An old, reproduced, letter - for fun and posterity
I have here, before me, an old and unnecessary letter, written some years ago by me, using a pen and paper technique that I think few of us today would recognize. It’s a rough eight-or-so pages long and serves no purpose at all except to specifically be a letter.
I’ve read, and reread this letter a few times over the years, whenever I stumble upon it again. Please understand that I DO NOT carry the thing around with me. Never have and never will, so don’t go thinking that I’m trying to suggest any type of similarity between myself and a certain Zooey Glass. Not on this, nor any matter than I can think of. Zooey Glass is far too awesome for this cat. He, Zooey, is the sort to “…go all to pieces every time he sees a goddamn rainbow…” and I am not. Though I really wish I were. No, I don’t carry this letter around. I just seem to stumble upon it from time to time, that’s all and, when I have stumbled, I read it again. Not in the tub or anything though, I can assure you of that.
Anyway, each time I read this letter, I find myself noticing just how different my style of written communication has become from September 2002 to current. This was interesting enough, to me anyway, to consider - and ultimately, to decide - reproducing it, though not in its entirety, on my blog.
I know that this is mixing things up entirely from my typical blog post [if a “typical” post can be attributed to a person that haves so few blog entries in one single place], but I don’t mind that one bit and I hope that no one else will either. I assure you that I will get right back to the typical complaints and rants that I [hehe] typically go on and on about. But for now, a vacation from all that. Sit back and relax as I take you on a trip through time and space… Next stop - the past, when I once had a job as a waiter in an average-prices family style restaurant. I worked there part time, and barely made enough money in tips to pay for the paper and postage stamps needed to mail the letter. There you are, enough back story. Here we go:
“…How the hell are you? I know that we see enough of each other to render this question useless but, it just seems like the right way to start a letter so I am going to let it stay on the page for form’s sake. Besides. I am always interested in your current state of mind, peace, all around well being, etc. So by that measure, the question is as relevant as if we hadn’t seen one another for centuries. That point decides it. It stays.
I should apologize now - hopefully in advance - for any misspelled words or any lack of cohesion in my sentences that may (or have) come up during this letter. I am writing with a bitch of a hangover looming all around my eyes, ears, and the back of my neck. That particular part of my body (the back of my neck) feels like it’s been poisoned the hard way. My spelling is not, as you are quite aware, at an accuracy level that one could be exactly proud of, but the poisoned neck and the temple-banging hangover sprite seem determined to make my spelling and sentence formation suffer too.
After writing that last bit, I thought that some coffee might do some good. I put the thought to action and brewed some of my way-too-old-to-mention grinds and am now drinking it as happily as a person who has an intimate knowledge of its age can. I hope it helps, but let’s move on.
Last night, at work, I had the misfortune of waiting on an older couple that seemed to be pretty nondescript but, for some reason, took quite a liking to me. Why is it that older couples are the ones that find me pleasant? Anyway, they seemed to like me and when they finished their meal, I (as is the custom) asked if they wanted some dessert. After some minutes of deliberation and my ‘checking back’ with them some two or three times, they decided to share a banana split. They didn’t get any special toppings, ‘just the usual stuff’, but considered that point too, for a minute. I went and built their dessert and brought it to them excusing my sloppiness as an attempt to make it extra delicious and accommodating for two. A bold lie, but they seemed to have bought it.
Now we come to the heart of the story, sorry for all the fluff. I set the banana split, long dessert spoon on each side, in the middle of the table, between them and turned to walk away when the man stopped me to ask if I was going home anytime soon. I assured him that I was stuck there for quite some time, thinking that he was one of those types that don’t tip, but when they do, they like to hand the money directly to the intended recipient as no one else in the world can be trusted not to snatch the loose money off the table and run with it. So, having put his mind at ease that I would be accessible to him during the remainder of their stay, I left him and his wife to their melting ice cream disaster of a dessert. As luck would have it, when they were ready to leave, I was the only one around who could run the cash register. I met them at the cash station and said all of the customary post-restaurant questions. You know, the ‘How was your meal?’, ‘Was everything to you liking?’, etc. They, of course, responded in positive tones and settled up their bill. Ok, here’s the part that I have been getting to. Sorry (again) for the long narrative but, I want you to get a feel for the situation.
