Black as Midnight

Station 8, ration shipment 041345 has completed its rotation. Truck FCT3 has lost tire #5, requesting replacement.

Station 8, watchtower W2 replacement lightbulbs have expired, requesting refill. All is well otherwise.

Station 8, To Mister J. Fields, Room 224.

Station 8, Brockport bridge shows signs of wear/tear on support beam #1, requesting steel sheets for sauder repair asap.

Station 8…Station 8…Station 8…

Letter after letter after letter. Some are work requests, for supplies or the like. Others are personal, or news (or lack thereof) from patrols, shipments, or bored lookouts. I use a cracked magnifying glass, which I’ve mounted alongside my single desk lamp, to more easily read each letter. I mark each request down on my meticulously handwritten spreadsheets, which I draw out myself with a ruler in my free time. When I finish a page, I grab another empty sheet from the pile and start from the top. Only a few sheets left in this stack. I’ll have to draw out some more tonight.

My office is dark and quiet, even during the day. There are no windows, just like the rest of this metallic, maze-like bunker I call home. I receive nearly no visitors. The mailroom has a habit of becoming a hoarders paradise which some call “overwhelming,” so lots of folks keep away. I guess I can’t blame them, but I do try to keep the place clean. Incoming items come falling down the shoot to my left, in a glorious pile, and once reviewed I move them to my right and keep neat stacks sorted by last name and date, as best as I can, anyway. Fulfilled requests I gladly throw into my tiny pot belly stove, and any mail specifically addressed to residents I feel obligated to deliver at the end of each day, lest they get lost in one of my stacks.

Occasionally, someone will walk past my door with a quick wave and soft smile, and then disappear. Some people even do a little hop so they get passed a few milliseconds faster. I like to leave the door open though as a welcome gesture in case anyone is expecting something, or, heck, decides to come by and say: “hey, why don’t I give you a hand?” It’s never happened, but a guy can dream.

Urgent letters arrive in red envelopes. As soon as one comes flying down the shoot, I make it my next target. “Urgent” is often an overstatement as most uses of the red envelope are meant simply to get my attention. “Station 8, watchtower W5 food supply is low, and needs a restock immediately.” That’s a classic. Watchtower W5 is full of needy chatterboxes who love boasting their self-importance. They don’t need the food immediately, they just want it faster than anyone else. Look at this one: “Station 8, chimney at lodge L2 in need of immediate cleaning. Please send a sweeper asap. Smoke is piling in as we speak.” I know that’s not true. Besides, Geoff wrote this, and he panics about dust collecting on his bookshelf. He’d weep if he saw my office. Or get this: “Station 8, construction accident at Newton bridge, incoming resident in need of immediate medical attention. Please inform Dr-” okay this one’s real. All this to say, what I really wanted to tell you about was the best package I ever received.

It was during the wee hours, around two. My office was the quietest it has ever been. I was working overtime to catch up with overrun letters, but had begun to lull myself to sleep with the crackle of my small stove. Not a peep was ringing through the halls, and as I started to dream I imagined I was the only resident to ever set foot in this cold bunker, until- bang, boom, clunk!

I jumped to my feet so fast I kicked my desk and sent a whole stack of letters into a cloud that went gliding all over the floor. My legs took me to the door, but there was nothing in the halls, no chatter, no panic. A strange rustle from behind me spun me back around in fear, gripping the doorframe. I stood frozen, scanning the room for any hint of movement. Each second that passed raised my paranoia until I saw it; the pile of incoming letters was moving. In a fit of bravery, and a dash of following protocol, I shut my office door and locked myself inside. Whatever it was, I couldn’t let it get further into the bunker. A gang of rabid raccoons had gotten in once, but I’ll refrain from telling that tale.

I grabbed the billy club that hung beside the door, and approached the pile. More rustling came from within so I lifted the club, ready to engage, when- meow. Two black ears protruded from the pile, then a head; a kitten, black as midnight. As my panic fell my eyebrows raised, first in confusion then in awe. Our eyes met. I had never seen a real cat in my whole life. It shook its ears then hopped out from the pile and down between my feet. It caressed its side against me as it vibrated with a startling volume. My hand slowly put the billy club on my desk before I knelt to get a closer look. I noticed it was only a smidgen bigger than my foot as it fell on its back, rolling over to show its belly. It was entirely black, with no distinct features other than a blue collar with a silver medallion. I reached my right hand down cautiously to glean its inscription: “For K.T.” Who the heck was K.T.?

