A Letter to Tina Fey
Hey Tina,
Just writing to get your advice on careers and such. So, I am trying to figure out what I want to do next with my life, and it seems like you are doing pretty well with yourself. Can you give a guy some guidance?
Thanks,
b
Letter to Professor S.
Dear Professor S.,
I am sure that you don’t remember me. I was an unspectacular freshman in way over my head. I am writing to say, “Thank You.” I never told you (didn’t know at the time) how much your class would change my life. I got put in your class just by chance. It was the last English class left at the end of a long day of registration. Perhaps (probably) I wasn’t prepared. I’d never read much poetry, hadn’t had the intro class, never had a college writing course, but I showed up. Showed up not knowing what to expect.
You called me Mr. Paris on my first day of class. Many have done the same since, but you were the first to do it without condescension. Don’t know why, but it meant a lot to me. I was being addressed with respect, as an adult. I was honored and scared. Must I now live up to this newly proclaimed adultness. Wait a minute, I didn’t ask for this. I knew right from the beginning that I wouldn’t be coasting through this class.
You spoke to every student that day, asking each about his history, what classes they had previously taken, why they took this one, favorite poet and the like. As you went from student to student, each was answering with their long history of study, love of poetry and long list of poets that I had never heard of. It seemed like each persons list would inspire a few minutes of talk on related poems or poets. Everyone was coming together, speaking the same language. Then it came to my turn. I was honest. It was the only class available, never studied any poetry, and mentioned the only poets that I could think of, Frost and Poe. Then I shrunk into nothing as no one said anything. Nothing. Silence. Silence. Silence. And then you moved on, and I was forgotten.
I spent most of my time in your class curled up in my embarrassed ball of myself. Never said anything in discussion, but listened. Listened and wrote down every poet that anyone mentioned. Then I went home and looked up everyone of them at night. I was learning about Elizabeth Bishop, Bukowski, T.S. Eliot, Auden, Williams, Hughes, Plath, Ashbery, Stevens, Dickinson, and Dylan Thomas. Sestinas, villanelles, and sonnets, odes and free verse. For someone who had never read any of these, it was a mindful. I was stuffing as much as I could in hope of catching up to the rest of class. I never did, but it didn’t matter, I was hooked. I was hooked on poetry.
I am writing to thank you for getting me hooked. For taking this eighteen year old searching for something more than physics and showing him the world. Not just he world that is, but what an artist can create. The me that left your class was different than the one who entered. I knew that I was one of those creatives that I had been reading about. I would never be satisfied with the normal life, normal friends, and the normal path.
The journey that was started that class has kept me searching for almost twenty years. I don’t know where I would be if I hadn’t had your class, but I just wanted to let you know that I am happy that I did. I am happy that I met you. I might not have made much difference in your life, but you made a big one in mine.
Thanks,
Brian
Retired
The smell of fresh espresso was enough to wake me up today. As I walked in the coffee shop, Jerry greeted me with a big “Hello.” He must have gotten an extra shot in his cappuccino, because it was much too early to be this chipper. “So what’s up?” I asked as I sat down. Jerry looked over at me with a big smile and said, “I don’t think I’m going to be seeing you here anymore. I’m done. I’m through with all of it. I’m retired.”
“You just up and quit?”
“Yep, that’s what happened,” he explained. “Sat at my desk and thought about what was really important to me, and that job just didn’t make the list.”
“Don’t mean to question, but I didn’t think you made enough money to be retiring at your age.”
“Well, I guess I’m not really retiring, more just changing my focus. I’ve always wanted to publish a magazine, so I got what money I had together, and I’m going to give it a go.”
“The next Business Week?” I supposed.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Jerry corrected. “I’m going to write about the important things: sex, Cubs, and rock-n-roll. A magazine about the life. About the life I want to be living.”
I could see he was looking for approval, asking with his eyes, if I understood, if I felt his passion. To be honest, it seemed like a big mistake to give up a good job for something so frivolous. “That’s great,” I said. “I’m glad that you are living your dream.”
I never saw Jerry after that, but I still check the news stands.
Bender
alarm blinks 12:00, but the light coming around the sides of the curtains tells me that i am late for work. gina is laying in bed next to me. it must have been a drunken night. this was the first time i’d seen her since she broke up with her boy toy. i nudge her awake and let her know it is time to go. she jumps up and quickly dresses. apparently she is late too. she’s out the door before i my eyes are even clear. i put on some shorts and head downstairs. there’s an unknown couple groping in their sleep on the living room floor. don’t have time to question that one. i pick out a not too dirty shirt and pair of jeans from the laundry. grab a coke out of the fridge and out the door. i am sure the guest can find their way out. another day of work. then rest.