So we settle the bill and, just when I think that they are leaving, the husband sort of half pulls me aside and slyly, yet proudly says, ‘This is for you’. Ah, I thought to myself, the tip. I take it, thinking him and he, ever so slightly, leans forward and says, ‘I just want you to know how impressed we were by you.’
‘Thank you’ I said, smilingly trying to hide the awkwardness of the scene.
He continued: ‘I mean, we really WERE impressed with you. Your personality really is going to take you far in life.’
I kept smiling and squeezing in uncomfortable ‘Thank yous’.
‘And when you are the President of a huge corporation, you can think back to a time when an old man from Minnesota said so.’
I thanked him one last time and he flashed me the sort of sincere smile that only a stranger can give and left.
Reading over what I have just written, it strikes me that I might have painted the couple too harshly. I didn’t dislike them at all. That is to say, not until the very end when the man forced his ‘wisdom’ or ‘insight’ or whatever, on me. They were a happy couple. They weren’t too demanding or anything. They were, like I sad earlier, nondescript. My feelings only began to change, and only slightly, during out little tette-a-tette and their subsequent departure. It wasn’t until I had had enough time to absorb what he said and had tossed it here and there in my mind that I started to, slightly more, dislike the encounter. Knowing myself better than he could possibly know me, I can safely say that he couldn’t be more wrong. There can be no two opinions on the matter, among those who know me.
Why then did he feel it so urgent to give me his opinion? Why? Who knows.
I don’t really know why I told that story. I think that maybe I thought it to be letter-type material. What do you think? In your professional opinion, is that the sort of thing that fits nicely into an envelope and then gets torn out of the same envelope, at a different location, by an unsuspecting recipient? Would the reader be satisfied or disappointed? Be square. Honest. Professional.
I’ll wrap this up now. I’ve gone on far too long to keep anybody’s interest, particularly your. In closing though, I would like to tell you my reason(s) for writing you a letter.
About three weeks ago, Theory (bless his heart) and I were watching Caillou on PBS. The mom had just gotten the mail and it was, of course, all bills and junk. Talking out loud to herself, she mentioned how nice it would be to get a letter from somebody every once in a while. I agreed with her sentiment, as probably anyone would, but I digress. Anyway, Caillou heard her comment and, when his dad came home from work, Caillou asked him to help write his mommy a letter. They did and she received it with great satisfaction.
After watching that episode of Caillou, I decided that Theory, in all of his kindness, selflessness, and love for HIS mommy would want to do the same for you. You know him though, ever too proud to ask for help and unable to write for himself. So I decided to do it fro him.
A few days later, you, me, and Theory were checking our respective mail boxes and you mentioned wanting a pen-pal. I replied with something terribly witty like. ‘Oh, that’s interesting’, or something equally amazing.
That event almost dissuaded me from following through with my plan based on the argument that you would now be expecting me to write because of our little conversation-ette, or, if not expecting, at the least not surprised by my writing. On further thought though, I found out that my logic and second guessing abilities were severely impaired and not at all worth their salt. Why, I asked myself in indignation, shouldn’t I do something for someone when they express an interest for it to be done? A question especially relevant, in my eyes, when I had already, previously, resolved to do it of my own accord (This little paragraph is way too wordy but, what the fuck, I’m on an experimentation ride here.) Third chance logic prevailed and here are both the proof, and the fruits, of said logic.
There you have it. Straight from the horse’s mouth. A somewhat long, fairly dry story found in a longer letter that could have been much longer with no effort at all (I tried - somewhat successfully - to keep it short) but, was initially intended to be much shorter. Both of which accompanied (abundantly) by some worthless thought processes used to fill in gaps and throw off the over-all flow. I hope, though, that it was amusing enough to eat up a couple of your more boring moments at work or anywhere else equally blase…”
All right then. There it is, recorded for ever in this digital ether-blend of everywhere-ness. Never to be lost, unless someone goes looking. Yay! Comment on any aspect of it, terrible or otherwise, if you like. Alternatively, ignore and pretend that this reproduction never happened. That’s probably the best idea yet. Yeah, go with that one.
