by Michael Kun
P.P.P.P.S. Calling me “underachiever guy”—is that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?
P.P.P.P.P.S. One more thing. I have a very important question to ask you, and I think you need to be sitting down when I ask it. Are you sitting down now? Okay, here it is: Are you still a Tornado?
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
September 12, 1982
Dear Scott,
Oh my God, I have NEVER laughed so hard in my life! Ever! And, to make it worse, I made the mistake of reading your letter during Biology class. I burst out laughing, and the professor froze as he was writing on the board and turned around to ask me if there was something I would like to share with the class. Seriously, like when we were in second grade and got busted passing notes. I couldn’t imagine trying to explain it to an entire lecture hall, so I just apologized and tried not to actually, literally, physically die of embarrassment right then and there.
I tried to explain it to Dorothy later, but I must not have done a very good job of impersonating Donnie Dibsie giving his graduation speech, because Dorothy didn’t get it at all. But, to answer your questions, YES, YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES! I AM STILL A TORNADO! I WILL ALWAYS BE A TORNADO UNTIL THE DAY I DIE! (Which luckily was not this morning in Biology class.)
Okay, now that I’ve stopped laughing, the ABC tape is awesome. And the “underachiever guy” thing is a compliment, as far as you know. It means you’re super smart, but you don’t apply yourself.
I’m glad that you’re not too torn up about dear, sweet Samantha, who, as we both know, is not the least bit dear or sweet. Oh God, I can’t believe I just wrote that. Please, please don’t reply with some gross joke about Samantha’s sweetness. I swear I will not let you visit if you make a gross joke about that! (And, yes, everyone can clearly see the two biggest reasons you dated her. Subtlety isn’t your strong suit. And wearing bras isn’t hers.)
Ugh. Anyway, while we are on the topic of losers, Todd Wilkerson was absolutely not a loser when I started dating him. How was I supposed to know that he’d go from being the coolest guy in the senior class to working at the gas station? Okay, so maybe it took me too long to figure out that he wasn’t the strong, silent type and that he was just sort of, well, the dumb, silent type. But who wouldn’t be blinded by that smile? And the flowing black hair. And the way his T-shirts hung off those shoulders. And, well, you get the point. So, I get it that you’re worried about looking like a loser if you date a high school girl. How about the girls at the community college? Or driving down to Baltimore to meet some girls down there? Or what about trying some sort of coed sports thing, like softball or bowling? Okay, whatever, those aren’t great ideas. I don’t really know what to suggest, except maybe to reconsider the whole college thing?
I’m sorry if I gave you a bad impression of college with the vomiting stories. I guess not all 18-year-olds are as used to drinking as you and I are, probably because they came from towns where there were other things for kids to do after school. But there are guys here who can’t even handle three beers. Puh-lease. But I really do like it here. I mean, I am homesick at times and I miss my parents and Plum, but most of the time, I really like it. Some people keep to themselves or are just annoying, but most people are open and really want to make friends and have fun. I’m becoming friends with people I wouldn’t have hung out with in high school. Like this girl who lives in the triple next door to me, Jane, from Kansas City. She was a cheerleader and a drama person in high school, and she’s kind of loud. She seems spacy and almost silly sometimes, but then in English Composition, she cranked out a paper about Invisible Man that was better than anything I could do (and of course, I obsessed about highlighting the novel and writing notes in the margins and rereading critical passages), and she tested into a second-year calculus class, which is just crazy. And she loves new music. She’s been playing this great new record by a guy named Peter Gabriel that has a fantastic song on it called “Shock the Monkey.” You’d like it. And we went to see this band that she told me about called R.E.M. The lead singer was wild! He was hitting himself on the head and dancing so crazily that I was seriously worried about him the whole time. Their music was awesome. You should definitely see them if they come to town. (And don’t pretend you don’t know where Wake Forest is. It’s the town and state you write on the envelopes to your letters.)
