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by William Michaelian |
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Dear Leo — the stories I sent you really aren’t much. But I’m glad you liked them. One of these days, after I catch up on a few pesky bills (past due rent, electricity, etc.), I’ll drop a few more in the mail. They should at least be worth a few laughs. And no, none have been accepted yet. When that day comes — if it ever does — you’ll be the first to know. Actually, you’ll probably find me on your doorstep, drunk as a skunk with an ice-cold bottle of champagne in my hand. A toast to the great writer! Ha-ha. In the meantime, be glad you’re an electrician. Mom is fine, if you don’t count the fact that she’s exhausted from taking care of Christine’s baby girl. I try to help when I’m over there, but once the kid starts crying I go to pieces. She’s so little I’m afraid she’ll break. Thank goodness, Mom is a good grandmother. The way everything happened, she wasn’t ready for the job. Mentally, I mean. I don’t know. Maybe if Dad were still alive, things would be better. On the other hand, if Dad were still alive, I’ll bet that stupid sister of mine wouldn’t have gotten pregnant. Or, if she had, she and Derek — now there’s a name for you — would be the ones buried in the Vista Point Cemetery. Otherwise, life goes on. Chris is all right. She’s working at Safeway and still trying to finish high school. Derek, for all practical purposes, is worthless. Mom thinks he’s dumber than a post, which is true outwardly, but at the same time I know it’s just a cover-up. He’s only seventeen, for crying out loud — not that that’s an excuse in itself. But his father’s an idiot and his mother is out of the picture, so it’s unfair to think the kid should be a doctor or lawyer at this point. It’s tough enough being that age anyway, without a bunch of old geezers looking down their noses at you — as if they haven’t made their share of mistakes. This girl in the picture you sent me — what a doll. I’m telling you, if you don’t marry her, I will. I’ll sneak into town and steal her away from you while you’re crawling around in someone’s attic. Really, old boy, Laura Leland is one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen. Is she a Denver girl, or is she from somewhere else? Heaven, maybe? Keep me posted. Which reminds me — Pat broke up with me again. I know, I know. Talk about a circus. It happened Saturday night. I went to pick her up at the mall at nine, when she gets off work. I was waiting in the car by the back door of her shop, just minding my own business, when all of a sudden this dumpy guy bursts out and starts running toward the fence by the freeway where all those bushes are. A few seconds later, a police car shoots behind me with its lights flashing, and another one stops a few feet away from the door. Well, it turns out this guy tried to rape a girl in one of the dressing rooms. Brilliant, eh? Anyway, they caught him by the freeway, trying to thumb a ride. After they had questioned the girl and the employees, the manager locked the back door and Pat and I drove off. Poor Pat — she was pretty well rattled. I tried to get her mind on other things, but she kept going back to what that guy had done. So I started asking her the same things the police had — had she ever seen him before, was the girl one of their regular customers — stuff like that. Finally, we get to my place and she says, “What’re we doing here?” And I say, “I thought we were going to watch Doctor Zhivago.” You should’ve seen the look she gave me then. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “A girl almost gets raped and you want to put me through Doctor Zhivago.” “Put you through it,” I said — “what’s that supposed to mean? Doctor Zhivago is a great movie.” And she says, “I’ll tell you exactly what it means.” Then she launches into this tirade about what a bastard Rod Steiger is, and how he takes advantage of Julie Christie, who’s a poor, innocent girl, and ends up saying we men are all alike. Can you believe it? So I said, “First of all, I’ve never raped anyone. And second, if that girl in your store tonight was anything like Julie Christie, it’s no wonder that guy tried what he did.” Well, that did it. Pat slapped me across the face — and I mean hard. I looked at her, and she looked at me, and neither one of us said a word. I took her home, and got the silent treatment the whole way. When I pulled into her parents’ driveway, I told her I was sorry. “Not as sorry as I am,” she said. Then she opened the car door, got out, and slammed the door shut. Now it’s Thursday, and I haven’t talked to her since. I tried calling on Sunday, but her Mom answered and told me Pat had gone to the coast with a couple of her girlfriends and wouldn’t be back until late. I called Monday and got their stupid answering machine. I left a message asking Pat to call me, but she hasn’t, and so that’s where it stands. I just hope she doesn’t stay mad forever. I know the whole thing is my fault, but at this point I don’t know what to do about it. What do you think? Should I send her flowers, go over and talk to her Mom, or kill myself and just get it over with? Part two — “The World’s Darkest Hour.” Oh, boy. Leo, my friend. You guessed it. Now I’m drunk. And do you know what? I don’t give a shit. Not about Pat, or Dr. Romeo Steiger, or anything else. Really. Why should I? You reach a point, Leo — you know what I mean? You reach a god-damned point, and you get sick and tired of trying to be noble all the time. You reach a