Correspondence

 

Sun., Feb. 17 at 9:14 a.m.

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

 

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

Hey There!                                                                                                        

 

Hey there, son! Just thought I'd drop a line as we haven't heard a word from you since you were here for Christmas. Your mother's left a you a few VMs since then and she still hasn't heard back from ya.

Hope everything's OK. Please drop us a line or give us a call when you get a chance. Just so we know things are good with you.

Love,

Dad

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM!

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

Sun., Feb. 17 at 9:32 a.m.

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

 

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

Hey There (Again)!                                                                                           

OK, your mom just reminded me that we HAVE heard from you since Christmas. Or at least she has. You called her on her cell the day after New Year's to wish us a happy new year. So...I stand corrected. (You know how much mom likes to correct me.)

Anyway, please reply or give us a call soon. Would love to know how you're doing. 

 

Love,

Dad

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM!

____________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Mon., Feb. 25 at 8:46 p.m.

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

 

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

Long time, no chat                                                                                     

So how's it going? I assume you got my e-mails last week....? Your mom and I both tried calling your cell a few times over the last couple of days and we just keep getting your VM.

 

Can you just let us know that you're OK?

 

Love,

Dad

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM!

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

Sat., March 2 at 11:09 a.m. 

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

 

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

Long time, STILL no chat                                                                               

Hello, son.  Still haven't heard back from you.

Fortunately, I got hold of your buddy Jake yesterday. He said that he had just talked to you a few days ago, and that as far as he was concerned you sounded as though everything's OK. Was glad to hear it.

 

BTW, I had no idea that Jake is going to.....culinary school???? Your buddy Jake???? OUR Jake, that smart-ass kid that always flirted with your mom??? 

 

Not that there's anything wrong with it. I just had absolutely no idea that he had any interest in cooking at all. It was a bit of a surprise. Anyway, he sounded good. It seems he's really taken to it and is having a great time, though he hinted that it could be fairly rough at times. 

 

Hope school is going well with you.

 

Anyway.....PLEASE CALL, TEXT, OR E-MAIL. Me or your mother. We'd like to hear from you directly as to how you're doing, not have to track down your old high school classmates to find out.  

 

Love you always,

Dad

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM!

  

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Mon., March 11 at 1:34 a.m.

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

 

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

We miss you                                                                                                

Hey, Jerry. So you're still not replying to my e-mails or taking my calls, or calling me back. 

You're angry with me. I get it. Your mother and I have hashed and re-hashed our conversation at Christmas a hundred times. (More like a thousand times, it seems.) She says that what I had said to you was very hurtful to you. Well, I understood perfectly well at the time I said what I said that it very well might be. 

But look, my point wasn't to belittle the plans you shared with us for the sake of belittling them. I didn't say what I said to make you feel bad. I said what I said because I care about you. 

Jerry, what you're considering is a very major life-altering decision, one that will determine the entire course of your future. In my (humble) opinion, such a course would bring you an awful lot of unnecessary misery and suffering. 

And please, please, PLEASE....understand that out there in that big, complicated, crazy world, there are all sorts of con artists and fraudsters with their own agendas, who don't give a damn about what's in your best interest--they only want to use you for their own narrow, selfish ends. (Many of these people may not even be aware that they're con artists, as they've managed to so effectively deceive themselves. The human mind can be such an elegant mechanism of self-deception!) This is a fact that you will become more and more aware of as you get older. 

That's not to say that you should be suspicious and mistrustful of everyone you meet. But you have to make sure that you have a finely honed bullshit detector between your ears. You have to be able to distinguish between those who sincerely want to help you succeed in actualizing your authentic self and becoming a better person, and those who just see you as a tool to be used. And that can be tricky sometimes. A lot of the time, those who claim that they just want to help you are the ones who want to use you, and those who appear to just want something from you are the ones who can actually help you--really help you--and may even turn out to be your closest and most trusted friends in the long run. (Confusing, I know! But be wary of those who say they want to help you out without expecting anything at all in return. That is often a ruse.)

 

And Jerry, these people you told us about, who say they just want to help you with whatever problems you have, or believe you have, who are encouraging you in this decision--they sound like hucksters, not friends. It seems to me that they don't really care what happens to you. They just know what they can use you for. 