We went to our first home football game last weekend with a big group from our dorm. People here actually get dressed up for football games. Does Agee’s Men’s Clothing even carry seersucker suits? Lots of older boys and alumni were wearing them, along with bow ties and shoes they call “bucks.” And apparently I will need to figure out where to buy flowery sundresses down here before the next home game. I did NOT fit in at all with my T-shirt and jean shorts. It was so fun, though—sunny and gorgeous and kind of goofy to be singing the fight song and chanting along with the cheerleaders. Plus, everyone started drinking around 10 in the morning, which meant the lightweights were vomiting by noon.
Oops, another vomiting story. Sorry.
School itself isn’t too bad. I’m retaking Calculus 1, so that’s easy, and Mrs. Oberlin did a good job teaching us how to write a paper, so English Comp is okay. I had to drop out of French, though. In certain ways I’m realizing that our high school wasn’t as great as our parents think it is, and I am certainly not ready to read French literature. I mean, I can read Flaubert in English, but not in French. The shocking thing, though, is that a lot of freshmen can! The kids who went to fancy private schools or boarding schools, man, they’re fluent in multiple languages and have read everything already! I thought boarding schools were for screwed-up kids. Turns out, they are like mini colleges. The boarding school kids are pretty intimidating. They smoke clove cigarettes and wear scarves, if that tells you anything. It’s hard to describe, but I probably won’t be hanging out with them anytime soon.
Oh yeah, and Mr. Mennori. I’ve discovered that he was a horrible teacher. I’m thinking of majoring in Psych and doing a Pre-Med course load, so I’m also retaking Biology, which I think I’ve mentioned before. I thought it would be easy because we took it in high school, but I don’t remember any of it. Which, by the way, does not mean that you can or should be rude to him the next time he comes into your store! You have to uphold the Agee family tradition of being super nice to your customers. Perhaps offering him a hard candy will put you in the correct frame of mind? You don’t want to get fired and have to work at the gas station, like someone else we know.
Gotta run, but please give your mom and dad hugs for me and tell your mom that I miss her oatmeal raisin cookies! I tried one in the cafeteria here yesterday and almost broke my tooth. Which is my way of saying that your mom should feel free to send me a tin of her oatmeal raisin cookies!
Much love,
Catherine
P.S. No, my mom didn’t actually say “fuck.” She said, “He used the F-word, very loudly.” She had to add in the “very loudly” part because for some reason she whispers when she says “the F-word,” even though Plum is the only one around to hear her most of the time. But enough jokes about my mom, already! My dad would kill you if he found out you were talking about her that way. Okay, maybe not kill you, but he’d do whatever accountants do when someone’s being disrespectful to their wives. Maybe throw his Texas Instruments calculator at you. The big one.
P.P.S. Speaking of my dad, did I mention that he has started calling me his “little princess” again whenever I call home, like he used to when I was eight or nine? He seems weird when I speak to him. And my mom sounds weird, too, but an entirely different kind of weird. Maybe I’m just not used to talking to them over the phone. Have you seen them? Do they seem weird to you? Are they feeding Plum?
P.P.P.S. Jane just told me that a band called the English Beat is coming to play at Wake Chapel the second Saturday in October. Do you want to come visit and go see them with us? Let me know and I’ll get an extra ticket. I think you’d really like it here. Everything
but Dorothy. You’re going to hate her with a capital H when you meet her. Trust me.
P.P.P.P.S. One more thing. Are YOU still a Tornado?
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
September 15, 1982
Dear College Girl aka Little Princess,
Damn straight I’m still a Tornado! I will be until the day I die! And when I get to heaven and St. Peter asks me who I am, I’ll say, “I’m Scott Agee, and I AM A TORNADO!” I haven’t figured out how to say it in all capital letters, but I will. And then he will direct me to that special place in heaven that’s reserved for Tornadoes.
