The metal of the file cabinet feels cold against the palm of her hand, like a flagpole in December. She reaches further into the drawer, searching for the warmth of manilla folders and green hanging binders. Her fingerprints shuffle through the contents of the cabinet, making the sounds of boots through snow, and her palm leaves a smudge on the outside of the drawer, like breath on a window in winter, when she lifts it. She looks over at her boss, sitting at his desk made from cedar and thinks to herself, "God dammit, look over here. I didn't wear this blue dress today for nothing. Look over here, you fat, old man. " Ms. Anthony Randolph has played this game of cat and mouse for a little over a year now, wearing sweaters that hug her like an x-ray, swaying her hips like wisps of willow, and leaning over Mr. Don Nelson's desk like a crane with cleavage, but the old man pays no mind, causing Ms. Randolph to think, "what's a woman got to do to get ahead in this place?" She notices Mr. Nelson's hand shake. The letter he clasps begins to rattle in his fingers like a china tea cup, sitting on a saucer, with a spoon it, during an earthquake. She takes a half step towards the desk, treading lightly, and leans in with her right shoulder. The letter reads:Dear Mr. Nelson,
I'm sick of you. I'm sick of your company. I want to blow the whole place to kingdom come, and I will, if you don't move me to another branch, in another city, as soon as possible. I've looked into your eyes, and I've seen your soul; and I pity its glassy coldness, you f#ckin' wretch of a man.
Sincerely,
Stephen Jackson
PS I better never hear you call me Captain Jack, or any other faggot pirate name, behind my back again.
Ms. Randolph stands with her jaw hanging lower than a low cut sweater. She's only had one direct encounter with Stephen Jackson, but it was enough to let her know that the contents of this letter should be taken seriously. Her second week at work, Ms. Randolph stayed late revising the company's file system when smoke began to creep from underneath the door to Jackson's office. At first, the smoke exited the room in strands as thin as the hairs on an old man's head, but the smoke continued to grow positive increments until one was forced to assume that Jackson's office was indeed an oven with a burn pot roast trapped in its belly. Ms. Randolph ran to the door and knocked on it, "Mr. Jackson...Mr. Jackson! are you alright? Is everything okay?"
"No, everything is not alright. The damn door won't open."
Ms. Randolph, using the the folds of her dress like a hot pad, grabbed the brass door knob and turned it, opening the door with an ease that suggested the door had not been jammed shut or locked at all. Inside the office, in the midst of an inferno of smoke, Mr. Jackson kneeled on his knees, chest bare and pantless, a metal trash can hiding his crotch, singing, "Come on , baby, light my fire!" In the trash can, Jackson fanned all the paper contents of his office as they burned into oblivion. Now, as Ms. Randolph reads the letter in Mr. Nelson's hands, all she can picture are the flames from the trash can reflected in the pupils of Mr. Jackson.
Ms. Randolph takes a half step back and pivots toward the file cabinet, pressing her palms against it, to feel its coolness, and she can not help but notice that sweat runs down Mr. Nelson's forehead, as if he were wild boar, rotating over a fire with an apple in his mouth. The buzz of the intercom interrupts the silence of the room, "bzzzzzzzz. Mr. Nelson, there is a man picketing outside the building."
"Is it Jackson?"
"I don't believe so, sir. He's holding a sign that says, 'HELLO, WORLD, MY NAME'S ELLIS, AND I'M TIRED OF TAKING THE BLAME FOR YOUR SINS! 2012 APPROACHES!!!'"
Mr. Nelson takes a moment to respond and then summons the strength to utter, "I'll be right down." His voice is not convincing that he will be right down, and he wallows in his desk chair for minutes that weigh like years. Then he rises from his chair, takes in a deep breath, lifts his shoulders to the sky, and buttons the top button of his sports jacket. "Ms. Randolph, could you be so kind as to file this letter under 'J.' I trust that you will keep its contents a secret." He hands her the letter and walks out of his office, with the stubbornness of a pig, pretending its destiny is something other than sausage, ham, or bacon.
Ms. Randolph opens the file cabinet and places the letter in the 'J' folder, using her index finger to open up enough space in the folder to insert the letter. When she withdraws her finger, the folder becomes a razor against her skin, and a drop of blood lands on the Jackson letter, looking like the slush caused by a snowflake falling on a sidewalk that is no longer below freezing.
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