Anyway, I'm telling you this not because I want to thwart your happiness--quite the opposite. I very much want you to be happy--not such a simple thing to achieve, I might add--because I love you. I'm saying all this because I love you, Jerry. I've loved you since that night I first held you in my arms after your mom endured nearly twenty hours of labor (as she never fails to remind us), and you reared your head back and aimed those big brown saucer eyes at mine. At that moment, not only did I feel an overwhelming sense of love, but it had also fully dawned on me that your mother and I had an awesome responsibility to make sure that you would someday be fully equipped to take care of yourself in this utterly insane, chaotic world. 

And as you have grown up, that has often meant telling you things that you do not want to hear. But I do it anyway, because I love you and I honestly believe that you NEED to hear them, so that you don't someday end up being utterly confused and miserable. Love is not telling someone only what they want to hear, Jerry. You tell the people you love what you really think they should hear, even if you have an awful hunch that they probably don't want to hear it.

 

And maybe--just MAYBE--you might consider that it's remotely possible that I've learned at least a few things in my nearly 60 years of walking this Earth. 

 

Anyway, I think that I've pretty much said all that I have to say about this, and I have nothing more to add. You know my honest opinion, but the decision is still yours to make, of course. You're a young man now. You're about to turn 19. 

 

Maybe the lesson I'm learning right now is that I eventually have to let go and allow you to make your own choices, even if I think they're terrible choices that you'll end up regretting. (But I will still always let you know what I think---because I LOVE YOU.) This is the hardest lesson I've learned in a long, long time. But I remind myself that regrets are, unfortunately, and often painfully, the necessary lessons taught by experience that we all must go through on occasion throughout our lives. I've had my share of such experiences, God knows, and you will, too, no matter what I think or say to you.

 

OK, enough of my rambling. I just hope I've made myself clear. I'll say nothing more about this. (Unless, of course, you ever want to discuss it further.)

But please, PLEASE--call or write us sometime soon, OK? We miss talking to you.

I miss you and love you,

 

Dad

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM! 

 

_______________________________________________________________________________

 

 

Wed., March 20 at 5:47 p.m.

Peter Streicher <pstreicher@dmail.com>

To: Jerry <js2000@ilsu.edu>

 

Pick-up                                                                                                           

Hey, Jerry. Just wanted to let you know that I may be a little late picking you up at the train station on Friday. I have an afternoon meeting with a client and I have a feeling that it may end up running a little late. (This guy is quite the talker.)

Can't wait to see you! Your mother and I have missed you.

Love, 

Dad

 

"Remember how long you have been putting off these things, and how often you have received an opportunity from the gods, and yet do not use it." -- Marcus Aurelius -- CARPE DIEM! 

 

________________________________________________________________________________

Lovely Day for a Chat

She had seen him around a lot lately. Middle-aged man, always seemed to be wearing the same Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts, and the same beat-up brown fedora. She was fairly certain that he must have just moved into the neighborhood in recent months. The block had several two- and three-flats that changed tenants every so often.

The guy was now happily walking toward her with a bounce in his step, almost dancing, whistling while doing so. There was something about him that made her uneasy.

He seemed a little too...cheerful. 

She continued on her journey, focusing only on pushing the stroller. She could see her little boy's right leg dangling out of it, and his little head bouncing slightly as she peered through the mesh of the canopy.

It was a perfect day. The sun was out. The temperature was in the low-to-mid-70-degree range. She had rarely felt this relaxed and contented. That is, until she saw Mr. Fedora Khaki Shorts bouncing her way.

They eventually came face-to-face. Instead of walking past her, he had opted to stop directly in front of her, blocking her way.

"Good afternoon," he said.

"Good afternoon," she curtly replied.

"Perfectly lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yes it is." She paused for a moment, hoping that he'd just go on his way. But he just stood there in front of her, smiling at her. "May I help you with something?"

The man knelt before the stroller.

"Well hello!" the man exclaimed. "How old are you, young man?"

"I'm almost seven," answered the boy.

"Seven? You're a little old for mommy to be pushing you around in a stroller, aren't you?"

"Excuse me?" asked the boy's mother.

"Mommy won't let me walk when we--"

"Be quiet, Alex!" she snapped at the boy. "Do you mind? We have a play date to go to." She quickly pulled out her phone and checked it. "And we're already three minutes late, so--"

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to tell Alex something."

"Do you mind? Please get--"

"Always remember this, Alex: 'Memento mori'."

The boy giggled. "What does THAT mean? Sounds silly!"

"It's Latin. Do you know what Latin is?"

"No," replied the boy. 

"Latin is a language that nobody uses anymore. It's what you call a dead language. 'Memento mori' is Latin for"--he paused for just a moment--"'remember that you must die'."