And while we may both be Tornadoes, one of us has actually heard of Peter Gabriel, R.E.M., and the English Beat. I swear, I really should come to visit just to rip the Elvis Costello poster from your wall. You don’t deserve it. (By the way, Peter Gabriel used to be in Genesis. That’s the band that did that song called “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway” that you liked. And R.E.M.’s lead singer has curly hair and you can’t understand a word he’s saying, right? His name is Michael Stipe. It’s just a matter of time before they replace him with someone who can e-nun-ci-ate. And the English Beat’s lead singer is named Dave Wakeling, in case you were wondering. Their best song is called “Mirror in the Bathroom.” I’ve played it for you before: “Mirror in the bathroom / Please talk free / The door is locked / Just you and me.” Does that sound familiar?)
Speaking of coming to visit, I’d love to come down to see the English Beat in October—and tell you all about them—but I usually work on Saturdays. If you recall, that’s the busiest day of the week for Agee’s Men’s Clothing, “Where Men and Boys Have Shopped Since 1966.” I’ll see if I can convince my dad to let me leave work early, even if the men and boys are still shopping. I don’t think he’d let me leave early to go see a band, though, so I’ll probably tell him that you need me to drive down to whatever state your college is in so I can help you with something. It’ll either be that you need help with calculus or that you’re pregnant. Given that he’s seen my math grades over the years, the pregnancy story would be more believable. And he might even give me some money to take you out to a nice dinner or something. (If that happens, I’ll make sure to ask for extra money because you’re eating for two.)
Now, as for your last letter, I need to be honest—I skipped all the paragraphs dealing with our old teachers or the classes you’re taking. I’m sorry, but if I had any interest in school, I wouldn’t be helping men and boys shop, would I? I assume you’re doing great in all your classes, so thumbs-up for that. And I assume you think our old teachers suck, so another thumbs-up.
As for whether your parents are being weird, I don’t know how to answer that. The only time I ever see your mom is when she forgets to close the shade in the bathroom when she’s taking a shower, and even then it’s only if I feel like walking all the way over to my closet to get the binoculars, take them out of the box, walk back to the window, etc. It’s a whole production. Anyway, I’m sure she’s fine. She probably just misses you since she’s now stuck at home with your dad and your ugly dog. Or she’s heard about your pregnancy. The news is spreading like wildfire, I tell you!
As for your dad, he’s always been weird in my book. The only time I ever see him is when he’s walking from his car to the front door when he gets home. He did come in the store for a new pair of pants, but I didn’t help him. My dad did.
One more thing: so if you think Todd Wilkerson is such a loser because he didn’t go off to college and got a job at a gas station instead, what does that say about me? And don’t try to draw a distinction between a gas station and a clothing store. If my dad owned a gas station, I’d be working at a gas station—and you know it.
There, I’ve just made myself depressed. Looking forward to seeing how you’re going to talk your way around this one, Ms. Psych Major. (Okay, I did read the paragraphs about your classes, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t bore the proverbial crap out of me. And, no, I don’t recall which proverb that comes from.)
Scott
P.S. If your friend likes Peter Gabriel, tell her to check out the new album by Simple Minds called New Gold Dream. It just came out the other day, and it’s phenomenal. The first song is called “Someone Somewhere in Summertime.” It’s really good. So is “Promised You a Miracle.”
P.P.S. I know you’re not a huge baseball fan, but have you seen what the Orioles are doing? They’re making a last-minute run to make the play-offs, and it’s incredible! We’ve been watching them on TV or listening on the radio almost every night. I think they can do it. They’ve got a great young team. Eddie Murray’s playing great at first, and Cal Ripken, Jr., is having an incredible rookie year!
P.P.P.S. “Underachiever guy” was an insult, wasn’t it? Damn!
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
September 18, 1982
Dear Scott,
Well, if you were trying to ruin my day, it worked. And it has nothing to do with you being so obnoxious because you know more about music than me, although that didn’t help. I mean, seriously, Scott—what’s with the pregnancy jokes? Maybe you were trying to be funny, but you made me cry.
