dead letters - dated March 13, 1998

I find these things in the darnedest of places, either crumpled up into a ball or folded, inserted in a book. Sometimes these were things that I was actually thinking at the time, sometimes they were real letters that saw a "final draft" and were delivered, sometimes they were just material that I was working on to put into a short story or something. This one I found when I started thinking about Harold Bloom's Stephen King rant and decided it was due time I re-read Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March, -- it was folded up, coffee-stained, and hand-scribbled, inserted inside. I think this was an exercise, since I'd be damned if I could figure out a "who" here and I'm fairly certain I worked a lot of this material into my "relationship soliloquy" play, Throb. It's only slightly edited here and follows a similar theme and approach that I've worked into many monologues about asking someone out for a date. I would have been seventeen when I wrote this and some of this was just embarrassing.

I know that this is probably going to seem a little strange. In this age of instantaneous contact through various electronic means, who actually receives anything in the mail aside from bills and solicitations for credit cards, music and video clubs, or a gym? Let alone a hand-written letter from someone you haven't seen in a matter of months and is probably the last person you'd naturally expect to have heard from again. For all I know, you could very well have forgotten that I existed and may be somewhat unnerved reading these words. This is a terrible way to open a letter, but if you find this either creepy or inappropriate, please allow me to apologise now.

And now I'm beginning to second-guess myself. I want to write the right words, or rather the right combination of words, but all I seem to be doing is rambling and dancing around the point I haven't even alluded to and am already apologising for. If this were a conversation, I'd probably be stammering, if anything even managed to pass my lips other than a squeak or some inane triviality. What is it about women that turns most men's intelligence and eloquence into seeming incoherence?

I wanted to do this back in December, before you left for greener pastures, but my brain got the better of me. I have an incredibly hard time being selfish, I always have to factor in all extenuating circumstances and repercussions anything might have on the other person. I can't just wantonly inflict myself on another human being. I don't exactly know why, it's just not something I can do. In this case, I began asking myself, "Is this right?", and I began thinking about things like our relative stages in education -- you nearing the end of your and me being somewhere in the middle -- or something trivial like age difference. I only ended up tying myself into one big Gordian know of "maybe". And so, conflicted, I said goodbye and let you walk away.
We do so many stupid things in our lives and spend the rest of it thinking on all that was and all that could have been.
By now, probably back about the first paragraph in truth, you've got an idea of what I want to say. What I want to ask. I was hoping that I could actually do this in person, or via telephone, but seeing that I'm not about to scour the city, you're not listed in the phone book, and I think showing up on your doorstep like a lost puppy is going too far, I set about writing you this letter. Again, I apologise if I've made any undue transgression, but I didn't want to sit around wondering or hoping that we might just happen to cross paths. I'm never that lucky.
What I wanted to ask is both as simple and as complicated as this: would you like to go out for a drink or coffee? Maybe a set of white wall tires? I've never been any good at this sort of thing, and knowing my luck you've probably either moved and thus not reading this, or happily ensconsed in someone else, or simply not interested. I know that I don't have much to offer, other than intelligent conversation and a gentle heart, but I figured I might as well ask.
The ball, they say, is in your court. If I don't hear from you, I wish you the best and to have a good life.
unsigned.