Pledge
Everyday morning at exactly 7:45 all of us kids in the Miss Carter’s second grade class would stand up and pledge our allegiance to a flag and a country. It was our morning ritual, one class, indivisible, each day reaffirming our belief in a great nation. Each of us took turns leading the class, but it was Timmy who really took pride in leading us. He would stand up there place his hand over his heart and wait for everyone to settle, then lead us. Maybe he loved his country, or maybe he loved being in the spot light, being a leader.
It is years later and I haven’t seen anyone from that class since graduation. After I finished grade school, my folks moved to another part of town, and I went to a different middle school than the rest. It wasn’t until high school that I was reunited with the group. Even though it was only a couple of years, I was already an outsider. I didn’t yet fit in with my middle school classmates, and was no longer welcome with the old gang.
I wished that I could just walk up to my old friends and ask them to let me in. Tell them about all we had shared, and how I wasn’t really different even though I live up north now. Early in the fall semester of my freshman year, I tried to make an attempt. “Hey, Timmy, it’s me from grade school,” I started, but was interrupted by “The name is Tim.” Apparently a lot had changed in my time away. Timmy was now a Tim, and I wasn’t welcome.
Just today, I read that Tim had died over the weekend. No explanation of the circumstances, just an obituary stating the facts of his life, leaving behind a wife and a son. I don’t know why, but I will always remember him leading us second graders in a pledge.
Time
My pocket watch chain snagged on the kitchen drawer pull, and my pocket watch fell to the floor, broken. Now I don’t know what time it is, but I know it is getting late, because the sun is down. I think I’ll just go to bed and when I get up tomorrow I will take it to Amir at the souq to see if I can get it fixed. Amir has helped in the past with cleaning, so I hope he can help with this broken watch.
If not, there is nothing to feel good about.
Driving
So, I’m driving along the this highway, see. It’s mid-day on a gray afternoon and there’s no traffic. I am really cruising. Nice car and a smooth ride. Got to be making good time. No cops, no traffic, no curves, everything is smooth sailing, and I am sitting there wondering where the hell am I going. I know I’m moving fast in a direction, but really where the hell am I going? When I woke up this morning I had no plans to get on the highway. Matter of fact, I thought I might like to take a stroll out by the creek out back. Sit down and enjoy the smell of the damp leaves. Instead I am on the highway, making good time, getting to where I need to go. I am starting to question this trip. Why am I going, going, going, gone? when I don’t even want to go? Wouldn’t it be better to take a slow bend in a country road in an old pickup truck?
Mother’s Day Tradition
Me and Jenny went down to the Heat and Eat to get some dinner. It was mother’s day and she was feeling all warm inside. She wasn’t a mother yet, but the baby was kicking so it wouldn’t be too much longer. I figured that we might as well celebrate, even if it was a month early. That, and I really wanted a burger. Jenny ordered a big bacon sandwich and a chocolate milkshake. When she got the sandwich, she smothered that puppy with so much catsup that I don’t even know if she could taste the bacon. I didn’t question her on it though. She always ate strange shit to begin with, so it makes sense that two of them together in one body must be coming up with some crazy cravin’s. Can’t say it was much of a day to remember, but it was the first of what would be come a bacon eating mother’s day tradition.
50 Ways
After a long day at work it was good to be home. Sarah and I had been together for two years now. She moved in just a few months ago, and I was getting used to having her around every day. It was nice to come home and see her friendly face there to greet me.
Tonight when I got home she wasn’t there, but instead I found a letter and a CD by the player. That was nice of her to make a mix tape for me. Popped it in and pressed play. The music started with Paul Simon. I really liked him. “50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.” Probably not what I would have chosen for a mix tape, but it was the thought that counts. The music fades and I hear Sarah’s voice.
“This probably isn’t the best way to tell you, but I couldn’t think of a better way. I guess this is the 51st way to leave your lover…”
Part 6: Acceptance:
I sat down with the name tagged Timmys and when the cafeteria attendant came by I took a bar-b-que sandwich and some fries. Gus, the guy sitting next to me, told me that he had been here at Wolfie’s for four years and he had never seen a doorway out of this place, but the food was good and the people were nice and all of the nurses were cute. Why would any one want to leave a place like that? I had to agree that the accommodations did seem nice enough, but still it took me close to seven months before I gave up on the idea of finding my freedom. I looked through every room in the place and just as Gus had told me there wasn’t an exit to be found anywhere that I could see.
