The Writer
Dear Management,
I am writing to inform you. First off, I am impressed with how promptly, once receiving my letter, you took care of the garbage disaster that has been plaguing this building for the last two months. Although, as I have stated, it was going on for two months too long. Nonetheless, better late than never, I suppose. Secondly, something is happening in apartment 12. I have yet to determine exactly what it is, but, there certainly is something. Early every morning, between the hours of 4-5am, someone in that unit plays, well, I guess you could call it music, at a low volume. I can only just hear it, being a floor below, but it has had an effect on my sleeping. I could maybe get past it if it weren’t for the “music.” The notes go on for too long. I am no musician, but I’ve been listening to music for 33 years. No song I have ever heard has had a note go on for as long as these notes go on. A five minute song will have no more than seven notes. They drag and drag. They put me in a state of being I can only describe as inert. Is there anything that can be done? Impose a noise ordinance (there should already be one!) or something like that? Please let me know asap. This is becoming too much.
Sincerely,
#
Jacob,
It was so good to see you last week! What fun it was to go out and eat and drink like we use to. As friends, of course! Watching you trying to savor the cheese atop your french onion soup was endearing despite the failure. You are truly one of a kind, Jacob. I don’t understand why it took us so long, considering you’re just a ten minute drive from me. Why is that, do you think? I think there are many more unanswered text messages on your end than there are on mine. In fact, most of my messages are never returned. No harm, no foul. We’re all busy these days! I don’t know if I mentioned it the other night, but I’ve been taking a ceramics class. The feel of the clay in my hands is so therapeutic. I sometimes get lost in watching it spin on the wheel. I have a lot to learn and my instructor Janey doesn’t seem to know what to do with me. Hopefully I can finish something soon. Maybe an ashtray, ha ha. Anyway, don’t be a stranger. It would be nice to see you more often.
Lots of love,
#
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing in response to the posting of the position for Mail Sorter at your postal branch.
For as long as I can remember, I have loved the romantic quality of letters. It’s almost cliche to lament the hostile takeover of emails. What a shame. But we soldier on, us in the mail business.
In my time on this planet, I have been extremely ordered. Wow, you should see my apartment. Everything in its place. That’s one reason why I am so drawn to the Mail Sorter position. I have the requisite attention to detail that will ensure all letters, packages, etc. reach their intended destinations. Another reason goes back to paragraph one: I love letter writing.
With that being said, I look forward to hearing from you soon about when my first day will be. Do you provide the uniform, or is that me? Not a problem if it’s me. Thank you for reading.
Kind regards,
#
Eileen (Mother),
Thank you for your typical non-response to my last letter. I remain unsurprised. “C’est la vie,” I always say, each time you reinforce my opinion of you. So it goes, I think. What I am curious about is what goes through your mind when you’re reading my words. What do you think of my poetic sensibilities? My craftsmanship? You were always a little averse to nuance and quality. C’est la vie. I get it from somewhere, I guess. My last letter asked nothing of you. Only that you tell me what happened that night. You’ve claimed the story you’ve always told me is the truth. Oh, contraire. I will not be hoodwinked. Tell me the truth, mother. Like my skill in letter writing, I obviously get my integrity and, not to mention, veracity, from some otherworldly place. Please, for the sake of my rapidly increasing prejudice toward you, tell me.
Begrudgingly yours,
#
For the attention of the Editorial Department,
This morning’s edition of your newspaper included a story about local businesses shutting down in town due to increasing panic regarding all of our current shared life experience. While I do appreciate your attention to this unfortunate development (the last thing we need is more bad news!), I was struck by your inclusion of the adult bookstore on Grant St. Why? Why include this? I have passed by, like many in our town, this abhorrent facade, for how many years I cannot count, with immense distaste. Recently, I nearly crashed into the back of the car in front of me while staring at a sign that said, “Why don’t you stop and imagine yourself getting top?” Do you know what “top” means? In this context? Well I do. I urge you to issue a retraction of the article, disavowing any reference to the aforementioned “bookstore.” If not, I may be forced to cancel my subscription.
