The Complaint Box

The Complaint Box - Ron Osso-2016

He trudged out to the old mailbox that was situated at the end of his long driveway. Most days he wondered why he even bothered to make the trip. All there ever seemed to be was junk mail and a bill or two. It was beginning to get cold; dried leaves crunching under foot with each step, and his knees were beginning to complain. As he reached for the small pull down hatch, something caught his eye; something that hadn't been there yesterday. It was a rusty old metal box, the kind a secretary might keep petty cash in. It was about eight inches wide, six inches deep and three inches high, and it was sitting on top of a 4" X 4" wooden stake that had been planted in the ground to the left of his mailbox. Someone had cut a slot in the top. It was jagged, crude and on the front of the old box was written the word "COMPLAINTS". The letters were the gold and black stick on type often found in hardware stores. There was also a lock that kept the box closed, designed he thought, to keep whatever complaints safely inside. He tried to pick up the box, but it was attached to the wooden post.

"Goddam kids" he thought to himself, turning away and opening his mailbox. There was a flyer from the local grocery promising deals on bacon, toilet paper, cough syrup and other stuff he didn't need. An electric bill, a card promising eighty-nine percent off news stand prices for a magazine subscription, and a small key taped to a piece of cardboard.

He picked it up, and tore the key loose. He inspected it for a moment, then slid it into the lock on the box, gave it a twist, and it opened. Inside was a piece of khaki colored paper, something that appeared to have been torn from a grocery bag. On it was written,

"Why don't you ever smile?"

"Goddam kids", he muttered aloud this time.

He closed the box lid, and wiggled the post it was attached to. With little effort he pulled the whole thing out of the ground. He set it against his mailbox, and with his foot brushed surrounding dirt back into the hole, stomped on it, and slid some leaves into place over where the hole had been. To a passerby, it would have appeared nothing had ever been there. He looked up and down the street, with a furrowed brow, then an idea came to him, an idea that made him smile.

The man picked up the box that was attached to the pole, and walked back up the driveway to his house. Not that an onlooker would actually notice, but he had a bit of a spring in his step, and his knees didn't seem to hurt as much. His eyes were a bit brighter and although no melodic sound actually came out, his lips were pursed, and at a distance one would have thought he was whistling.

The stairs creaked in complaint as he stepped up onto his old, weathered side porch where he set the post and box down. The squeak from his screen door seemed to get just a bit louder every day. He never used the front door anymore, it was badly in need of repair, and the side one suited him fine. He stepped into the old sitting room. There were three ancient wicker chairs he had painted dark brown years ago, all of them with well-worn cushions, although one chair, the rocker, was worn considerably more than the others. He passed through the sitting room, turned left into the kitchen, walked to the far end, opened the door that led to his shed, and looked around for it. He hadn't used the thing in years, but was sure it must still be there. He walked forward, further into the shed, just beyond the wood pile and there it was, propped up against the wall, rusty, sitting in a tangle of cobwebs, but it appeared serviceable.

Once back in the sitting room, he sat in the wicker rocker, put a newspaper on the wooden floor and began to clean up the old post hole digger. After removing the webs, he gave it closer inspection. It was rusty and the hinge that held the two parts together was tight but he thought with a little more work it would ably do what it had been designed to. He rested the tool against his wood stove, got up and went into the kitchen. There was an old cupboard to the left of the refrigerator. It was covered with a white and blue, small flowery print cloth curtain his wife had made many years earlier. He'd hung it back then with a simple curtain rod. He pushed aside the fabric, just as he pushed aside the sadness of his wife's absence, and picked up the can of WD-40.

As he sprayed, he carefully considered who would be the recipient of his prize. He thought about the three neighbors to each side of him, but quickly ruled out the two closest; he wanted to be more surreptitious. After some spraying, and wiping excess lubricant off of the rusty tool, he opened and closed its jaws, and slowly the squeaking and resistance began to disappear. He sprayed a bit more and kept working the jaws. After only fifteen minutes he had resurrected his old digger.

Again he rested it against his wood stove, and sat back in his chair. He reached for his pipe, took out the small plastic bag of tobacco, stuffed some into the bowl, tamped it down, and struck a wooden match on his pant leg. He took several puffs.

There was the new young couple, he couldn't remember their names, they had a young baby; he ruled them out. The Dawson's, they'd lived there for a while, seven or eight years he thought. They had two sons that were teenagers. One of those little bastards probably put the goddam complaint box on his property. He'd consider them for some time. The widow, what was her name? Beth. She had brought him a pound cake when his wife passed. She'd never do anything like this. He couldn't place it next to her mail box. She would only think he was being playful, trying to return her childish advances.

Later that night, after dark, he walked to the end of his driveway, turned right and started up the road to a mailbox, the sixth one past his, the one on the left, on the other side of the road. It was a bit difficult to carry both the box on its post, and the digger, but he managed. He felt quite well tonight, even stifled a giggle as he shuffled along. The most difficult part of everything had been deciding what to write on the piece of paper.

Tonight it was cold, not quite freezing he thought; and a bit windy. He set the box and post down quietly, he heard the distant bark of a dog, then another a bit closer. He stuck his digger into the ground, thankfully it was still soft from the recent rains. He pulled the two handles apart and removed a little soil. He stuck it in again, and again, and again. It was difficult to see in the dim of the night, but he figured the hole was about six inches deep; deep enough. He picked up the box and pole, placed it into the hole, quickly kicked the dirt back in and stepped on it securing the post... at least well enough to keep it upright. He looked up and down the road, then into the house. There was still a dim light illuminating the living room. He figured the house's occupant might be reading. He was sure he hadn't been spotted during his covert operation.

Several minutes later, as he sat in his rocker smoking his pipe, a broad grin crossed his face, then he actually chuckled audibly. The widow Beth stood outside his window, as she had many nights. She witnessed his smile and it warmed her heart.

The next morning, a young mother asked her seven-year-old daughter if she would go out to the mailbox and retrieve the morning newspaper. The young girl ran out the door, down the gravel driveway and was about to pick up the newspaper when she noticed a rusty metal box on a stake. She looked at it carefully and saw it had a slot in the top. She tried to open it but it was locked. On the front of the box was a strip of cardboard taped into place. It said, "Look in your mailbox". The little girl opened the mailbox and in it, along with the newspaper, was a key taped to an index card. She removed the key and without hesitation placed it into the lock. She tried to turn it, but at first it wouldn't open. With a little wiggling however it did turn. The little girl was excited. She lifted the top of the old rusty box and inside was an envelope with her Mom's on it.

She didn't bother to close the box, or remove the key from the lock. She even forgot the newspaper. With the envelope in her hand, she ran back into the house yelling to her mother,

"Mommy, somebody sent you a letter. It was in an old metal thing right next to our mailbox."

Mom took the letter from her little girl and opened it. Inside was a crude drawing of an older man sitting in a rocking chair, smoking a pipe. He was smiling.

"What is it Mommy?"

With a tear in her eye, the mother told her daughter that she thought it was a drawing of Mr. Quincy, the gentleman who lived down the road.

"Does it say anything?"

Mom turned over the drawing and on the back it said,

"I remember when you were Cindy's age. She looks just like you, ya know. Sorry for being such a grumpy old coot.

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