The Resident by Steve Danziger
The mailbox was one of sixty on the wall of the lobby, a small square face with six tiny square holes and a long body behind it, to accommodate magazines, letters, cards, and packages of a certain size.
Usually, there was something. A bill or two, direct mail postcards addressed to The Resident of his apartment, and he took solace in the physical motions, of inserting the key, opening the door, and feeling the moment, before he reached in, of possibility.
But today, for the first time, ever, he thought, there was nothing in the mailbox. He reached in and pressed his hand against all sides, as if something might not have fallen flat, or if Kelly, the mail lady, had left one of those slips saying that there was a package at the post office the way she sometimes did, jutting in the crevice where the corners of the box's interior met. But there was nothing.
He rested his fingers, then drummed them once. He extracted his hand, grabbed an ankle, and pulled his leg up so that it bent and wrapped itself around his hip. He lowered himself to the ground, then did the same with the other leg. He exhaled, laid his arm across his stomach, and folded himself forward. Then he kept folding himself until he formed a compact rectangle, and with his one free hand, he propelled himself onto the ledge in front of the mailboxes, then up to his mailbox, where he squeezed himself in and closed the door.
He stayed like that all day, watching his neighbors through the squares, their comings and goings, reaching for their mail. Then later, in the quiet of the lobby, every once in a while, someone entering from a late night of work, or from having drinks, or someone leaving to walk a dog, with their hands in pockets, anticipating the cold outside.
When Kelly came in the morning and put in her key and pulled forward the metal face that covered all the mailboxes, he closed his eyes, unable to turn away. He heard mail being slid, packages forced in gently, and eventually, the closing of the face, and the turning of the key.
Then he opened his eyes, hesitantly. The key was sticking, so Kelly was still looking at it, so close to where he was, jiggling it to complete its turn. And when it did, she put the keys back in her pocket and left. He was certain that she had seen him. But Kelly, who had always been kind, acted like she hadn't seen a thing.
Steve Danziger is a writer living in New York. His story˜Learning to Read also appears this month in Fiction magazine.
Usually, there was something. A bill or two, direct mail postcards addressed to The Resident of his apartment, and he took solace in the physical motions, of inserting the key, opening the door, and feeling the moment, before he reached in, of possibility.
But today, for the first time, ever, he thought, there was nothing in the mailbox. He reached in and pressed his hand against all sides, as if something might not have fallen flat, or if Kelly, the mail lady, had left one of those slips saying that there was a package at the post office the way she sometimes did, jutting in the crevice where the corners of the box's interior met. But there was nothing.
He rested his fingers, then drummed them once. He extracted his hand, grabbed an ankle, and pulled his leg up so that it bent and wrapped itself around his hip. He lowered himself to the ground, then did the same with the other leg. He exhaled, laid his arm across his stomach, and folded himself forward. Then he kept folding himself until he formed a compact rectangle, and with his one free hand, he propelled himself onto the ledge in front of the mailboxes, then up to his mailbox, where he squeezed himself in and closed the door.
He stayed like that all day, watching his neighbors through the squares, their comings and goings, reaching for their mail. Then later, in the quiet of the lobby, every once in a while, someone entering from a late night of work, or from having drinks, or someone leaving to walk a dog, with their hands in pockets, anticipating the cold outside.
When Kelly came in the morning and put in her key and pulled forward the metal face that covered all the mailboxes, he closed his eyes, unable to turn away. He heard mail being slid, packages forced in gently, and eventually, the closing of the face, and the turning of the key.
Then he opened his eyes, hesitantly. The key was sticking, so Kelly was still looking at it, so close to where he was, jiggling it to complete its turn. And when it did, she put the keys back in her pocket and left. He was certain that she had seen him. But Kelly, who had always been kind, acted like she hadn't seen a thing.
Steve Danziger is a writer living in New York. His story˜Learning to Read also appears this month in Fiction magazine.
