A Short Piece of Fiction-- The Idealist [Part One]

I have been meaning to post this story in sections for months now. I actually started writing it over a year ago, and I feel that the time has come. Not because it's ready, but because I want to post it. I guess nothing else really matters.
I guess the hesitance before now was born of the realization that I haven't written a completely fictional piece of prose since I was about 13, and that was... yeah.... not good.
Anyway, I have a lot of reservations and hesitations, but I feel the wait is over.

Only 2 disclaimers (skimmed down from the 83 or so I had planned originally):
1. It is a bit of a darker piece. Not that there are rotting bodies, or psychopathic killers... nothing like that, but it's not exactly light-hearted. So, I warned you.
2. I decided, sort of last minute (aka 3 months ago) that I was going to change it from past tense into a present tense, third person, omniscient narrator. That was quite the task, and now I'm doing some research on google where many sources say not to do that.... oops? Too late?
Oh well, here goes nothing, more parts to follow:

The Idealist
by Katie C. Nielson

Jim grasps a can of something from the fridge, fumbles it open, and sits down to his Sunday evening ritual. The stack is bigger tonight than usual, he thinks. Mind you, whether or not there are more letters than usual is entirely beside the point. Jim always sees them grow exponentially, week after week. Some would call it absurd, he thinks of it more as a—well—a labor of love.

James Bentley can best be described as 'basically professorial' in his own right, which is all right and proper. Neither of a portly, nor a gangly nature, he has a medium build, and hair that has long since past the point of only slightly gray. Unlike most Americans, who weep into their pillows at night when they think of looking older, Jim has the blessing of seeing it for the chemical process that it is; a process that is not to be combated. Besides, it makes no difference what he is beginning to look like; he still doles out nearly impossible exams, hoards good marks like a miser, and rarely gives praise. One can do this, he occasionally reasons to himself, wrinkles or no wrinkles.

Enough of Jim! he will not like this talk of his visual deficiencies . He will not mind us, however, getting back to the letters. It must be observed that Jim always takes special delight in reading the letters specifically addressed to Rob Smith. The ones meant for Rob catch his attention because they are written either by those who have somehow not heard the news, or by those who refuse to acknowledge the news as irrevocably true. Perhaps the two camps are born of the same kind of misinformation. To Jim, at any rate, they represent an unhealthy dose of the insane—an insanity which is, naturally, always to be diverting.

The professor shudders in a near-mirthful manner as he sets about his task. Mind, this mirth is not sprung as much from a delight in the general stupidity of the human race (the only animal in the world that craves to ascribe meaning to the most meaningless of rituals), as it is from knowing that such an ascribing is the sort of thing that Rob would have delighted in, had he any opportunity to read the letters; which, of course, he hadn't.

Dear Mr. Smith, the first one begins, It may seem strange that I am writing you this letter, though I know you will never read it.

Wagging his head, Jim makes some comment to himself about the banality of the writer’s supposedly novel idea. Keep in mind that our study has long-since smothered into submission that little twinge of uneasiness one usually experiences in speaking to oneself, and that we will find him commenting regularly on what he reads within the reams of paper that threatened to obscure his desk entirely. For now, he adjusts his glasses and continues reading:

But I feel I must congratulate you on all of the hurdles you have crossed in order to perpetuate your ideals through your art.

Jim slights as though bit by some small pest or another. Why? I will tell you. It is because the author of this letter has employed an interesting vocabulary: "art" and "ideals". Jim is not capable of hearing those words neutrally, as much as he may wish to. To him, the genesis of these terms can be traced back to an abnormally brisk September morning, a morning to which his mind leaps at intervals, irretrievably. He has long-since learned that these memories have to be allowed to replay, whether he likes it or not. For if aborted, they leave a dissonance behind that hangs heavy in his sparse apartment, like a deadweight threatening a mutiny, not to be dispelled until he has retraced and played them through. You will have to excuse him then, as he attends this business. For, you see, it cannot be helped.

There he goes now! In his mind he is gone back to that September morning, where in the university's oldest coffee shop, he had first met the boy whose mail he has now become so accustomed to reading.

.......

To be continued.

Thanks! Comments welcome, if you'd like!