Emails from Heaven

By Sam Neumann

David Grasso has gotten an email from no one. He knows this is impossible, but with a blank "sender" field and no other identifying marks, he's left incapable of tracing the source. The email claims to be from his brother, but David knows it can't be, because his brother is dead.

Upon reading the body text he becomes furious, not at the obvious attempt at deceit, but at what the email says. Furious someone would use his brother's name to perpetuate a lie. Furious the lie existed at all.

EMAILS FROM HEAVEN is a novel following David Grasso's struggle to make sense of the email and those that followed. As a graphic designer at a high-powered ad firm in downtown Chicago, David spends most of his waking hours at the office. He's unmarried, has few friends, and his coworkers bore him. His life is a monotonous running clock. But when the email arrives, his world is turned on end, and he will go to any length to reveal the source and explain the seemingly inconceivable circumstances that led to it showing up in his inbox.

This is the story of one man's struggle with mystery, death, and the idea of faith. When logic is suspended, all that remains is one timeless question:

What if?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Neumann
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781501409509

Sam Neumann

Sam Neumann is originally from Chisago City, Minnesota, a region of the world rich in lakes and hooded sweatshirts. He currently lives in Boulder, Colorado, and spends his time taking photos and writing lighthearted life observations. Neumann is the author of two books, both of which can be found at SamNeumann.com.

Book preview

1

How It Started

The email had no sender, which was the first sign something was not right.

There was no subject either, but this was not alarming; emails are often sent without subjects. The blank white space in the From field, however, was downright odd. David Grasso had never received an email from no one.

He read the body text.

---

Hey Dave,

Just wanted to let you know everything’s alright with me. I ended up where I should be. It’s real, man…all of it. I’m home now, so don’t worry.

Hope everything’s well with you. Be good.

Love you,

Sal

---

Clearly this was an enormous mistake.

The only Sal that David knew was his younger brother. But the email couldn’t be from him, because Sal was dead.

Honestly, it was out of the ordinary for David to receive emails from anyone at this address. He’d created it years ago for reasons he couldn’t fully remember, and for the most part it sat dormant and unchecked. He got an occasional handful of spam emails, but aside from that, there had been little activity in the last year. And now here was this curious email from someone. Or no one. He wasn’t sure.

So as he wiped the sweat off his brow, David Grasso stared at the text on his computer screen and rapidly went through the possible scenarios in his head. It could be:

a) A mistake. He wasn’t really sure how that would work, but it seemed like a good place to start the list.

b) An email from a dead man. Seemed even less likely.

c) Someone trying to deceive him. This was really the only reasonable possibility of the three, when it came down to it. And as the minutes passed and that conclusion began to sink in, it made him very, very pissed off.

---

David got up from where he was sitting – on the couch in his apartment, laptop on his lap – and went through the sliding glass door to the back porch. He lit a cigarette, hoping it would help him calm down. It didn’t.

Monday mornings were important at the offices of JF&A Integrated Advertising Agency. At such a prestigious firm, every day was significant, but management considered Mondays especially paramount. It was when the work was put in, the deals were struck, and the money was made. Monday set the tone for the week, and was to be respected accordingly. This belief was shared by all employees, mostly due to fear; workers at JF&A were meant to buy in. Anything other than a vehement toeing of the company line was frowned upon, and looked at as unfavorable by the higher-ups. And nobody wanted to look unfavorable at JF&A.

It was a serious operation, one of which young creatives and aspiring account execs dream. While small-scale in relation to other major firms – seventy-two employees worked at the headquarters in downtown Chicago – JF&A garnered respect among its peers and industry types for consistently great, innovative campaigns. Ownership liked the small size; they considered it a boutique firm, a distinction that differentiated them from the large, sprawling firms of Manhattan. They played the niche role well, positioning themselves as a personal, attentive ad house, even if many of their clients were halfway across the country.

The salaries were generous, as one would expect at such a prominent company, and the associates earned every penny; JF&A employees were expected in by 7:30 every morning, and leaving after dark wasn’t uncommon. The firm put up a front about a work/life balance and casual atmosphere, but this was mostly propaganda used to impress clients and lure fresh recruits. The air was tense, the dress formal, and the hours long. There was a game room with a pool and ping pong table, but it was hardly ever used. There was too much work to be done.

