You never get the chance
Dearest J.,
As I mentioned to you yesterday in a letter, I have been corresponding randomly with gentlemen through the inter webs as a result of poetry I post on Craigslist. It’s been an interesting and enjoyable experience for the most part.
I have been using each random connection as an opportunity to hone my writing skills in an approach rather dadaistic. In that, I base the topic of whatever my return response on the subject of the email received. For example, I recently received an email stating “Wow, I’m Impressed! Please tell me more…about yourself.”
The response below was drafted shortly thereafter.
Impressions
Impression 1.
He is born prematurely in Falls Church, VA in the newly opened hospital bearing the name of the Lord who settled the land upon which it resides. The combined labor of a newlywed, barefoot-child-bride, plucked fresh off the farm in the neighboring state of West by God, and a 32 year-old carpenter/cabinetmaker, himself born in a nearby valley known as Shenandoah.
He is born in the year one and the same when a chimpanzee named Ham, trained well by NASA, is launched into space and a nation’s imagination. Upon gazing at his newborn son for the first time his father exclaims, “He looks like a monkey! I say we name him Ham the Astrochimp.”they settle on the name befitting a rich guardian. It is downhill from there.
Impression 2.
“Okay. Keep pedalin’!” his aunt yells behind him as she lets go of the bike, with a push. His maiden flight sans training wheels. One revolution, then two, then threehis legs being slightly too short to fully reach the pedals, try as he might he is unable to keep enough forward momentum. Wobbles, loses control and the bike falls, him with it. “Owwwww!” he yells as he lands on one knee trying to cushion himself from the fall. “That’s okay. You’ll get it quick enough.” his aunt comforts as she rushes up from behind.
I need to go faster he thinks, maybe the big hill in the back yard. He grips the handlebars, considers not once but twice, and then pushes off the crest of the hill. He begins to pedal with as much gusto as he can muster. The wind rushes across his scalp, through bristles of crew cut hair and whistles in his ears. But miracle of miracles he doesn’t fall. I’m flying, he giggles to himself, at long last, I’m flyyyyyyyying!
Impression 3.
The situation has become intolerable. At the age of 29, after 13 years of marriage, three rounds of shock treatments, and the constant bouts with barrel fever she can longer care for herself, two school-aged children and her special needs husband. As if working full-time (many times 60 hours plus a week) and taking care of the family isn’t enough. He’s now taken to mentioning casually, “Don’t be surprised if you come home one day to find me and both the kids dead and the house on fire.”
The time is long past to leave.
She calls her brother in a neighboring suburban city, “Sis’. You and kids can stay with me for awhile ‘til you can find a place.” Two weeks later, on a Friday, somewhere in the night between the late evening and the middle they finish loading all of her belongings into the back of a 22 foot truck named “Penske”. As they pull out of the drive, he waves goodbye to his old life from the red vinyl bucket seat in the passenger’s side of his cousin’s silver Mustang II.
Hooterville here we come.
Impression 4.
The kids in the cafeteria are talking excitedly as he takes a seat next to the new boy in class. His name is Michael. He has landed in Cornfield County High School mid-Freshman-year from Arizona. With blond hair, green eyes and a smile with warmth to rival that in the Valley of the Sun from where he has arrivedMichael is as beautiful in body and spirit as the angel who is his namesake.
“So are you ready for Dago’s history test?” he asks Michael as he sets his tray on the table and slides onto the bench next to him. “I think so,” Michael replies, “Why do you call him that?”
“’Cause he told us to.” he offers, “Supposedly its a name his friends called him in college. I have no clue what it means.”
“I don’t think it’s a nice name.” Michael says popping a tater tot into his mouth. “I dunno” he shrugs considering the mystery meat in the tray before him with a fork.
He likes sitting next to Michael, it makes him feel good. In a way he’s never felt before. Happy and kind of tingly all over and a little scared at the same time. It sort of feels like what he’s heard love described as in books that he’s read.
But he’s another boy, he thinks. His next thought, this is going to be interesting.
And it has been an interesting experience as well writing these lengthy essay-like emails to strangers. A fire has been ignited in my belly in regard to writing. I hope to hitch a wagon to this manic creative comet and produce more.
We’ll see.
As always sending you much love!
egtheghotilover@gmail.com
www.theghotiletters.com
@EroGhoti