Freewrite Friday! - Encouraging Mailbox

Today’s suggestion was ‘Encouraging Mailbox.’ I really like this one. Knew what I wanted to do with it pretty much immediately. So, here goes:

            Mark walked out to his mailbox with high hopes. It had been a tough week, but he had a feeling that today would be the day. Today, Mark was getting accepted to college.

            He slowly pulled the red door open and held his breath. There was a flyer - probably more coupons from the Smart Mart down the street, something from Investor’s Bank - probably another threatening letter for Dad, and on top, a single white envelope from Meadow University.

            Mark reached inside the box and his heart sped up. The envelope was thin, but thin could be good. Meadow University was quite literally, in the middle of a meadow. Maybe they were going green by sending their accepted students a single letter, perhaps with instructions on how to find more information on their website.

            He ripped through the seal on the back of the envelope. This was it. He was about to find out if he’d gotten into his dream school. Granted, he’d felt that way when he heard back from Rainer College and Francis School of Art and Contra U. But every school was Mark’s dream school. Because his dream was to escape this small town life by being the first person in his family to go to college. Anywhere.

            He pulled out the letter and skimmed it. Dear Mr. Sayer, we appreciate your application to Meadow University; however we regret to inform you that at this time we cannot accept

            Mark dropped the paper onto his gravel driveway. He hauled back his foot, to give the stupid mailbox a solid kick, but stopped his leg before connecting. It wasn’t the mailbox’s fault that Mark was a failure. Besides, the box had been part of the house for as long as he could remember. He ridden his tricycle around in it circles, and later, used it to steady himself as he learned to ride a bike. Mom had loved the monstrous pink thing, insisting that Dad not paint over it because ‘it had character.’ She’d even jokingly named it Shirley.

Shaky on his legs, Mark put a hand on the box to steady himself. That made eight rejections, and to schools people said anyone could get into. But Mark was not going to cry. He was not going to cry. At least not here. Maybe later, alone in his room, while Dad worked the second shift at Save Mart.

            He squeezed his eyes shut tight and sent a silent plea to the universe. Please send us some good news. I’ve been holding on the best I can, but after a while, a guy starts to lose hope. It doesn’t have to be for me, it can be good news for Dad. But maybe, tomorrow, could you send something good?

            Head hung low, Mark walked inside, to spend another night alone in front of the TV.

            The next morning was a beautiful Saturday. Mark walked outside feeling good. Today was the day he got accepted to college.

            He approached the mailbox with quick, confident strides and swiftly withdrew its contents - another letter from the bank, something from the VA for the Grandpa, and a large, bendy envelope from Cook Institute.

            Mark ripped it open and anxiously inspected the stuffing. There was glossy brochure full of smiling people – walking across campus, eating tacos in the cafeteria, peering into a microscope in Biology lab. Mark’s heart ached. He wanted so badly to be one of them. And it looked like Cook Institute was the place where his dreams would come true

            He turned to the letter. Dear Mr. Sayer, we appreciate your application to Cook University. To thank you for considering our fine school, we’ve enclosed a full color brochure. However, we regret that we cannot offer you

            Mark ripped the stupid brochure in two. Then in four. Then in eight, until it was nothing but pieces of tiny, glossy confetti. The world was cruel, and it was time to face facts. Mark was an idiot and he wasn’t going to college. He was gonna live in this tiny, backwards town forever, working three minimum wage jobs like Dad. Or dying of cancer before he turned thirty, like Mom. Or maybe he’d end up like Grandpa, getting his legs blown off in a war he didn’t believe in, before going senile and moving in with his kid. There was no chance for anything brighter. And it was dumb to believe otherwise.

            He held up the letter, to confetti it too, and noticed something strange. At the bottom, in bright pink pen, there was a handwritten note. Don’t give up, Mark! This wasn’t the one, but tomorrow is another day. This was their loss, not yours.

            Mark had never thought of it that way. Maybe he wasn’t the smartest kid in the world, but he sure was persistent. You couldn’t learn that kind of work ethic; it came from watching everyone you knew live and die within a five-mile radius and being desperate to escape that same fate. And the note was right, tomorrow was another day.

            He carefully folded the letter, placed it in the pocket of his flannel shirt, and went inside to watch T.V.