by Bill Sommer
When I got home from work today, I tried to call and some man answered. He sounded drunk or bored or both. When I asked for Elsie, he acted like I was her secret lover even though I told him multiple times I was her big brother. I tried to explain about our dad dying and the seashells arriving. Angry Guy wouldn’t put her on the phone. “She don’t have no brother,” he finally said and then hung up. I stood there with the phone in my hand, feeling like he disconnected a vein to my heart.
Best,
Peter
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 17, 2012 at 9:02 PM
Subject: Christmas
Hey Mom,
Hope things are good and that you’re surviving your annual football season widowhood. Darren hadn’t returned my last email so I just called him and it turned out he had a little run-in with Corinne and her new boyfriend and it kind of sent him into a tailspin. But he sounded like he was recovering. Talked a lot about work. Said he had an idea for a documentary about all these guys who work at a life insurance office. Not exactly sure why that would be interesting, but I guess that’s why he’s the creative one in the family. Talking to him made me miss work though.
Speaking of work, I have some unfortunate news. It doesn’t look like we’re going to be able to make it in for Christmas. John used up all his PTO helping me out after the twins were born and when he got sick earlier this year. I brought up maybe just coming by myself with the kids, and it totally hurt his feelings. He said he wouldn’t have minded if it wasn’t their first Christmas. He’s so hard to figure out sometimes. I swear, it’s like he’s got a condition. Random Unpredictable Sensitivity Disorder or something.
Tell Dad I said hi if you talk to him before the season’s over.
Love,
Katie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 18, 2012 at 7:22 AM
Subject: RE: Christmas
Hey Katie,
It saddens me that we won’t get to see you guys on Christmas, but I understand.
I was ready for football season this year. I joined a book club, and I’ve secretly been going to the driving range or playing nine holes at the public course a couple of times a week. Hoping I can beat your father’s butt come springtime. Hopefully he won’t divorce me if I do.
Yes, Darren’s the creative one. That’s for sure. Thank God you’re practical. One dreamer child is great, but I don’t know if I could handle two of them.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 18, 2012 at 12:12 PM
Subject: RE: Christmas
I think you meant that as a compliment, Mom, but I have dreams too. Just because they don’t involve Hollywood doesn’t make them not real.
Katie
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 18, 2012 at 6:23 PM
Subject: RE: Job News
Dear Abominable SnowManiac,
I must admit, the mental image of you bumbling around like a half-sedated yeti made me LOL when I first read it, and continues to make me SALOTI (smile and laugh on the inside—I just made that up, BTW) each time I think of it. Though, due to my incredibly long time in writing you back—will get into that below—I’m sure you’re an Abominable Ace by now and are no longer running into stuff. And you’ve probably cashed that first paycheck! Welcome to the rat race. But don’t worry, a surprisingly large number of cetologists got their start as arcade mascots, so you’re on the right path. (I just made that up too.)
My work fortunes have improved slightly as well. Rob/Bob has been allowing me to hang out in the writers’ room lately, which is hilarious, mostly for the wrong reasons. They have this whiteboard, but these people—writers, please remember—have the worst freaking handwriting imaginable—like doctors’ scrawl on prescription pads mixed with Jackson Pollock paint splatters. So they tagged me with writing down their bullshit ideas on said board. I was actually pretty nervous and honored to do this for a couple of days, so I tried to write out exactly what they were saying, other than chopping a word or two and throwing in some useful abbrevs. I didn’t want to get yelled at for messing with what they were saying.
But a couple of days ago, Rob/Bob yelled at me for writing down everything too literally. He’s like, “You’re not a monkey with a typewriter, Darren.” To which I responded, “Thank you!” And he was like, “It’s not a blanking compliment, blank-head! You’re not supposed to copy out every blankin’ word like a blankin’ robot. You’re supposed to blankin’ paraphrase! Do you know what that word means?” And I was like, “Which one, blankin’?” And he goes, “No, you blanker! ‘Paraphrase’!”
I was starting to get the sense that I was really close to getting fired, like as close as the elastic of your underwear is to your skin. So I told him I did know what “paraphrase” meant and that I would do it if that’s what he wanted.
This was the first time I’ve really gotten chewed out at this job, but that sort of anger is actually not uncommon on set or in the writers’ room. Even though the show is (supposedly) a comedy, everyone’s super-tense because they’re (rightfully) in constant fear of getting canceled if people stop watching the show because they realize that it’s about as interesting as reading spam email backwards. It’s pretty toxic in there, and everyone’s always sniping at each other. I didn’t want to turn into a scapegoat, so I did as he said and started trying to get at the essence of what they were saying instead of transcribing every word of their caffeine- and sugar-induced diatribes. So far, it seems like I’m doing pretty well. (Irony alert: The guy who couldn’t read between the lines to save his life when it came to his ex-gf’s hints is an ace at decoding the messages of a bunch of professional dorks.)
It’s nothing much, but it gives me more of a sense of accomplishment than delivering the perfect latte.
How’s your little Italian girl?