"What the hell---?!" shouted the boy's mother. She angrily jolted the stroller to the side of Fedora and moved past him, jostling the boy around like a sailor trapped on a ship in a storm. She then stopped and looked back at Fedora as he got off his haunches. She coolly locked her eyes with his.

"I could call the cops, you know. Saying such things to a child!"

He simply smiled back at her and began whistling again. He happily went on his way with that cheerful, dance-like walk of his.

Such people, she thought. So goddam irritating.

This Mortal Coil

"Hey, Lloyd, can you come to my office at your earliest convenience? Thanks."

Lloyd stared at his boss' e-mail for a good five minutes. He racked his brain for any semblance of a recollection of something that may have pissed him off. But after five minutes of intense mental searching, he concluded that he had done nothing wrong and so his boss must be asking to talk to him about something benign.

Or perhaps you made a mistake, said The Voice.

"Or perhaps I made a...oh, shut up," Lloyd whispered. He looked around to make sure his office door was closed. It wasn't, so he got up and closed it, and then returned to his desk. Now he could converse softly with The Voice without anyone taking notice. Lloyd frequently took such precautions whenever The Voice initiated a conversation with him.

You get careless sometimes. Sometimes, you're just plain lazy. You probably screwed something up during one of your lazier moods. 

"Speak for yourself," answered Lloyd. "What do you do all day but talk...crazy talk. All damn day."

He thought for a moment, looking at the framed photograph of his wife and dog that sat on his desk.

"Sure, I could've screwed something up. But if I did, it was an honest mistake and so I have nothing to be afraid of. Everybody makes mistakes. And Mark is a fairly easygoing guy. Not that he overlooks or excuses carelessness, but he is a fair man. Whatever it is, it can't be all that serious."

Don't be so sure about that, said The Voice.

Just a few minutes later, Lloyd was seated across from his boss' desk. Mark had waved him in while typing at his computer, and he continued typing for a good three or four minutes after Lloyd sat down.

That's so annoying, said The Voice.

Mark suddenly stopped typing and whirled around in his chair to face him.

"So. Lloyd. Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"Sure," answered Lloyd.

"I just wanted to talk to you about the little gathering we had in the break room yesterday for Liz's birthday."

"Okay."

"Um...do you remember what you said?"

"Uh..."

"Oh, come on, Lloyd. That crack you made about her age."

"I'm sorry...what?"

Yeah, that was pretty crass, said The Voice. Really insensitive.

"You said, of course I'm paraphrasing, but you said, after she answered how old she was, that her life was more than half over so she'd better make the best of the rest of it, because the odds are, at this point in her life, that almost anything can happen to her now since she's been very lucky so far. Or something to that effect."

"Well, I don't recall that that's exactly what I said--"

It's pretty close. So rude.

"You may have noticed the long, awkward silence that followed your remark, and the pained look on Liz's face...?"

"I...didn't notice any...uh, no."

"Right. Well, the whole damn office has been talking about it all day today, how...utterly shocking your remark was, and how upset Liz was. They say she was practically sobbing at her desk for just about all of yesterday afternoon. And as you may know, Mr. Clark practically thinks of her as a daughter. He was best friends with her father, who just passed away last summer."

"Yes, I know," said Lloyd. "Look, Liz hasn't said anything to me about--"

Mark stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Well, I can tell you, Mr. Clark wasn't too happy when he heard about what you said. He called and gave me an earful this morning. So, after having some discussion with him and with HR, we all decided that you need to attend some sensitivity training."

Absolutely. I'd say it's for the best, chimed The Voice.

"I'm sorry...what?"

"You heard me, Lloyd. I've already got you signed up for the classes next week. It's just two four-hour sessions, one on Tuesday and--"

"Eight hours? Sensitivity training' takes eight whole hours? I mean, what the hell?"

"That's not exactly the kind of reaction I was expecting, Lloyd. Surely now, upon some reflection, you realize that your remarks were very upsetting. Liz only just turned fifty, for crying out loud. How old do you think I am? I'm fifty-four."

"Well, you're more than half way through your life, too," said Lloyd.

Oh boy.

Something flashed in his boss' eyes.

Looks almost like...desperation, doesn't it, Lloyd? 

"I mean, think about it," said Lloyd. "You're a few years past the half-century mark, though you appear to be in relatively good health for a man your age."

"I have...no major complaints," said Mark. "I feel--I feel--p-p-pretty good."

You smell blood, don't you?