It was by no means a sweatshop, but when you worked at JF&A, you were expected to work. It was probably for this reason that the median age at the firm was thirty-two – even most of the top-level account executives were under fifty. It was a young man’s game, and the company brain trust understood this. Get them while they’re fresh, hungry, and stupid, and get their best years before they decide to leave for a slower pace. The current CEO had been on the job for a year and a half, and had just turned thirty-eight.

This was the world David returned to Monday morning at 7:17, a little early as always. He walked into his open-air office (the company’s fancy wording for cubicle), set down his coffee cup, plopped down in his chair and massaged his temples, eyes closed. Monday mornings were usually not bad; he was always energized at the beginning of the week.

On this Monday, however, he was not ready to go. Since initially reading the email yesterday afternoon, he had:

---

● Smoked four cigarettes. Since quitting two years ago, there had been only three occasions in which he indulged. Each time he felt immediately stupid afterward. Having four yesterday made him feel especially like an idiot.

● Reread the email sixteen times.

● Picked up his cellphone to call someone about it, but put it down when he couldn’t figure out who to call.

● Sent a reply email. It was a simple who is this? and was immediately returned as undeliverable, for there was no recipient.

● Slept two and a half hours. He got into bed at 10 and fell asleep around 3:30.

---

The rest of the time, his mind was occupied with who the email was actually from. Aside from the fact that he was dead, the evidence was pretty much in favor of it being from Sal. He had been, for the most part, the only human outside of work who emailed David. He was the only person that had sent emails to that mostly dormant email address. And he was the only person that would tell David he loved him. No one else had said it since Sal died. There was no one left.

And for the most part, that was a good thing. It always made him uncomfortable. David didn’t talk about his feelings. His father had been a stoic, hard-working man of few words, and that was the way David assumed men were supposed to be – they weren’t supposed to have feelings. Leave the fluffy stuff for the ladies. Two men saying they loved each other? Even if it was family, it was weird.

So he had rarely – if ever – told Sal he loved him back, a fact that now after his death had struck David with a considerable amount of guilt. But he did his best to suppress it. Guilt was a feeling, and feelings were for pussies.

As he ran through the possibilities of where the email came from in his head one more time, Todd walked in.

Sup, bro? Todd asked. He always started conversations like this.

Morning, David said as he slowly swiveled around to greet him.

How was your weekend, buddy?

This was a regular conversation. Todd initiated a discussion about the past weekend each Monday, mostly because he wanted to fill in David (and anyone else who would listen) about his weekend, which undoubtedly included epic parties, bottle service, scantily clad drunk women, or a combination of the three. David cared very little about any of this, but the rules of social interaction – and the fact that Todd was his immediate superior – required him to at least entertain the conversation.

It was fine, David replied. Didn’t do a whole lot.

No? Well you shoulda come out with us. It was crazy. Hit up Club Seven Friday night, had like ten ladies at our booth. Must’ve drank a liter of Grey Goose, and by the end of the night – I shit you not – my boy Derek was dancing on a cop car. The cop told him to come down, and...

David stared and nodded along at the narrative, but he had tuned it out. It was a skill he’d acquired along the way.

As a graphic designer – or a Multimedia Production Specialist, as the company insisted on calling him – David worked with a wide range of people at JF&A, but it seemed like he and Todd had the most contact. Todd, a slender man of slight proportions, wore short blonde hair and thick-framed Ralph Lauren glasses. He had a small bald spot on the crown of his head, but overall he looked pretty good for a man in his mid-thirties. Lean, healthy.

As the Executive Vice President of Something at JF&A, Todd oversaw a few departments, creative being one of them. He had previously spent years as an account exec, a position for which he was perfect; his brash, arrogant style resonated with high-profile clients – likely because many of them shared the same characteristics – and on more than one occasion, Todd set company account records. The man could sell, so naturally he was promoted to a position that utilized a completely different set of skills. And as the Executive Vice President of Something, Todd struggled. Gone were the long lunches and extravagant golf outings and the ins and outs of the old boy network. He was a manager, in charge of delegating tasks and overseeing departmental operations, and thus the subject matter of his work was considerably more boring. There were no more big fish to chase, no more getting drunk at noon on Wednesday. His life became sitting in meetings and responding to emails. He knew little about managing people, so his wisest decision was mostly staying out of the way. Which meant there was very little actual work for Todd to do, and that’s why most of his days at the office were spent socializing and browsing the web. He was good at those things.

