Boxes - new weird fiction on the Grievous Angel

Today we have a story that perfectly captures the Grievous Angel vibe AND is another great example of how effective the flash fiction format can be. The story – Boxes – is by J. Overton who, the author gnomically comments, "works for the government and usually writes non-fiction".


Boxes
by J. Overton

The Suggestion Box at Death Valley was not the most remote on my route, but the getting there was often gruelling. Stopping for gas in Pahrump, standing bareheaded in July, the portions of my sandal’s black soles not covered by my toes became uncomfortably hot. 
     
Inside the Valley I stopped at a scenic overlook to snack on mango and jerky.
   
The Suggestion Box was there like all the others. My key fit its lock smoothly. A piece of yellow legal paper was neatly folded inside.  Most suggestions are anonymous, but there are sometimes tells which give away the author’s identity. This was from Old Bull Lee, sure as shooting.
     
“Why is it all not working so good? Get off the track you’re on. You’re barking up the wrong evolutionary and design flagpole, son, turning the good to shit.”
     
We try to emphasize the Suggestion Boxes are for Quality Improvement, not for literary bitch sessions or ratting out the unjust and cruel. This one was borderline, but he did suggest something, not just ridicule and preach. It was collected and placed with all the others.
     
Later at the bar I have a margarita and pay Tokyo prices.
     
“Only drinks in the Valley are in here,” the bartender explains and apologizes to my unasked question and unspoken accusation.
     
“I’ve paid more before. It’s on company money.”
     
He uses real lime. That always impresses me. Quality is important.

Across the bar a boy and his father are ordering dinner. 
     
“Are you going to get the green enchiladas?” the boy asked.
       
“No,” the father slams down his menu. “Those aren’t the kind I like.”
       
“They have them with red sauce, too.”
       
“Daddy doesn’t like those either.” He picks the menu up, doesn’t look at anyone. “It doesn’t matter what we eat. We’re going to die anyway.”
         
A man enters the through the bent door and sits next to me. He picks up the plastic menu.
         
“You have bison burgers on here. Is that the same as elk?” 
         
“No, it’s bison,” says the bartender, not looking up from wiping glasses.
         
“Oh. I like elk.”
       

The pool water is bath hot. I sit with my feet dangling.  
       
I empty Boxes all over, collecting suggestions. My route is wide: deserts in California, Korea, atolls in the Pacific that even the Japanese skipped over in their war for Empire.  I give the suggestions to whoever needs to see them. They can act if they choose. People have visions and ideas of who reads their suggestions. They’re usually wrong.
       
The next morning, loading up my belongings in the company car, a tourist approaches.
       
“So is this just what you do?” I assume she either knows from the company car or saw me gathering from the Box yesterday.
         
“Yes, it’s what I do.”
         
“How long have you been at it? Are you from here or do you travel?”
         
“I travel often.” I ignore her first question.
         
“So do these get read?”
         
“Sure. They get read.”
         
“Do the questions get responses though?”
         
“Those that need them.” I look noncommittal. She picks up on that.
         
“So is it all just a waste? Who decides which one needs response? People want to change things, improve them. The whole thing a waste of time and effort?”
         
“Well, it depends.” I shrug and keep loading up my gear. My sandals are getting hot and it is early. The company car’s air conditioner is mediocre, and it will be a long drive.
       
“You like this sort of thing? This kind of work?” She asked as I get in the car.
         
“It’s good for me now.”
         
“Are you waiting on something else? Some other work?”
           
“I suppose. This is what I do now.” I start the car. She continues her walk to the gift shop and broken, sandy pay phones.


​Things sometimes happen after I leave and when I come back next time, years or months later, they give me credit. I’m just a courier, a messenger at best. Don’t shoot the messenger, and don’t give him credit for making improvements. This is what I do now. I try to enjoy each day, and enjoy my company car, and not think of the outcome.