In disappointment,
#
Editorial Dept.,
Thank you for your prompt response, as is not common these days. Although I cannot say that it has assuaged my feeling of betrayal that you invoked with the article in question. And beyond that, I find your letter stating, “No. Sorry.” to be completely unacceptable. You call yourself a professional media outlet? The gaul. Upon reading your letter, I immediately cancelled my subscription. While unsure where I will now get my news, I do feel I have made the moral choice. I wish you luck and hope you will soon see the error of your actions.
Should you need further clarification, please look inside yourself,
#
Dearest Jacob,
As acknowledged in my previous letter, we are all so busy. With that said, I am bit dismayed to receive nothing in return. This, along with my neglected follow up text messages, has caused me to question our friendship, which I felt was bordering on a more intimate relationship. After further reflection, though, I have come to a tenuous acceptance. We are all not without faults. I know that we can overcome this bump in the road (as you did with that french onion soup, ha ha) and get back on the right track. I can’t wait to hear from you.
P.S. I must recommend the television series ‘Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.” Pure pulp (can you imagine ME watching something so pedestrian?), but captivating in its own little way.
Earnestly,
#
AT&T,
On reception of my monthly bill, I noticed that I was charged for a home television package. I have been a loyal customer to AT&T for the last 10 years. Not once in those 10 years have I ever had a television package. Why would I? I have no television. I use a projector to watch movies, the Criterion Collection, nearly every night. Please take this anecdote into consideration. I expect a revised bill to be sent to me immediately. If I am levied a late fee, I will be reaching out again for rectification.
Regards,
#
My Loveliest Janey,
I’m sure you are aware how pleased I have been studying under your tutelage. Not only are you an effective teacher and communicator, but your kindness and patience is so very appreciated. I have struggled, as you know, to really grasp the concept of this art form. So badly do I want to make anything, anything at all. I was, I suppose, moderately happy about the outcome of my name plate, as I’ve begun to call it. Unfortunately, in a moment of duress (we won’t get into it), it has ended up in pieces and shards on my living room floor. I would say that in itself is a piece of art. Which is why I’ve left it in place. As you can see in the photo I’ve sent along with this letter, it truly is marvelous. With that being said, when will classes resume? Last week when I showed up the door was locked, a ‘closed’ sign hung up. I could’ve sworn I saw people near the back, but I imagine it was my eyes playing tricks on me. Like I said, I am eager to get back. I await with bated breath your response.
Your dutiful student,
#
Unit 12,
At this point, I am assuming the building management company has not contacted you about the numerous, building-wide complaints about your early morning music playing. So, with that in mind, I am stepping up as arbiter of this matter. Before you get any ideas, I must inform you that I have settled many family disputes in the past and know how this process works.
I’m not sure if you realize this, but your music, played at such a strange hour, is hopelessly disruptive to your neighbor’s sleep patterns. It is unhealthy to be yanked out of a REM cycle before a person intends to. All studies have shown that if this happens, people are better off just staying awake because they likely will enter the REM cycle again, which is a disastrous problem because a person is likely to stay within that cycle before, again, being woken up by an alarm clock. Therefore, a person wakes up even groggier than they might without such disruption. Please bear this in mind.
Another issue we at the building feel must be addressed is the type of music you play. What on Earth is happening within these “songs?” It’s like being trapped in a dream, better yet, a nightmare. A note will last so long that I feel as though I am being swept away by an undercurrent, strong and malignant, never to return to my natural state. Finally, when the note ends, so begins another impossibly long, imprisoning note. Where can one find any solace?
I, on behalf of the tenants of this building (your neighbors!), implore you to stop with this obscene ritual. Think of the children, exposed to such bizarre machinations of this “music.” Ruined forever, I imagine, unable to become informed, proper musicians themselves. An outcome of which I cannot fathom the destructive effects.
Please end this or further action will be taken.
Your exhausted neighbor,
#
Dear Postmaster General,
I write in distress regarding my mail service. A little background on me:
I am letter writer and believer in the postal service. I love the act of sitting down at my desk with a sheet of 8.5 x 11” 24lb ivory stock. I have, in the past, used quill and ink. Reluctantly, I’ve switched to a fountain pen with extra fine nib. As you can see here, the outcome is simply immune to reproach. And so, once finished and placed within carefully addressed envelops, I mail my letters to friends, colleagues, service providers, and, sometimes, possible enemies. I have found, as of late, that none of my letters have been reaching their intended destinations.