David still had to report to him, however, so in weekly meetings and whenever else necessary he gave Todd updates on the status of his projects. As he listened, Todd would nod, frown, scribble on a notepad – anything to give the impression he understood, despite the fact that he almost certainly did not.

...and anyway, you totally need to come out next time. He was finished.

David nodded. Totally.

And hey, remember we have that lunch meeting with the Devaney account today.

Yep, David replied. I’m ready to go.

Good to hear, man. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.

JF&A had been chasing Devaney Shoes for years, since Todd had first made contact in his time as an account rep. It was a huge company, specializing in discount shoe sales, with warehouse-style stores in twenty-eight states, and it would be a sizable account. The one thing that Todd was good at was setting up and executing meetings, and since he considered himself close personal friends with the company’s representatives he was coming along to facilitate. Todd, along with a strategist from JF&A, was going to pitch the company’s potential campaign for Devaney. It was a big meeting.

2

The Elevator

David sat in the conference room and twirled his pen.

There were five people present at the meeting: two representatives from Devaney – one man and one woman – along with David, Todd, and Anders from the strategic communication department. David and Anders collaborated on projects often and generally worked well together. Everyone involved was dressed well, with the male Devaney rep and Todd in full suits and ties. David wore a crisp white button-down with gray slacks, black loafers, and a silver watch around his wrist.

Anders was explaining JF&A’s integrated marketing plan; Devaney was looking to rebrand and reach a younger audience, and if JF&A’s pitch was good enough, they’d get the job. Todd had done the introductions, cracked a few marginal jokes, and asked the Devaney reps if they’d like anything to drink. They declined. Having exhausted his entire base of knowledge, Todd handed the conversation over to Anders to discuss strategy for the rebrand. Anders talked demographics, analytics, and case studies, while outlining the agency’s plan to bring in teens and twenty-somethings. He went on for twenty minutes, passing out charts and graphics. As usual, he was convincing.

David should’ve been listening, interjecting when necessary and preparing for his turn in the presentation. But he mostly stared at the table and twirled his pen, going over and over the words from the email in his head. Who would send an email like that? What was their angle? The wording was impressively accurate, so it had to be from someone that knew both David and Sal well. And that’s where David’s mental search ended, because he couldn’t think of anyone with those qualifications.

The Devaney reps noticed his indifference, but David was too preoccupied to notice their noticing.

So with the entrance into those new markets, Anders wrapped up, along with a redesigned logo and color scheme, we see significant growth potential. And that’s where David comes in.

David heard his name and was jolted out of his contemplation. Huh?

Um, Anders said, the new logo and color scheme plans? He, Todd, and the Devaney reps stared down the table.

Of course, David said as he fumbled to open a manila folder he’d yet to touch. Um, here’s our mock-ups of the redesigned logo. Number three is my personal favorite, but you’ll notice they all employ a clean, modern design with simple imagery, which will give your company a more updated feel. He was lucky he could explain the stuff in his sleep.

The Devaney reps looked over the mock-ups and frowned, but they always frowned. A silence hung over the table.

Anders stared at David, waiting for him to say more. And, could you speak to the new color scheme, David?

Yes, of course. We don’t want to blow your color scheme up altogether, because we want to maintain your brand recognition, but by turning the gray to black and adding red, it gives you a more vibrant, younger feel. Red is proven to be an action color.

This was all he said. It summed everything up well, but after Anders’ lengthy spiel, it felt hollow.

Todd waited for him to continue, but when it was clear David was finished, he rambled out a few vague cliches about how pragmatic and progressive the plan for Devaney was. The reps finished studying the mock-ups and frowned.

That afternoon at his desk, David picked up the phone and dialed the number of JF&A’s Information Technology consultant. It rang twice.

This is Joey, came the muffled voice on the other end.

Joey, it’s David down here in creative at JF&A.

Joey and his team managed JF&A’s entire computer system. He worked six floors below in the same building.

I had a question about some emails. It’s actually non work-related. Sort of a...personal question.

