Golden Irony

Home from work, Richard Greely found a formal, hand addressed letter along with the usual junk mail. It looked like a wedding invitation. You know the kind—expensive stationary, square envelope, probably a letterpress card in its own jacket inside. Finding no return address on flipping it, he sniffed it, and for a moment thought he caught a hint of sandalwood.

Wishful thinking, who would ever send me a perfumed letter?

Examining the fine penmanship, he noticed that the exquisite stamp had no postmark, nor any defining nominal characteristics, just a single, beautifully rendered, red rose. Strangely entranced, he ran his thumb over the extravagant stationery, relishing the texture of the linen threads. He let his imagination run free with his yearning for companionship—as long as he might—by carefully slipping a butter knife under the flap and ever so slowly parting the seam. It was a far cry better than his usual Friday evenings with nowhere to go.

Inside, in its own blank, unsealed envelope, a folded card with embossed, filigreed gold borders peeked out. Opening it, Richard read the rich black calligraphy, grimaced, shook his head, and flung the note into the big blue Rubbermaid storage container, with the rest of the recyclable crap that apparently kept the United States Post Office in business.

“I wish!” Angry, he lurched to the refrigerator and yanked out a can of light beer. On Fridays, he allowed himself a beer—his version of a night on the town after another long, dull week scanning medical insurance forms to ensure all the proper boxes had been checked. He rolled the cold can over his hot cheek, lamenting the bland décor in his tiny, rundown studio.

Popping the tab, the swoosh shot a pungent promise of temporary anesthesia up his nostrils. He grabbed the remote, flopped into the La-Z-Boy—his only piece of furniture—and flipped to reruns of the Sopranos.

At dawn, still dressed, cramped in his recliner, Richard clicked off the television, oddly motivated. What have I got to lose? He retrieved the card from the bin and re-read it:

You are cordially invited to a GOLDEN CELEBRATION!

Kindly deposit all the cast-iron cookware you can find into doubled-up

Trader Joe’s grocery bags and place them on your doorstep by

Five AM Sunday, May Fifth, Two thousand nineteen.

They will be exchanged for their equal weight in gold.

PS do not open your door until seven a.m. for any reason.

Indiscretion will forfeit the transfer.

Not owning a single piece of cast-iron anything, Richard spent the best part of Saturday scavenging every thrift store he could find. He purchased twenty paper bags from Trader Joes for two dollars and placed seven neat parcels of neglected cookware outside his door by midnight. One hundred and nineteen pounds, according to his rusty bathroom scale.

He broke his long-standing rule by rewarding himself for his efforts with a second beer for the week. Settling into his La-Z-Boy, he was delighted to find the sci-fi channel running a Twilight Zone marathon. Very appropriate.

Around four a.m., Richard Greely nodded off. This was quite fortunate because he didn’t hear the commotion outside his door at five, and ruin everything with uncontrollable curiosity. At a quarter to seven, he opened one eye, he didn’t budge from his chair, gripping the arm rests in white knuckled fists, witnessing his wall clock tick off the longest fifteen minutes in history.

The time had come. Beyond patience, breath held, he tore open the door. His spirits slunk back into the house to hide in the closet. A twin of the previous envelope greeted him. He lifted the letter—definitely perfumed —and ripped it open, pulling out a neatly handwritten page, and read:

May 5, 2019

Dear Richard Greely,

I do hope you are not too disappointed. I’ve admired your stoic persistence in navigating life’s trials and sorrows for over a year now. I’d become quite fond of you, but I had to be certain your spirit was still intact before introducing myself. I am thrilled that you have not forsaken miracles.

I’m afraid I am three pounds shy of the one hundred and nineteen pounds of iron you so laboriously gathered, but I’ve laid out a lavish breakfast for us in my garden under the golden sun and pray that will make up the difference.

Would you be so kind as to join me? It’s the blue clapboard across the street. I’m waving to you now.

With affection, Cynthia Gold

by Daniel J Cryns