her, but it is strange to hear about an acquaintance passing away. I knew him, but didn’t. The obituary, which I found online, claimed that Charles was killed in a car accident after colliding head-on with a semi-truck, the driver having dozed off at the wheel. The vehicle was found turned upside down in a ditch. The police recovered a series of small packages scattered throughout the interior of the vehicle. Apparently, the library offices denied affiliation with the packages, which can only mean the items were of personal value to the deceased. The packages were addressed and ready to be shipped. My mind began to race. What was in those packages?
In the weeks that followed, my curiosity grew to an intolerable level. I began to relive those library shifts, doodling in a notebook the newly contrived fantasies that plagued my mind. What was in those godforsaken packages? Who was to receive them? Why was he driving around with them? Maybe he was killed by someone who didn’t want the packages delivered. Maybe he was about to spread the body parts of a victim around the city. Maybe they are filled with pictures of the mayor and his prostitutes. Despite all my mental anguish, I could not be satisfied. There was no way of knowing what was in those packages and it was eating me alive. However, I was soon relieved of my deadly curiosity.
A few days later, I opened my mailbox to find a brown, weathered box addressed and re-addressed to me from a Charles MacDuffie. I tucked it under my arm and darted for my apartment. I set the package down carefully at the foot of my bed and paced in front of it for a few minutes. No way. I sliced through the tape with a pocketknife and gently lifted the flaps. I removed the mint-green Styrofoam peanuts in little clumps until I saw an object in its depths. I lifted it slowly and held it for a few seconds. It was a book.
The accident hadn’t damaged it at all. It was pristine. I rubbed my fingers across the gold binding, which read “A Boy Who Helped” by Charles MacDuffie.” I stared at the front cover, which was bound in dark red leather. I didn’t want to open it, but my insides tingled.
I began reading in the early afternoon and didn’t stop until the early hours of the next morning. When I finished, I could only lie in my bed and stare at the slowly revolving ceiling fan. It was a fascinating read about a young man who helped anyone he could. He was a boy who worked hard in school and was kind to everyone he knew wherever he went. One day, he helped a man pick up something from the ground. The man was so grateful for the boy’s kindness that he said a special prayer for the boy. From then on, the boy walked a path of greatness. He went on to become governor. He created programs for the poor and was loved by all of his people. He was the greatest governor in the state’s history. It was all because he helped a fellow human being. The news of Charles’s death and his recovered packages brought a decent amount of news coverage. Once all of the packages were delivered to the locations that they were addressed to, a buzz was generated concerning the contents of the other packages. The story was reported to the local newspaper and given a lengthy article in the Local Events section. Charles had written books not only for me, but also for Cayce, Gayle, and half a dozen other employees in various departments of the library. Upon visiting Charles’s home, his only relative, a half-brother from Vermont, discovered an entire library that ran throughout the house. In the article, the half-brother stated that the library was comprised entirely of books written by Charles himself. Since these books weren’t packaged or addressed, they were donated to the library in which Charles used to work. To this day, they can be found on the third floor under MacDuffie, C. a few titles over from Machiavelli.
I am currently an assistant professor of English at a university in my hometown. I’m not married yet, but there are a few potentials. I read the book every year on the same day that Charles died. It sits on the shelf in my study. Every now and then, I think of Charles and those books. I wonder if anybody has found themselves in one of his stories, like I did. I find myself in deep thought some days on my way to work. I pause to observe the people around me and who they might be. What am I staring at?
Luke T. Jones 