The world is full of crazies.
Case in point. My cursor hovers over a new email in a thread of messages from one particular woman over the course of the past month. Even though I should delete these as quickly as I do the other spammy emails in my box, I don’t. I can’t help myself. Sometimes, it’s good to read one or two to remind myself of the reason I stay anonymous.
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I submitted a postcard to your blog. After sending it, I realized I shouldn’t have. May I request that you return the submission to me? I’ll be sending a self-addressed envelope to your postal box where you can send the postcard back. I believe I signed my name as ‘Betrayed Woman,’ or ‘Angry Woman.’
I apologize for my error and hope I’ve written you in time.
Thank you,
Angel
From: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
To: angelgirl@me.com
Dear Angel,
Thanks for following my blog and sending in a submission. I regret it’s against my policy to return any items sent in. I get frequent requests similar to yours. As you know, I have no real way of identifying you, since submissions don’t contain real names.
You can rest assured that no one will know you submitted the postcard. I am very serious about the privacy of my sources.
I’m happy to say I’ve received over 500 postcards already this year. Chances are yours will not be selected for a blog post on Mr. Expose. I hope this allays your fears.
Sincerely,
Mr. Expose
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I don’t think you understand. It’s important to me that I get the postcard back. Its return is crucial to my well-being. I couldn’t sign my name since your guidelines tell us not to, but you can easily pick my card out of a pile. It’s pink with some flowery things on the back. I’m putting a self-addressed envelope in the mail to your box. Please return my postcard.
Many lives will be damaged by my thoughtless and selfish submission if it is selected for a blog. Consider this more of a plea than a simple request.
Angel
From: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
To: angelgirl@me.com
Angel,
I do understand there is a measure of urgency to your request. Still, I cannot break policy. I could spend all my time with administrative tasks such as this.
In the future, I suggest you think through your actions more carefully. Impulsiveness is the downfall of many.
Please do not email again.
Mr. Expose
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
It’s not like I’m going to prison if I don’t get my card back, but I absolutely need to take care of destroying the postcard myself. Hindsight is 20/20 multiplied by a million. I completely see my mistake now. My thoughts were a jumbled mess when I wrote the postcard and revenge was my only goal. But I have no quarrel with the person my postcard will affect and I need to stop the publication. I am really, really sorry, but I must demand that you respond to my request.
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
Did you receive my last email? I think you must have lost it or it’s in your spam folder. Please reply.
Angel
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
Mr. Expose???!!!
I’ve sent the envelope so you can return my postcard. I am begging you to be human. I realize you must think I’m irrational to want something you obviously consider unimportant, but come on. I know from reading your blog that you attempt to correct the wrongs of the world by exposing those who would be dishonest.
This postcard and information will only do harm at this point. You will destroy lives.
Angel
From: angelgirl@me.com
To: mrexposeblog@gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I can’t keep writing you. You keep blogging and posting pics from random postcards, so I know you are in your stash of postcards often enough to do me the courtesy of a reply.
You are a postcard hoarding a-hole.
Yours truly,
Angel
My cell phone pings with an incoming message. I glance at the cell’s display and tap the message from my ex-girlfriend.
Tori: Don’t be King of the Assholes. Answer my calls. If you don’t, I will come in person.
King? I’m honored. Between the crazy woman texting me, and the one emailing about her postcard, there’s a consensus.
I’ve gone my entire life being known as the nice guy. Not anymore. I’ve wandered to the dark side. Maybe this is where I’ll find solitude, a place to get my manuscript finished for the agent who requested it.
Tori isn’t going to harass me into calling, and Angel Girl isn’t going to force me to dig out her postcard. I don’t hesitate this time when my cursor hovers over the email message.
Delete.
2
Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop
Harper Angel Wade
Letting myself into a stranger’s apartment isn’t the worst of sins. Mr. Expose has something that belongs to me, and I intend to get it. I’m not a real criminal. I committed my last illegal act in grade school when I shoplifted a My Little Pony for a friend. Later, regret set in and I imagined being hauled away and thrown into the slammer. I took the toy back to the store and slipped it onto the shelf. Incarceration didn’t scare me as much as a tongue-lashing from my daddy, the town pastor.
Breaking and entering is my first official crime of adulthood. My decisions these days have returned to the devil-made-me-do-it variety.
I push a desk drawer closed and continue to search through the paperwork in a box on his desk. A water bill, a flyer, a grocery list.
There’s a pamphlet for renter’s insurance. Boy, does he ever need some. There are all kinds of nut jobs in this world who would rob him blind. If I could advise the guy on how to avoid this situation in the future, I’d be sure to tell him that his apartment was a break-in waiting to happen. He conveniently left a key for me right under the welcome mat; as if that isn’t the first place a burglar would look.
And, while I’m handing out advice, I’d caution him not to be so assholey. His recent emails to me were downright rude and as short as my attention span during Sunday sermons.
In fact, his replies weren’t at all like his introspective musings on the Mr. Expose blog. No. Those are poetic masterpieces that dig into the psyche and pull back the curtain on evil.
But Mr. Expose blogger, also known as Leo Jensen, refuses to return my postcard. He recited all this baloney about policy and not mailing things back when people change their minds. Yada yada.
I blame him for my foray into the dark world of thievery. Harper Angel Wade—one account of felony, stealing a postcard.
The scraping sound of a key in the door lock has me frantically searching for a place to hide. My heart thrashes around in my chest like a trapped animal. I slip around a corner and slide underneath Leo’s bed like a runner into home base, a slight friction burn setting my left leg on fire.
The space underneath is shallow and barely covered by the cream comforter. In my limited vantage point, I make out movement near the apartment entrance. It will be a miracle if he doesn’t notice me. My head skims the bottom of the bed frame. My weight loss this year is the only thing saving me from being wedged under this bed like a piece of barbecue in your back molars.
Minutes tick by and a teeny drop of sweat escapes my hairline. It tickles against my hot face while taking its sweet time to meander centimeter by centimeter, eventually dripping into my eye. I strain to catch a glimpse of Leo. He’s walking around in the next room, each step squeaking as if his soles are too clean against the spit-shined floor.