Joey paused. Oh. Well, we don’t usually handle that stuff.

I know. I was just thinking of it as sort of a favor. It’s just a question, that’s all.

Yeah, Joey responded. The corporate culture rarely called upon personal favors. No problem. What’s going on?

Well, David started, I was wondering about tracking emails. I’ve gotten some weird ones lately. Probably from a scammer, I think, but I’d like to be able to see where they’re coming from. Nothing illegal, obviously.

Oh. That’s actually easy. His demeanor thawed. All you need to do to reveal the source of an email is expand the header and look through the source code. There’s a field marked ‘received,’ and it will give you the IP address of the sender. Then you can plug that into an IP address lookup – there’s tons of free ones online – and that’ll give you your answer.

David digested the information. He didn’t know what most of those words meant.

Easy, huh? he said.

Joey chuckled. It sounds complicated, but honestly it’s not that bad, even if you have no idea what you’re doing. I’ll send you a link with the specific steps. Your work email fine?

Yeah, that’s fine. I appreciate it.

David packed up and left his desk at 5:49, the earliest time he felt comfortable leaving despite having done virtually no work all afternoon. He’d read Joey’s step-by-step instructions and even googled the process, and after an hour of reading and translation, he felt he had a good enough grasp on tracking IP addresses that it might actually work.

He put on his coat and headed for the elevator, arriving to find another JF&A employee getting in. It was a short, hunched-over, roundish man with shoulder length, greasy black hair.

Martin.

David didn’t know Martin. Didn’t know anything about him, other than he worked in the accounting department and didn’t talk. He had a thick beard and he rarely made eye contact. Martin was the weird one in the office; his awkwardness was such that even the other accountants didn’t talk to him. There were whispers behind his back whenever he walked by. And in forced company gatherings – of which there were many – he stood alone in corners and looked at the ceiling.

That was all David knew, and all he cared to know. He had met his share of weirdoes in his life, and didn’t give them much thought. But when he saw Martin enter the elevator along with him, he quickly looked for an escape route. David had nothing against him personally; he would’ve just rather avoided the situation. There was something unintentionally intimate about elevator rides – spending a short amount of time in a small, enclosed space with one or more other human beings, coupled together by chance, not choice. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder in silence and avoiding eye contact, waiting for the ride to be over. Almost all other social interactions call for conversation, even if forced and short lived. But not the elevator. It calls for the opposite; deathly silence, as if to pretend the others in the elevator are not actually there, which always creates a level of awkwardness. And when paired with an oddball coworker, the awkwardness is only amplified.

Finding no exit that wouldn’t have been obvious, David put his head down and entered the elevator.

Inside the car, he gave Martin a token nod. Martin stared at the floor. David punched the button for the ground floor, and both men stood side by side, facing the door and waiting for it to close. The button was illuminated, but nothing happened. David shifted his weight. After an eternity, the door shut, and they were treated to a deafening silence as they waited for the elevator to descend. David could hear his heart beat, hear his fingers move around in his pockets. Hear the silent hum of the elevator descending. Both men studied the walls. The elevator was notoriously slow, it seemed to crawl like a snail at that moment.

So, David started, because, why the hell not, how you been?

It was a ridiculous question, because the two had never shared a meaningful conversation in their lives, and thus David had no barometer for how Martin ever was, and wouldn’t be able to put in context how he’d been, recently. But it was what people said, and the silence was getting to him. He still stared straight forward.

What came out of Martin most closely resembled a high-pitched grunt, but David believed he said, Fine. He wasn’t sure, so he looked over and saw that Martin was sweating. Martin did not look back.

The elevator continued its crawl toward the lobby and, holy shit they were only to floor nine how slow can one elevator possibly be? David checked his watch, pulled out his phone and pretended to look something up, and for the love of god can’t this thing go any faster?

He opened and closed the same app on his phone twice. Still, the ride continued.

Finally, and mercifully, the elevator ground to a halt, and David spilled out into the lobby.

3

The War

Salvatore Grasso left for Afghanistan three days after his twentieth birthday. He joined the Marines straight out of high school, and with the war going on it was only a matter of time until his number was called. Sal didn’t seem to mind; he was a smart kid, well aware of the