Where the hell are you? April 10, 1985
Dear Stranger:
It is hard to believe that five years has passed since our
wonderful time at The Morgue. But alas, time passes quickly and each of us have
gone our own way., some of us making the effort to communicate with others,
while there are clowns like you stuck in their closest eating marshmallows.
What is the matter with you? Have you lost your fingers? Or
do we in this part of the world remind you of a time you’d rather not think
about?
Too bad! You’re stuck with ghosts like us, like it or not,
and the longer you hold out, the more persistent we will be in sending such
communications as this to you.
Since I know almost nothing about your doings – except from
some mutterings from the recently married Mary Kay, I shall begin with an
update of my life and hope that you’re just bored enough to put up with it.
If not, skip the next few paragraphs to the end where the
secret message waits.
Since you left our part of the world, I have confronted many
ghosts in my own life. Suzanne and I broke up on Easter, 81 though she still
haunts the neighborhood, trying to score with my best friend, Pauly.
School fell apart for me that semester and I withdrew,
finding myself working at a baker in a Dunkin Donuts for the next year or so.
That didn’t last.
My ex-wife appeared on the scene, dredging up a lot of old and
sometimes painful feelings from the distant past. She had apparently been
involved with some questionable practices that included the world’s oldest
profession and was in deep trouble when she surfaced again. I fell in and out
of love with her once more, knowing that I couldn’t have her or wouldn’t know
what to do with her if I could.
Incidentally, I quote this just to tease your romantic inclination.
So, cheer up.
After some turmoil, I fell apart, tried school again,
dropped out again, found a new job in a Fotomat, went back to baking after
about a year or so. My writing floats up and down like a cork in a rough river.
Sometimes I want to give it up and start something more profitable such as
suicide (only kidding). I don’t know why you stopped writing, but I fully
understand why a writer might surrender. I just don’t understand why I don’t
hear from you anymore.
Well, to conclude, I fell in and out of love another time
with a short girl named Fran, and currently suffer the ach of that breakup,
while I ponder past mistakes and dismal futures.
So, in that vein, I thought of you. I figured by writing you
it might cheer me up. But it’s like writing to a spirit. I know you’re out
there, but nothing ever comes back.
Anyway, for your secret message: I miss the hell out of you,
stupid.
Sincerely yours,
Al Sullivan
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