Please forgive my late response,
The Abominable Showman
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 19, 2012 at 8:21 PM
Subject: Today’s meeting
Hey Rob,
The other writers have asked me to speak for us as a group. We find your actions today both insulting and disturbing. We realize that the show is in a rough place. And I understand your desire to shake things up a little bit. But what we need is to build cohesion, and instead you’ve given us this silly stunt. That’s all it is, nothing more. And if it blows up in our faces, we’re all going to have to clean it up. Please, just tell the kid you’re sorry but you just weren’t thinking straight.
Marisa
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 20, 2012 at 1:23 AM
Subject: Michael
Hello Coach Olmstead,
Thank you for your response to my last email. I understand you wanting to set high standards for your players. I respect that. I just did not find some of the advice in your original letter feasible. I understand now what you were trying to do. Maybe in the future you could include language that indicates that some of the ideas presented are suggestions and not requirements. Ideals are wonderful, but when reality does not conform to them, as a parent I have to deal with the life I’m living in, if that makes sense. For example, I am an NP (nurse practitioner) and I am working a string of many nights in a row and I have found evidence that Michael has been having friends over in the evenings after I’ve left. He denies this, even though I am sure he is lying. I can try to take away certain privileges, but I can’t really ground him because I am often not there to enforce it.
Could you keep an eye on him at practice and please report to me if you find that he is uncoopera
tive or unfocused? It would be much appreciated.
Thank you for your time,
Harriet Jenkins
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 20, 2012 at 6:23 AM
Subject: RE: Michael
Dear Harriet,
Yes ma’am, I will keep an eye on him and let you know if I notice anything. He has seemed a little distracted at times lately, but so have many of the players now that their workload in class has increased.
Thanks,
Jack Olmstead
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 20, 2012 at 7:20 AM
Subject: RE: Job News
Dear Darren—
You had me worried when I didn’t hear from you. I thought you might have overdosed on sad love songs.
Things here are fine, I guess. Sam’s back in school after a bout with mono, but he’s been doing the homework he missed for the past two weeks during our labs in Bio so we haven’t really gotten to talk. Someone has to make sure our experiments don’t spontaneously combust. Funny you should ask about Sophia Lucca. Her grandmother has been MIA and I’m down to a C in Italian; I think that she may have made a pilgrimage back to the Boot. Sophia, on the other hand . . . well, that’s a story. So here it goes.
Last Saturday when I reported to work for my gig as the Abominable Snowman, I was feeling pretty shitty. The week had yielded a major setback for my cause. Several whales beached both on the coast of New England and across the pond in the UK I had to give myself a major pep talk as I suited up in the arcade’s back room, because at that point, I was pretty much disgusted with the entire human race, including myself. There I was, just like the British, who turned the beached fin whales into biofuel, chasing the Almighty Dollar instead of figuring out how to save a species. (Not that I make that much. My first Star Arcade paycheck was $40.72, which my mom made me use to buy a new fleece for school.)
Anyway, as I pulled the yeti mask over my head, I realized that someone (maybe Chin Piercing, my supervisor?) had fixed the eye holes, bringing them to my height. What was he thinking? That I would actually enjoy getting to see people making fun of me in addition to just hearing it? As if to confirm my suspicion, Chin Piercing paused from counting money from the cash register long enough to smirk at me as I lumbered out to the curb with my sign.
Within the first ten minutes of standing at my post, I saw at least five kids that I recognized. One kid flicked a wad of gum at me that stuck to my fur. His buddy practically had a seizure, he was laughing so hard. Another guy took my sign and wouldn’t give it back until I growled like Chewbacca. (Given that I’d never heard of a Chewbacca before, this, unfortunately, took some trial and error.)
I felt like an A.S.S.—Abominable Snow Shit.
That was the kind of day I was having when I encountered Sophia Lucca with one of her friends, Becky or Sara (all blondes look alike to me). I was sweating so hard, my hair was wet. And then Sophia’s like, “He’s kind of cute.” Sophia steps towards me and I can smell her—all flowery with a hint of licorice just like her grandmother. She plucks the wad of gum from my fur and basically asks if she can give me a hug. A hug, man—and it didn’t even take a death this time!
Before I can react, Sophia wraps her arms around me. She can probably hear my heart jackhammering away, even through the seven layers of faux fur, but at least she pretends not to notice. I drop my sign.
For that second, I’m not James. I’m an Abominable Snowman, and I put one paw on her back then the other. Of course, some jerk yells, “Get some, Bigfoot!” and Sophia blushes and bends to pick up my sign. After, Becky or Sara gives me a hug, too. All I remember about that is her elbows were pointy and her breath smelled like a sour latte. Then, just like that, it was all over.
I guess what I realized is that even the worst jobs aren’t all bad all the time. It seems that’s true of Testy Snobbin too.
Sincerely,
James Turner
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 21, 2012 at 6:56 PM
Subject: RE: Job News
Dear J to the T,
A hug! Dude, I’m envious! (Let me tell you, it’s doing wonders for my self-esteem to be living vicariously through a whale-obsessed ninth grader.)
