by Sam Savage
Between these two groups of photographs intervenes, I estimate, a gap of some seven or eight years. I retain only the meagerest handful of recollections from that epoch, and now, with all the snapshots laid out on the floor, I have discovered there are no photographs either! Why, during all this long interval, so important in the life of a child, did no one bother to take my picture? There are innumerable shots of Peg from the same period: Peg at the beach, Peg on her pony. By all rights I should be there with her in some of them. In fact, in a number of the pictures she appears to be standing at the side of the frame, as if she were leaving room for me. It’s as though I had vanished, a cute kid, or at any rate, a normal one, who disappears for a long while, only to reappear as a grossly unattractive, larger individual. I would write Peg about this except I know she would never answer.
It was only tonight, while I was lying in bed not able to sleep, that it dawned upon me that not only are so many of my memories like snapshots, in their isolation and immobility, they are of snapshots, of these same snapshots, which as an adult I must have seen numerous times at Mama’s house, every Christmas in fact. Apart from them, I have next to nothing.
Your card arrived this afternoon. I had hoped you would be more understanding about the money. Two months is not going to cut it, though it will help. It’s just possible, assuming I can rent this place and two others that are vacant, that I will be in a position to send you something more next month. But the fact is they are in terrible shape and I don’t have the money to fix them. I know New York is expensive, but no one asked you to move there. As for me, I drive all the way across town to the new Safeway, robbing valuable hours from other things, just to save a few pennies. You might, as you hop into your next taxi to Manhattan, think of that.
Love,
Andrew
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potatoes (lots)
cans (chili, soups, Big John’s Beans)
liverwurst
marg
hocks
puffs
cupcakes
maybe steak or meat
p. chop
shoe polish
tuna
sardines
cheese snack
froz fries—coupons
lunch stuff
bread
cereal
t.p. (lots)
miracle whip
lightbulbs
money order
½" shut-off valve
vodka
earplugs
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Dear Harold,
Of course I remember you. I think it interesting that you have gone into agriculture. I myself feel very close to the land even when I am exiled in the city, as I must be, because of its advantages to someone who must always be before the public, in its eye, as they say, or up its ass, as I sometimes am. As for machinery, etc., I couldn’t judge. So you did marry Catherine in the end. How we did vie for her! May the best man win, as they say, and I am sure he did. Jolie and I separated two years ago. I have kept the house, a Victorian box much too large for me, which I am finding impossible to keep remotely tidy. I spend several hours cleaning, and a few days later it’s back where it was. It’s quite a lonely house sometimes and I’ve thought of getting a dog, but I’m afraid of getting a biter. I have an office in the house, where I do my writing and editing, so I don’t have to go out very often. I imagine one of the great things about living in the country is not having neighbors. Of course if you are in this area you must stop by, though I don’t think I could “tie one on” with you. I have some small health problems. Nothing serious but I have to be a wee bit careful. And the people in the bars have grown so terribly young. I imagine that you, working outside in all kinds of weather, are just bursting with good health, and you probably look younger than you are. I have a funny noise in my chest sometimes. We make choices so early, and on the basis of practically no information, and then we end up with these different lives that we are really stuck with. It’s all so depressing. We get ourselves boxed in and then there seems no 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
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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
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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 interesting.
And sorry again, but I really can’t give you any advice about your situation at home. Furthermore, since you don’t tell me
what was in the diary, you cannot expect me to pass judgment on the behavior of your parents. I will say that as a general rule I think people ought not to read other people’s private papers. But that said, the fact that you left the diary open on the coffee table suggests to me that you were, to put it bluntly, spoiling for a fight. As for God, I am not simply an agnostic—I am an indifferentist. The ministers, pastors, and padres I have met have generally been fools or charlatans. I surmise from your description Rev. Hanley is both. I admire your ability to make a funny story out of what must have been a really painful interview. You must keep in mind that it’s a big world beyond Rufus. You should also keep in mind that it will still be there next year, probably.
Thank you for the pictures. They were quite a surprise. I had rather expected, I don’t know why, a dumpy creature with pimples and large black shoes, not an attractive young woman in tennis shorts. It’s no wonder the good pastor had his hands all over you. I hope you won’t think that an insensitive remark, and I am not trying to excuse him, but I believe in acknowledging what’s in front of me.
Sincerely,
Andy Whittaker
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Dear Dahlberg,
I turned down your last submission due to its lack of merit, and the fact that you are Canadian had nothing to do with it, but if it makes you feel better to believe that, then go ahead.
With regards.
Andy
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Dear Peg,
I know you don’t like hearing from me or Mama, but I have to ask you a question. I really wouldn’t if it only concerned me, but other people are involved. Home and Ranch Magazine is planning to run a longish profile of me called “The Making of a Writing Man,” and they want photographs from my childhood. They want one of you as well, perhaps even several. I have looked through all Mama’s photos and there is not a single picture of me between the ages of about seven and fourteen, and I have been wondering why. There are many of you and Papa and Mama and even the animals. But of course the magazine won’t run any of those, attractive as they are, if I can’t produce at least two or three of me. Obviously someone has gone through the photo albums and systematically removed my pictures. I know that sounds fantastic, and whoever did it was quite careful and patient, moving around the other photos to fill the blank places. I am not making any accusations, though I can’t imagine who else might have done it. I’m talking about opportunity and motive. If you did take them, perhaps accidentally, and did not utterly destroy them by shredding or flushing, perhaps you could return a handful.
Your brother,
Andy
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ATTENTION ALL TENANTS
IF YOU HAVE MISLPACED YOUR MAILBOX KEY, CONTACT PHELPS IN 1A. SHE HAS A MASTER KEY AND WILL RETRIEVE YOUR MAIL. DO NOT TRY TO PRY THE BOXES OPEN!