“Seems healthy,” said Doctor Nat. “Pretty girl.” I had taken the chance and brought the kitten down to the medical office where Doctor Nat operated the night shift. She had developed a persona of being a bit of a crone over the years, having gone gray, boasting a crooked nose, and sharing her blunt opinions without inhibition. But she was honest, and kinder than people gave her credit for. Her eyes peered down through thin, low hanging glasses. “Who’s ‘K.T.’?” I shrugged. She rolled the cat over to feel its stomach. It snorted and bit Nat’s hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. My eyes were squinting underneath the harsh tube light, contrary to my accustomed hermit flame in my office. “I’d say, ask around as a courtesy, but otherwise she’s all yours, kid.” The cat sat plumply in Nat’s hand as she lifted it up and back into my arms. I don’t know exactly how new parents feel when they have a baby, but I figured it wasn’t dissimilar to the foot-in-mouth syndrome I was experiencing.

I did as Doctor Nat advised and asked around. The mess hall was my first stop, then the schoolhouse, boiler room, then even the bath house. Not a soul had a clue who K.T. was, but just about everyone stopped to gaze at the kitten; I’m not the only person who's never seen one. One oaf had the bright idea of trying to grab it. “You know how much this thing is worth, right?” I told him it wasn’t worth anything, not in the way he was thinking. If nobody could tell me who K.T. was, then I was going to keep it. Well, I’m sure you see where this is going.

The overrun stacks of letters I had been accustomed to delicately dancing around never stood a chance against my new companion. I quickly lost all of my organization, and would have to devise a new system that wasn’t so easily sabotaged. That is, unless I wanted to train the cat how to sort alphabetically. Even if it did know how to sort, I’m not convinced it would help anyway. Upon another stack of letters tumbling over like a jenga pile, I swooped the cat up and tickled its belly. She. Doctor Nat had said it was a girl. “Are you a happy girl?” She chomped on my fingers, but it didn’t hurt. I studied her collar as if there was something new to see, but it still only had the mysterious message: “For K.T.” I rubbed my thumb on the words. “K.T. Sorta sounds like ‘kitty’ don’t you think?” From that moment on I simply called her Kitty, and so did everyone else.

I brought her everywhere I went, at first to keep her from chewing the letters, but soon enough because I didn’t like being apart. For the first few months she was too tiny to walk the bunker route on my deliveries, so I tied a pouch over my shoulder and let her hang on my belly. As she grew I let her follow me around and get familiar with the winding tunnels. Her relentless curiosity was a pain at times, as she constantly made us detour so she could greet a passerby, climb the exposed pipes, or chase a mouse. Although, I can’t be too mad at that last one. Regular checkups with Doctor Nat waned her spikey demeanor, and her and I grew closer, like an aunt I never had. Kitty had a way of bringing people together, and the whole bunker community seemed a little less dismal every day.

As time went by I began to wonder if K.T. was ever a real person at all, that the initials were always meant to be Kitty’s. I sent letters to the other stations, even inking Kitty’s paw print on the seal, trying to find K.T. Part of me regrets trying so hard. I didn’t want to give Kitty away to anyone, especially not after a year of raising her. But another part of me felt guilty if Kitty was meant for someone else, someone who needed her love more than me. Aside from K.T. 's identity, I never found any hint to who had dropped her in my mail shoot in the first place. Had she been purposely dropped at all? Had she wandered in by accident? Where had she come from, I wondered. And wondered. And wondered.

Towards the end of our second year together I stopped pursuing K.T. Many letters had been sent, even more questions asked. As far as I was concerned, we had crossed a threshold. If anyone came for her now, I wouldn’t give her up.

As of today, I’ve devised a new system for my post office which involves locked slots that keep my letters encased in shelves, held just high enough where Kitty pays them little mind. Occasionally I’ll catch her squatting below them with a mischievous look in her eye, but so far she’s left them alone. Most times she lays right atop my desk, swatting her paws at each passing letter, and hopping into each empty box. More residents have begun stopping in for a quick hello as well. They no longer breeze by in awkward silence, or dodge my glances. Now I get wide smiles and some small talk, which are mainly for Kitty, but I’ve made a few new friends too. Life hasn’t been the same since Kitty arrived in the mail room, and as time goes on, I find it harder to remember what life was like when she wasn’t here, sleeping on my desk. I guess I did get a helping hand with the mail after all.