Bummer that she didn’t know it was you, and that there was a mass of fur between you and her, but a hug nonetheless.
Thanks for your continuing updates on the plight of whales. I mean that. To be honest, I didn’t care much about Salt or any other whales when you first started dumping tons of information about them on me. And I thought I did a pretty good job of showing I didn’t really care, but you just kept on writing about them, going on and on. And on. That took spunk.
I suppose it’s possible you just didn’t read the cues that I didn’t give a crap. Maybe it was accidental spunk—uh, accidental persistence, let’s say—but still commendable. You’ve brought me around on whales. It’s amazing the crap we humans subject them to. They seem like dang fine animals and deserve better treatment. Glad there’s people like you looking out for them. As always, keep fighting the good fight. Maybe I’ll join you in it someday by making a cool whale doc. I just put The Cove (not whales, I know) and Blackfish in the ol’ Netflix queue.
Fair warning, though: no matter how much you end up helping whales, the human race will continue to disappoint you as long as it exists. You ever thought about that saying, “Nobody’s perfect”? It’s actually the key to explaining the plight of whales and people. All right, let’s start with the premise that no one’s perfect. We’ll call that a given. There’s a fancy logic word for that, but I can’t remember it. Anyway, not a SINGLE PERSON alive right now on this planet is perfect. But just for argument’s sake, let’s suppose that they’re really close—they’re not, I’m living proof—but let’s imagine this extremely rosy scenario. Every human on Earth is dang near perfect. Guess what, though: there are approximately 7 BILLION of us on the planet! So if every swell person does, say, one little shitty thing per month to another person or to a whale or to themselves, we’re already talking about 84,000,000,000,000 (84 trillion, but I thought it was worth seeing all the zeros) shitty things per year! And people AREN’T all that swell. And this thought experiment doesn’t even take into account accidents, mistakes, and good intentions that end up causing incredibly shitty outcomes!!! (For incidents of all of these, please consult chapters 1 through 730 of The Story of How Darren Effed It Up with Corinne).
But all hope is not lost. Though I may be loveless, I am not workless. Check it:
You know how I was paraphrasing all the writers’ ideas and writing them on the whiteboard? Well, the show’s been tanking pretty much all season, so ol’ Rob/Bob has been on a rampage lately. The whole writers’ room is on pins and needles waiting for his next screed, so they barely even notice I’m there. So I started getting a little frisky with my paraphrasing, not only interpreting what they said and writing it on the board, but even trying to improve what they were saying, until finally, Rob/Bob looks up on the board at the end of a meeting and says, “Hey, who said that?” And they’re all like, “Not me.” And he was all (to me), “Do you remember who said it?” And I was all, “Well, no one said that exactly, but Will said X, and Karen kind of proposed Y, but I figured if we kind of took this part from X and that part of Y, then added in another reversal where the fat, lazy dad actually teaches the nerdy, uptight daughter something about relaxing and being okay with who she is instead of her teaching him that he’s mostly a crappy father, which he learns in EVERY SINGLE EFFING EPISODE IN SOME WAY OR ANOTHER, it might be kind of cool.” He says, “Cool. I like it. Darren, guess what: you’re on first.” (This is Testy Snobbin speak for “You’re writing the first draft.”) My draft is due at the end of the week! Ahhh! Gotta go so I can write!
This ain’t the
Great American Documentary, but it’s a chance to tell a story, so I’m pretty psyched. Wish me luck. (Really, do. I’m not just saying that.)
Signing off,
Darren
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 22, 2012 at 2:07 PM
Subject: RE: Job News
Darren:
Congratulations on getting picked to write the draft and good luck. That’s pretty huge.
I can’t remember, did I tell you that I keep having this weird dream about Salt? It starts with me and a bunch of cetologists on a research vessel. I spot Salt lobtailing near the boat and we all can tell he’s in trouble because it’s really shallow. The scientists try the standard technique used to save navigationally impaired cetaceans and turn on a recording of whale songs, hoping to lure Salt back out to deep waters. But he’s not stupid (after all, whales have more spindle cells—the cells that control our awareness of self, right and wrong, emotional attachment, etc.—than people). Salt knows the recording isn’t his pod and he cuts through the little breakers, moving toward the shore, still fascinated with the shallows. The boat is panicked and NOAA’s network affiliate (the whale Coast Guard) is still 50 miles away. That’s when I start singing. My vocalizations help Salt find his way to safety and deep waters. And no joke, Salt answers back, slapping his pectoral fin on the water. In the dream, it’s the coolest thing, man; I totally speak Salt’s language. The mutual understanding between Salt and me puzzles and amazes the other scientists, who have studied the songs for years and written lengthy papers in prestigious journals on the smallest and most insignificant discoveries. I am their hero. The Jacques Cousteau of the whale world. And I end up saving Salt’s life.
Pretty cool dream, huh? You should put that in your TV show. Psych (Urban Dictionary, 2012)! Gotta go. Kitchen timer. Pecan pie’s ready.
Sincerely,
James Turner
From: [email protected]