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Dear Mr. Fontini,
I have received your message. I have given it careful consideration. I can assure you it is not plausible to blame the plumbing. There is nothing wrong with the plumbing. Not only did Sewell find nothing wrong, but I personally went over every inch of it after the first incident. I went over it with ruler and calipers. The tub’s overflow pipe is of the standard size. If you don’t trust me or Sewell (who is after all a licensed plumber), you are welcome to call the city inspector, assuming you can get him to come, which I doubt once he hears both sides of the story. “If not faulty plumbing,” you will say, “then why has the ceiling fallen on my supper, not once but twice?” The explanation, I believe, lies close at hand, indeed, one could say it is even closer than that. I think you would do well to look attentively at your wife while she bathes. If you do this, I think you will observe the following sequence.
(1) Mrs. Fontini turns on the taps and lets the tub fill while she removes her garments, looks for the shampoo, perhaps not finding it right away, goes to the linen closet for a clean towel, etc.
(2) While she is thus occupied, the water in the bathtub is busy rising to the level of the overflow pipe, the excess gurgling down it, which doesn’t bother her, as she knows there is a large electric water heater in the basement.
(3) Getting into the tub, she overlooks her own not-inconsiderable bulk as well as Archimedes’ experience in the bath, where he discovered that for every cubic inch of Mrs. Fontini submerged in bath water a corresponding cubic inch of said water will rise toward the rim of the tub.
(4) She either never knew or has forgotten that the overflow pipe is designed to handle only the gradual rise in water occasioned by an open faucet and was never intended to cope with sudden surges. Perhaps her arms, though large and braced firmly against the sides of the tub, are simply not up to the task of effectuating the gradual lowering of the rest of her bulk into the water, and as a consequence she just lets herself plop.
The cumulative effect of steps (1) through (4) is a tidal surge that overtops the tub’s meager levees and spills bucket-size dollops of warm bath water onto the bathroom floor. From there it makes its way under the influence of gravity down between the tiles and onto the sheetrock of the kitchen ceiling. At which point its descent is not stopped but merely slowed, while the sheetrock gradually softens until it is finally soft enough to tumble precipitously onto your supper. I don’t want to be the cause of discord between husband and wife, but unless you would like to be billed for the regular replacement of the kitchen ceiling I suggest that Mrs. Fontini convert to showering, or, if she really must have baths and is unable or unwilling to lower herself into the water at a normal pace, that you devise some sort of lowering mechanism for her, perhaps a tackle using ropes and pulleys. With this I wish you every success, but please do not use nails in the walls. In the meantime, you must remit to the Whittaker Company $317 for repairs to the ceiling.
Sincerely,
The landlord
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What does it mean that I have such a gift for writing unpleasant letters? Does it say something about my character, that maybe I am not a nice person? Or maybe it just means that other people are not nice persons. I once struggled to write simple thank-you notes when people sent me presents; the notes always sounded totally insincere. It never helped at all that I sometimes actually liked the presents. It was the same when I used to tell Jolie that I loved her. I could hear myself sounding like the worst kind of ham and liar, even though I really did love her. I suppose this was part of the reason I was so horrid to her later. Now I write people whom I barely know, and the letters positively sparkle, especially when they give me an opportunity to be unpleasant in a snide way to people who can’t do anything about it. Maybe Baudelaire was right, and the spleen really is the creative organ.
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Dear Mrs. Lipsocket,
You have been sending me your poems off and on for four years. For the first three of those I labored to comment, comforting you with platitudes, while covertly advising you tactfully to chuck it. Yet you have continued against all odds. You have written me pitiful letters. You have wrung my heart with descriptions of your literary sufferings, with which I have sympathized; your outsized ambitions, which are so like my own; your ovarian problems, the cruelty of your library committee, and your husband’s philandering, which I have felt incompetent to address. You have been the cause of a broken sleep in which I dream that I am beating small animals. Faced with this, I surrender. I have not kept copies of your past efforts, and your present work seems worse than ever, so I leave it up to you: choose any six lines, and I will print them. After that I am not going to open any envelopes from you.
Sincerely,
Andy Whittaker
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Kind Sirs,
I read in the paper about Fellowship Christian Tabernacle’s program “Neighbors Helping Neighbors.” I was moved by your efforts and the huge amount of money you have raised—all those bake sales, raffles, and car washes. I was particularly impressed by the two-and-a-half tons of aluminum cans. I am not a member of your church, or any church, but I gather from the article that you still
consider me to be your neighbor. I am appreciative of that sentiment, and if ever I do go to church—which I may in the future—it will certainly be at your establishment. I am a widower living alone. I am not old, but my health is far from perfect. I have a noise in my chest. I am finding the care and cleaning of my house increasingly taxing and difficult, especially getting the dust bunnies out, which I now see are everywhere under things, especially beds and sofas. I find that when I bend over the noise gets worse, and my breath makes them scoot away and become harder to catch. The house is old and full of china knickknacks—treasures of my late wife—that have to be picked up and dusted and put back, which takes hours and is difficult for someone whose hands have a tendency to shake. I would be broken-hearted if I dropped one. I know I would hear Claudine reproach me, as she was ever wont to do, and I couldn’t bear that now. I have everything needed except a squeegee to wash the windows. My wife always used balled-up newspaper and vinegar, which I never thought was a good idea, since it left black streaks, although she denied this. My phone service has become unreliable due to work they are doing in the street. I am home almost all the time, so if you think that I am a “worthy cause” you could just send someone over.