point, and you feel exactly like that crazy guy in the mall. And you sympathize with him. You have to, because no one else does. People are so selfish. That’s what I’ve learned. I’ve lived on this planet for twenty-six years now, and that’s it — that’s what I’ve learned. Leo — Leo, Leo, Leo. What am I going to do? I don’t want you to send me money. You’ve helped too much as it is. Mom says I should go out and get a job. But god damn it, how am I supposed to do that when I’ve got so much writing to do? And she doesn’t know how many jobs I have had. That’s one of the reasons I moved out in the first place — to spare her the gory details. But what hurts me more than anything is that she thinks I’m a failure. It’s so damn obvious — she doesn’t have to come out and say it. Everything about her says she’s disappointed in me. As if I’m weird or crippled or something. As if it’s my fault I turned out to be a writer. It’s all right for people to do other things, though. It’s all right for you to be an electrician, and for Pat to sell see-through blouses at the mall. It’s fine for Mom’s neighbor, Fred Jensen, to be a certified public accountant. Fred’s boring, but that doesn’t matter. He’s dishonest, but that tie he wears makes everything A-OK. If I were a milkman, even — Mom’s attitude toward me would change overnight. So — what am I going to do? I’ve considered starving to death, just for the sheer comedy and poetry of it. But if I do that, then who will do my writing? Not that anyone gives a shit. But here’s the real trouble — I’ve gotten used to being hungry, and now I kind of like it. Hey, hey — give me a little coffee and a slimy doughnut from that grease trap on the corner, and I’m a happy camper. It feels good. It tickles my gut for five or ten minutes, and then I get this clear-headed feeling, like all of a sudden I’m standing in front of a vast mental landscape. You should try it sometime. Laura Leland is sure a pretty girl. Pat is pretty, but not like that. She looks beaten down somehow. Even at that age, which is probably a bad sign. Laura — that’s my aunt’s name. You’ve never met her, have you? My dad’s sister. A beautiful woman — she and her husband have three kids that’ll knock your eyes out. A girl and two boys. If you marry Laura Leland — which I hope and pray you do — make damn sure you have lots and lots of kids. Don’t listen to the population “experts.” They’re sour, empty people who’ve either done their damage and had their kids, or who are too bitter to enjoy life. All they know are numbers. What they forget, though, is that children are a gift. They come to us pure and unfettered, and bring us new hope. The beauty of it is, the mystery of it is, we can never know which child will be the next Beethoven, or Jesus, or Van Gogh. If we don’t have kids, we rule out that possibility — which is stupid and selfish and blind. So have kids, Leo. You and Laura. Give us all another chance. And whatever you do, don’t stop at one or two. Have four or five, and teach them to be good people. Wow. It’s eleven-thirty already. I’ve had way too much to drink. What pisses me off is that I should have spent the money on a nice spaghetti dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs, Leo. There’s nothing else like it in the world. Eating spaghetti makes you feel like a god. The smell of the sauce. Oh! The steam rising. It’s like a prayer to eternal heaven. Imagine yourself passing through strange, distant lands, where the people — beautiful shepherds and shepherdesses — rub the cares from your brow, speak in soft voices, and bring you a never-ending supply of spaghetti and meatballs. What a paradise. Until you stumble across a sign somewhere that says, “No Writers Allowed.” But surely, there must be a mistake. Surely, I must be welcome in the gracious, gentle land of spaghetti and meatballs. But no. Here’s another sign. “We Work For A Living.” So — I’m banished, then, even here. I’m banished to a life of cheap coffee and greasy doughnuts. Very well. See what I care! For am I not a man? Do I not have a right to happiness? Shall I not pursue my dream, my goals? Damn it — I will not sell insurance, Leo. I’d much rather starve. I am starving. But my spirit is not for sale. The sun is coming up. By god, Leo, what a beautiful sight it is. And what a wonderful friend you are to put up with me like this. I’ve just finished reading what I wrote to you yesterday afternoon and last night. I should be embarrassed — but with you — because you’re the only true friend I have — I know that isn’t necessary. The truth is — and we must speak the truth — I have a novel I want to write. It’s about you, and your life with Laura Leland. I don’t know the details yet, but the work will reveal the simple, healing grace of love. I will dedicate it to both of you, and to the children I know you will have. Forgive me, Leo. If you send me three hundred and fifty dollars, I promise to spend it wisely. I love you. Kiss Laura for me. My best to everyone. Your friend, Logan William Michaelian’s newest releases are two poetry collections, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, published in paperback by Cosmopsis Books in San Francisco. His short stories, poems, and drawings have appeared in many literary magazines and newspapers. His novel, A Listening Thing, is published here in its first complete online edition. For information on Michaelian’s other books and links to this site’s other sections, please go to the Main Page or visit Flippantly Answered Questions. |
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