way out. I think if I did more exercise I would feel better, but I don’t want to start anything too strenuous, you know, because of the noise. I am basically a desk worker. Very boring. Be sure to let me know if you are passing, as I don’t like surprises. What kind of things do you grow?
Andy
AUGUST
Dear Mama,
I’ve been going through your old photo albums, looking for a few nice pictures for your room. How funny those old bathing suits seem now, though you were quite a dish! My memories of Papa are of a shortish, fat man with a cigar, and it’s strange to see him looking so trim, and with that little mustache, like the bad guy in an old movie. Glancing over the photos, I couldn’t help noticing that there are hardly any pictures of me between the ages of about seven and fifteen, and that has set me to wondering. You used to tell me how disappointed Papa was in me when I was a child, at a time when the sons of all his friends were excelling. Actually I think the word you used was “embarrassed.” Could that have led him—out of grief, perhaps—to not want to have any pictures of me around the house? I can imagine he might experience them as an unpleasant doubling. I mean there I was and there I would be again on the mantel or someplace. Or he might have worried that the photographs would later become painful reminders. If this seems unlikely to you, as it does to me, maybe you have some other explanation, in which case I would be happy to hear it. Perhaps you could drop me a line as I’m not going to be able to run up next month as planned.
Your loving son,
Andy
p.s. to Mrs. Robinson:
I know, if Mama is getting this letter, it is because you are reading it to her, for which I say thanks a million. I know how forgetful she is and how spiteful sometimes, especially when she feels she is being criticized. I am not blaming her for not taking any pictures of me for all those years. I don’t care about pictures; I am just wondering why there aren’t any. I mean, most mothers
enjoy
taking pictures. I hope that despite your understandable difficulties with Mama, or perhaps even because of them, you will consent to help me out on this matter. You will need to find some way of getting Mama off her guard. For example, you could chat about your own children, if you have any, or you could just make some up, if you don’t, and then you could remark how hard it is to take good pictures of children, they being so rambunctious. At that point Mama might chime in with some information of her own. For example, she might say that it’s easier to take pictures of girls, and that would be an important clue. I leave the details to your good judgment. I would be very grateful if you would drop me a line about anything you might learn. I think it only fair that you accept the ten-dollar bill you will find taped inside the envelope. I didn’t want it to fall out in front of Mama, as she would naturally assume it was for her.
Sincerely,
Andy Whittaker
¶
Dear Contributor,
Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. After careful consideration, we have reluctantly concluded that it does not meet our needs at this time.
The Editors at
Soap
¶
Dear Miss Moss,
Thank you for the chocolates, the pictures, and the wallet. Did you make that yourself? Also, of course, the new poems and the envelope. I’ll get to the poems just as soon as I can find a spare hour, when I can give them my full attention. I am touched that you thought of sending me this package in the midst of everything. And I do appreciate your words of concern at my situation. However, the financial entanglements I mentioned really have nothing at all to do with embezzlement or things of that sort, just a little accounting mix-up. And the fact that I am being forced to move does not mean that I am “on the run.” Sorry to disappoint. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for your “shady dealer.” I am, I regret, not nearly that
Andy
AUGUST
Dear Mama,
I’ve been going through your old photo albums, looking for a few nice pictures for your room. How funny those old bathing suits seem now, though you were quite a dish! My memories of Papa are of a shortish, fat man with a cigar, and it’s strange to see him looking so trim, and with that little mustache, like the bad guy in an old movie. Glancing over the photos, I couldn’t help noticing that there are hardly any pictures of me between the ages of about seven and fifteen, and that has set me to wondering. You used to tell me how disappointed Papa was in me when I was a child, at a time when the sons of all his friends were excelling. Actually I think the word you used was “embarrassed.” Could that have led him—out of grief, perhaps—to not want to have any pictures of me around the house? I can imagine he might experience them as an unpleasant doubling. I mean there I was and there I would be again on the mantel or someplace. Or he might have worried that the photographs would later become painful reminders. If this seems unlikely to you, as it does to me, maybe you have some other explanation, in which case I would be happy to hear it. Perhaps you could drop me a line as I’m not going to be able to run up next month as planned.
Your loving son,
Andy
p.s. to Mrs. Robinson:
I know, if Mama is getting this letter, it is because you are reading it to her, for which I say thanks a million. I know how forgetful she is and how spiteful sometimes, especially when she feels she is being criticized. I am not blaming her for not taking any pictures of me for all those years. I don’t care about pictures; I am just wondering why there aren’t any. I mean, most mothers
enjoy
taking pictures. I hope that despite your understandable difficulties with Mama, or perhaps even because of them, you will consent to help me out on this matter. You will need to find some way of getting Mama off her guard. For example, you could chat about your own children, if you have any, or you could just make some up, if you don’t, and then you could remark how hard it is to take good pictures of children, they being so rambunctious. At that point Mama might chime in with some information of her own. For example, she might say that it’s easier to take pictures of girls, and that would be an important clue. I leave the details to your good judgment. I would be very grateful if you would drop me a line about anything you might learn. I think it only fair that you accept the ten-dollar bill you will find taped inside the envelope. I didn’t want it to fall out in front of Mama, as she would naturally assume it was for her.
Sincerely,
Andy Whittaker
¶
Dear Contributor,
Thank you for giving us the opportunity to read your work. After careful consideration, we have reluctantly concluded that it does not meet our needs at this time.
The Editors at
Soap
¶
Dear Miss Moss,
Thank you for the chocolates, the pictures, and the wallet. Did you make that yourself? Also, of course, the new poems and the envelope. I’ll get to the poems just as soon as I can find a spare hour, when I can give them my full attention. I am touched that you thought of sending me this package in the midst of everything. And I do appreciate your words of concern at my situation. However, the financial entanglements I mentioned really have nothing at all to do with embezzlement or things of that sort, just a little accounting mix-up. And the fact that I am being forced to move does not mean that I am “on the run.” Sorry to disappoint. I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for your “shady dealer.” I am, I regret, not nearly that
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