Endlessly stuffing envelopes is not, I imagine, anyone’s choice activity for passing a Saturday afternoon. I doubt most people would want to spend a dreary Monday morning on such an activity, and yet, here I sit on a glorious spring Saturday in the middle of April, dodging paper cuts, affixing stamps, trying to focus on the task at hand while letting my thoughts wander away from me in order to stave off the boredom that threatens to crush my soul.
Who in their right mind would spend such a time as this doing such a task as this, particularly without any monetary incentive? No one, of course.
Logic dictates, then, I am not in my right mind.
This is most certainly true.
But I will get to that.
Let us turn our attention, for a moment, to the envelope itself. Neon pink. Oversized. Specifically designed to be plucked from pile of bills, magazines and
advertisements, to draw attention, to spark curiosity. To give the thumb that is thumbing pause, to trigger a momentary suspension in the daily grind of life so that the one who encounters the envelope might set it aside, and, if the plan works, open it.
And what of the envelope’s contents? What if the envelope’s pinkness, its bigness, accomplish their task? What is to be found inside?
An index card. Plain. White. Unlined. With just a name. A phone number. Nothing more.
And for many, that will be it. They will be slightly confused, or not. Assume it is some sort of marketing ploy. The envelope, its contents, will join the circulars and postcards and old takeout containers and beer bottles in the bin, to be taken away on garbage day.
For others, puzzlement and curiosity will prompt further investigation. A phone call will be made. But it will be a dead end, for both sender and recipient. These envelopes, these index cards, will meet the same fate as the first group’s, their trip to the trash only slightly delayed.
But, for one, the one who was always the intended, the envelope will call out, and the call will be heard. The envelope will be opened, carefully, and the card slid forth. The name will be read, and something other than confusion will register. Shock? Excitement? Resignation? It is hard to say. For this one, the card might sit on a desk, or tucked away in a drawer for days or weeks or months. One thing is nearly certain, though. It will not be thrown away. Finally, after those days or weeks or months have passed, a decision will be made. A call will be made. And that will be the beginning.
To Be Continued