"Even so, what are the odds for you from here on out? Sure, people overall are living longer and better quality lives than our forebears, but the additional years only means increased odds of something happening. Something...bad and life-threatening."

Your ability to empty half the glass simply amazes me.

"And it could be anything...a sudden autoimmune disorder, for example. Or, diabetes. High blood pressure, leading to a stroke. I mean, your job is fairly stressful, right? In middle age, that makes you a prime candidate. And of course, there's always the 'Big One,' the 'Big C.' And there are some cancers that are way worse than others, like the ones that don't manifest any symptoms at all until it's way too late, not until it's metastasized and spread to all the major organs."

Lloyd leaned back in the chair, a deep sigh slipping from his mouth. "Yeah. Sure would suck if something like that happened."

There was perfect silence. Lloyd noticed that Mark's lower lip was quivering.

"Ah, forget about sudden illness striking you. I mean," and here Lloyd paused for two or three seconds just to make sure his next point would really hit home, "there's always the possibility of some kind of accident."

Oh for God's sake, give it a rest. Can't you see the man is nearly a basket case already?

"Have you ever been in any kind of automobile accident, or has someone ever nearly run you over with a car, or have you ever been on a flight where it looked like things were getting really scary because of some nasty weather, anything like that?"

"Never had anything worse than a minor fender-bender," muttered Mark.

"Really? Wow. You've been on this Earth for more than half a century and you've never been in an especially bad accident?" Lloyd chuckled. "That's some damn good luck. You just might be about due, then."

Your cruelty is truly a thing to behold. Don't you know when to stop?

"A drunk driver might suddenly swerve across the road and sideswipe you on your way home one night, and send your car sliding across a few lanes to crash into some other car."

Jesus H....

"I heard we're supposed to get some rain early this evening, just about the time we're all headed home. Who knows? With all the hydroplaning and all, you might be the one who ends up swerving across the road, sideswiping someone else, or you might end up spinning into another lane and into the path of an oncoming semi-truck or something."

There was another long, still silence as Lloyd pondered whether he he was finished or not.

"Yeah, it's a real cosmic shooting gallery out there. Who knows what can happen?"

Lloyd just sat quietly for nearly an entire minute. Mark was quiet, too.

"So. I'm scheduled for that sensitivity training next week?"

"Yes," Mark answered almost in a whisper as he stared down at his desk.

"Which days? Tuesday, and...?"

"Tuesday and...Th-Th-Thursday."

"What time?"

"One to five."

Lloyd let out a long, deep sigh.

"Okay. I'll be there."

Lloyd got up and walked back to his office.

It's been a long time since you've felt this good, hasn't it? asked The Voice.

Lloyd didn't answer. He just whistled along to the tune that he was playing on his computer as he typed. A Buddy Holly song. He always loved the oldies.

It was true, though. He never felt better.

Auld Lang Syne

He stopped reading as he paced by the window. He looked out at the busy street below. Downtown was bustling with people. Lots of drunk people. He had spotted only a few of them stumbling about a few hours earlier, but now there were herds of them. Some of them were laughing and shouting--he was more than a dozen floors up, with the hotel room's windows closed, and still he could hear their "conversations" and loud gales of maniacal laughter from the streets far below.

Look at all those poor suckers. Just look at them. Obliterating themselves for the evening, erasing the painful cognizance of their meaningless, painful, tragically brief existence with drink, drugs, and only God knows what else. That's what New Year's Eve is for, after all, right? 

He checked his mobile phone. 7:15.

She should be here any minute.

The evening was still somewhat young, but not exactly getting any younger. He turned his attention back to his book.

**********

His world was turned upside down two and a half hours later.

They had talked. And talked. And talked. Then there was a long silence between them. He couldn't take any more of it, and so he finally decided that the silence needed to be broken.

"So...that's that? You don't want to have anything to do with me anymore?"

"Don't make me sound like that," she said. "You make me sound so cruel."

"Well I'm very sorry." He winced as soon as the words came out of his mouth, as he could taste their bitter, sarcastic tone. The last thing he wanted to be at this moment was bitter and sarcastic. He needed her in his life, and he knew that sarcasm was not the way to persuade her to stay in it.

There was another long moment of awkward silence. He finally decided to break that one, too.

"Look, I don't want to...take over your life, you know."

"I'm sorry, I have to go." She turned around and headed for the door. "I'm meeting some friends--"

"Wait...hey, look..." She stopped just as she was about to put her hand on the door handle. But he had no idea what to say next. He struggled to spit out some words, any words, that would stop her.