This is my third attempt to write back to you. I’ve been trying to remember what I could have written to upset you or to suggest that you are a loser like Todd Wilkerson. Unfortunately, I didn’t make a photocopy of my letter, but I don’t recall connecting you and Todd in any way whatsoever. The bottom line is that Todd is a loser who didn’t go to college and works at a gas station. Not “because” he didn’t go to college or “because” he works at a gas station. You and Todd are nothing alike. Nothing. You are smart and funny and interesting and … whatever. I’m too upset to pay you any more compliments. Todd is just so … Todd. Remember how he used to hang around the high school parking lot, just waiting for me to get out of school, and then all he’d want to do was sit in his basement and drink beer and watch TV? And he’d come to the football games and just go crazy, yelling and screaming at the other team, and then he got in that fight at the homecoming game? I mean, that’s the stuff that made him a loser. You don’t do that kind of stuff. At least I hope you don’t.
You just write crappy letters to the girl who’s supposed to be one of your closest friends! Seriously, Scott, you had to know that letter would hurt my feelings. And the pregnancy jokes? I’ll give you five seconds to think about why I wouldn’t find those funny. One, two, three, four, five. Got it. Oh, yeah, now you remember. Not so funny, is it? So cut the bullshit, okay?
I’m not in the mood to write anything cute or witty to you today. I’m too tired, I have a headache from crying, and I have that red, blotchy face thing going on, thanks to you. I just hope the puffiness goes away before the Pit closes so I can get dinner without everyone thinking I’m a homesick baby or something.
I’m still glad that you want to come see the English Beat with us. We got an extra ticket just to be on the safe side, and I’m sure your dad will let you out early to visit, particularly if you tell him that I’m upset with you right now. And guess what—you won’t be lying!
And if he asks you how upset I am, tell him I’m so upset that I’m not even signing this letter, “Love, Catherine.”
With vaguely positive emotions toward you at this moment, but secretly hoping you get the stomach flu,
Catherine
P.S. If you want to make sure that one of the two people in my dorm room talks to you when you visit, I’d advise you bring something from the East Bloomfield Quality Bakery, “Where Butter Makes the Difference.” (What a stupid motto.) Dorothy loves brownies. She’s the brownie version of the Cookie Monster.
P.P.S. “Underachiever guy” isn’t an insult. But I guess it’s not exactly a compliment, either. It’s a combination of the two. It’s an “insultiment.”
P.P.P.S. In the highly unlikely event that a lightning bolt strikes
me dead as I am placing this letter in the mailbox, I’d hate for the last thing you’d remember to be a letter where I suggested that I don’t care about you or wished you got the stomach flu. I do. You’re just very difficult sometimes.
P.P.P.P.S. Go Orioles!
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
September 21, 1982
Dear Cath,
Or, “Dear, sweet, lovely, adorable, brilliant, looks-kind-of-cute-in-gym-shorts-but-not-as-cute-in-gym-shorts-as-Nancy-Gilmartin Cath.” (Feel free to insert any adjectives I forgot.)
I’m so, so sorry about my last letter and about making you upset. Now I’m the one trying to figure out what I wrote because I also don’t make photocopies of the letters I send you. I was feeling sorry for myself and obviously didn’t explain what I was feeling in the right way. I didn’t mean to blame you or suggest that you had called me a loser or thought that I was anything like Todd. I’m just not very good at writing my thoughts down, and I have the grades in English to prove it. (Actually, now that I think of it, since you did most of my English homework, you have the grades to prove it.)
If it makes you feel any better, now I feel terrible. I really look forward to your college girl letters. When I got the last one, I was excited until I opened it, then I felt terrible the entire night and couldn’t sleep. I even tried to call you on the pay phone in your dorm, but some girl kept answering and hanging up right away.
So, if it’s not already clear, I’m sorry. You’re the last person on earth I’d want to hurt. Giving each other a hard time has always been our “thing”—sorry for the quotation marks—but maybe it’s different when you do it in a letter. I’ll try to be more careful about what I say and how I say it in the future.