Amendment, the First—In reference to these amendments, I just said, “I hope you don’t mind.” I really don’t give a rip one way or the other. Until delivered, the letter belongs to the author. I will attach amendments, as it is my right to do so, and whether you mind or not. (Le Boom.)
Amendment, the Second—On September 1, I wrote this about pain: “. . . I know it’s the only thing between me and the most pitiful of all species—the Generics.” While it’s true that pain will keep you from becoming a Generic, I take back what I said about that particular group being “the most pitiful of all species.” Make no mistake, of all the despicable qualities available to a person, trying to be something you’re not is by far the most pitiful. (I would know.)
Amendment, the Third—On September 2, I wrote, “I don’t think a vivid imagination is all it’s cracked up to be.” I went even further, lamenting the burden of having such an imagination. I’ve thought about it, and in light of a few recent developments, would like for you to ignore everything I’ve written as it relates to imaginations. I wouldn’t trade mine for a single ounce of practicality.
Amendment, the Fourth—In my last letter, I wrote, “. . . most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world.” Ha-ha. How very Mim of me. Chock-full of cutting cynicism and wit, no? Well. While I hold to this general sentiment, it’s possible I’ve underrepresented a certain demographic: Good People. There are a few out there. And, okay, I promise not to go on and on about this (lest you think I’m a card-carrying member of the Generics), but if I don’t tell you about one of these Good People, my head might explode. It won’t be all, dear diary, I met this boy and he’s like, so totally hott, and now my life has, like, total value and stuff! Lol.
Instant nausea, right? Right. Still though . . .
I met a boy. And he is, like, so totally hott. And stuff. Laugh out loud.
My fetching photog. My heroically flawed Knight in Navy Nylon. My New Pangaea. His name is Beck, and he’s beautiful, intelligent, and kind. He challenges my spirit while comforting my everything else. Beck is teaching me how to be a better person, and when you find someone who inspires you like that, you hold on for dear life.
The last thing I’ll say about him is that he’s my friend. I know it sounds cheesy, but I’d rather have that than all the rest. I’ve made some royal mistakes in this life, but one in particular trumps the rest. The remedy for this mistake is so simple it’s maddening, so important, I’m going to underline, capitalize, and cursify.
Ready?
Here it is.
DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE THE VALUE OF FRIENDS.
Any elaboration, I fear, will only serve to detract from the powerful simplicity of the statement. So we’ll leave it at that for now.
Signing Off,
Mary Iris Malone,
Part-time Morning Person
*****
THERE ARE FEW things more depressing than seeing your childhood home gutted. The coffee table with a thousand ringlets of stained condensation—gone. The watercolors purchased from, literally, a scam artiste on the streets of Paris—gone. The stained love seat no one could remember purchasing, yet everyone insisted on keeping—gone. No furniture. No lights. No life.
“I don’t think anyone’s here,” says Beck, shaking the digital lock attached to the doorknob.
I pull my face away from the front bay window of a darkened 18 Meadow Lane and swallow through the knot in my throat. “I mean it’s a great house, what’s the holdup?”
Beck walks over to the FOR SALE sign, sticks his hands in one pocket, then another. “Shit.”
“What?”
He jogs up to the truck and digs around in his duffel bag. “I must have left my phone at the motel.”
I pull my own phone out of my bag and walk over to the sign. “Beck, Beck, Beck. You’d lose your head if it wasn’t attached.”
“You mean my arm?”
We smile at each other, recalling one of our first conversations. I’d never tell Beck this, but I’ve come to think of that as our first date, complete with dinner (apples) and a show (Walt’s Rubik’s jig).
I dial the number on the sign, but no one answers. Lying over the phone is hard enough, but a voice-mail lie . . . I don’t think I have that kind of prowess in me right now. I turn up the ringer and check my call log. I only cleared it once, back in Nashville. Since then, Kathy has called sixty-eight times. (Stevie Wonder must be developing inflamed throat nodules.)
Walt is humming to himself, walking around, and staring intently at the ground.
“Walt,” says Beck, “you okay?”
He doesn’t answer. By the driveway now, he’s walking in figure eights, humming, looking down at his feet, and just when I wonder if he’s sick again, he stops dead in his tracks, and throws a finger up in the air. “Got it!”
Beck and I glance at each other as Walt picks up a stone the size of a softball.
“Walt?” says Beck. “What’re you doing, man?”
Suddenly, in an all-out sprint, Walt charges the front door.