Here is where, I believe, you and your organization, to which I and every citizen pay taxes to ensure proper dissemination of important documents, are failing us. What is happening? Where, in the logistical process, is the hold up? Have you even done a thorough QC (quality control) of your reception, sorting, and shipping procedures in the last two months? I can assure you, it does not appear so.
I do not claim to be fully in-the-know of how exactly the postal service operates, but at a baseline, it seems the least you could do is deliver the mail. I apologize if this comes off harsh or overly critical. It is not my intention. But I do hope that I have jarred whatever miscommunication that is happening within your organization loose. Please, for the sake of this country and its citizens, make this right.
P.S. If you happen to know where I might find my letters, I would appreciate it if you either hurry those along or return them to me. I might, unfortunately, have to hand deliver them myself.
With concern,
#
Journal Entry:
Today I received nearly all of the letters I’ve sent in the last year, marked “Return to sender.” What a crushing blow. Who, I would like to know, has falsely written these words on all of my outgoing mail? There must, I believe, be more than one along the supply chain, working against me as many of the RTS messages are written in different handwriting. It seems to me that the organization I have held most dear to me for the better part of my life is conspiring against me. This realization is heartbreaking.
Worst of all, the greatest disappointment has come from the lost possible-relationship I might’ve had with, likely the love of my life, Jacob. If only he had received any of the letters I’ve sent over these last several months, I know that by now we would be together. I’ve longed to wake up to the smell of bacon, coffee, the sounds of classical music drifting through my apartment. Having dreamt and woken up without this has left me in despair. Although, I must admit, that it has driven me to deep introspection. Looking back on our last rendezvous, I could have possibly offended Jacob with some of my conversation. I am opinionated, yes. But after all, I am deservedly so. A voracious reader like myself has knowledge to impart. It is more of a gift to the intended recipient than it is anything else. But, that fact aside, I am remiss to remember one incident in particular. While the waiter was taking our order, Jacob pronounced “escargot” with a hard “T” at the end. Before he could continue, I informed him the T was silent. He looked at the waiter and apologized. Jacob went on to order a salad lyonnaise, but instead of “lion” at the beginning, he said “leone.” As in Sierra Leone. My guess is that he was trying to redeem himself for his previously foolish mispronunciation. That was cute. Again, I informed him of the proper pronunciation. In that moment, both Jacob’s and the waiter’s eyes stayed on me for a second too long, seemingly annoyed. Well, we left it at that. The meal came and it was truly divine. Could that have put Jacob off so much that he has ignored all my attempts at communication?
Oh, well, I am now remembering another moment, at the end of dinner. Adorable Jacob, he paid the bill. After signing the receipt, he left for the restroom. I, curious, looked at the signed receipt. Not because I cared what he tipped (30%!), but because I wanted to see what his penmanship was like. Not impressive to say the least. So many inconsistencies and half written letters. When he returned I suppose I, well, chastised him for it. I had asked the waiter for a blank sheet of paper (which he dawdled around for some time retrieving). Once I had the sheet of paper, I took out my fountain pen and gave Jacob a brief lesson on penmanship. Fifteen minutes later we were walking home, me trying to grab his hand, him absentmindedly looking at the towering buildings around us as if never having seen one before. Upon arrival at my building, I apologized for the unsightly trash all around, and asked if he would like to come in for a night cap. He politely declined and, turning away so abruptly, tripped over a bag of trash on the curb. He fell dramatically into the street. He lay there for some time before getting up. When he did, he looked at me as if not seeing me, grabbing the back of this head, and then staggered off down the street. I went inside and reflected on what I viewed as a perfect date. I hope to see him again, even all this time later.
In the meantime, I intend on readdressing and mailing out all of the pieces of returned mail (67 separate pieces). It is a bit frustrating, the ineptitude of those responsible for handling such business, but, at the heart of it, I don’t much mind. I love what I do. I love to see words on the page.