"I know that we haven't known each other--really known each other--for all that long. I mean, I know that a couple of long conversations over a lunch and a dinner, or a couple of drinks, don't exactly mean anybody's obligated--"

"What?" She laughed with a hint of mockery and contempt. "Who talks like that? 'Obligations'? You just don't--"

"I'm sure your mother told you all sorts of unflattering stories about me. And they were probably all true. But that was twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years. That's a whole quarter of a century! I'm a completely different man now."

"Yes, she told me some very unflattering stories about you. She told me everything. Everything."

He wracked his brain. He filed through years of memories to pinpoint anything that would particularly cast him in a poor light in her eyes. She had vaguely alluded to something early in their conversation, but he couldn't tell what--

And then she was out the door.

He almost called after her, almost ran after her. But he let her go.

It was probably better that way.

The Polite Society

Max Carver broke into as fast of a run as he possibly could when he spotted the northbound bus behind him. It was barely half a block south and Max's stop was at least a block and a half or so north. If he didn't get to it before the bus did, there would be no telling how much longer it would be until the next bus came along. He was already late enough for the office as it was.

He felt every day of his forty-odd years of walking the Earth as he sprinted toward the bus stop, constantly looking back over his shoulder. The bus was hurtling down the street at increasing velocity. Meanwhile, the faster Max ran to his bus stop, the farther away it seemed to be.

"How is that possible?" thought Max.

The bus was gaining, gaining, gaining...

He finally reached the stop and nearly ran right smack into an elderly lady with a little pushcart full of groceries. She reflexively shrunk away at the oncoming onslaught of Max Carver hurtling toward her, with a frightened yelp escaping her mouth. The bus arrived at just that moment.

"Watch it, jackass!" snapped the old lady.

"I'm...I'm...I'm so...I'm so...so-...sorr...so sorr...," wheezed Max. "So sorry!" Max was relieved that he stopped just in time, just before he would've completely plowed into her. He meditated for a brief moment on what an incomprehensibly ugly scene that would have been.

The bus driver gave Max a strange look as he stumbled onto the bus behind the old lady, panting heavily, and paid his fare.

He plopped into an empty seat and continued his labored breathing. After taking a good ten minutes or so to catch his breath, he pulled out a book from his messenger bag.

HOW TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS AND BEND OTHERS TO YOUR WILL

by 

DON HARVARDLY

Max had been spending the better part of the past month working his way through the book, taking notes on all the advice it offered, in order to, as the title suggested, make new friends and bend others to his will. His uncle had suggested he read it after hearing Max complain about his lot in life, which he found disappointing and unsatisfactory most of the time. 

"Best decision I ever made, reading that book," his uncle informed him. Though his uncle was never what anyone would consider to be a successful man, Max took his suggestion and laid his hands on a copy at the local library. (His uncle was unable to locate his own copy after a thoroughly rigorous search of his home and garage that took the better part of two or three days, or so his uncle said.) Reading was slow going, as Max had a very hard time deciphering what exactly the author was advising. It seemed to be written in a strange jargon wholly invented by the author himself. Max had begun to wonder if the whole thing wasn't some kind of joke. 

Max suddenly thought he heard the man sitting in the seat across from him say something to him. He looked up from his book and locked eyes with the stranger for a moment, but his fellow passenger was silent. Having decided that he was hearing things, Max went back to his book.

"A man don't need to be ignorin' another man who is just tryin' to have a polite conversation."

It was the man sitting across from him. This time Max heard him quite clearly.

"Beg your pardon?" asked Max.

"I said--a man don't need to be ignorin' another man who is just tryin' to have a polite conversation."

"I'm sorry, did you say something to me before? I must have been--"

"All I did was ask you about that book you was readin', if it was a good book or not. But you seemed fixed on ignorin' me."

"I apologize, I--"

"Damn right, you apologize."

Max and the other man continued to look at one another for a good thirty seconds. Then he heard the automatic attendant announce his next stop. "Thank God," he thought to himself as he put his book back into his bag and rose to get off the bus.

"Have a nice day," said his fellow passenger.

"Hey, you know what? You have a nice day, too! Okay? Have a really, really nice day!"

"Thank you. I will."

It was at the very moment the bus door opened, just as Max was about to step off, that he heard the man say, "Prick."

Incredulous, Max turned back to face him. Max looked him right in the eyes.

"Go be a prick on your own time," the man advised Max.

"Prick." Max heard the charge one last time as he stepped off the bus.

It echoed in his mind throughout the rest of his day.