[kentselkirk@gmail.com]
Dear "Kent,"
I was not surprised to hear that you remember our
evening differently than I do. And btw? Just because a
person asks you to park closer to the curb does not mean
she has OCD.
I wouldn't write again except that a coincidence compels
me. My friend Kathy thinks you are the guy who "fixed"
her heater. She said you came up to her apartment for a
drink and offered to get the heater going. She said you
hauled in and, after a while, said, "Next, we'll throw
out the lifter pump. That's one piece of hardware you
don't need." My friend Kathy said she just knew those
were going to be famous last words. And in fact, the
next night she gave a dinner party, and her guests had
to keep their coats on during dinner. Was it Kate
Millett who said women need the kind of confidence men
have when they don't know what they're doing?
Yours, Amy
|
[kentselkirk@gmail.com]
Dear Amy,
Obviously, “I’m horrifically ashamed and sometimes think
I deserve to get gangrene for how poorly I treated you
that night” wasn’t quite enough. Nor was assuring you
that I’ve changed since Greyhounding out of New York
that humid June—partly due to your wonderful friend
Kathy, the so-called “Post-it note heiress of 83rd St.”
who, if there’s any justice on this earth, is known
nowadays as The Body Odor Queen of the Coney Island
Subway Platform. Yes, I pretended to fix her heater once
(who’s Kate Millet, anyway? One of your high-chinned
lady writer pals?), but I don’t think that justifies how
she lied about me just as I was beginning to connect
with folks.
One nauseated morning-after at Kathy’s Hamptons
“cottage”—which looked like a mansion to my small-town
eyes, and which I later discovered didn’t belong to her
but to a hush-hush mistress of Martha Stewart’s whom
Kathy knew from a New Hampshire fat farm—she accused me
of having date-rape-drugged her daiquiri at a beach
party the night before. The truth was she’d taken a
fistful of Mexican Vicodins bought from an elderly man
in white suede hot pants who was also selling turquoise
glow sticks. I should have known the party would be
trouble when everyone said Billy Joel had left just 15
minutes before we got there. I’d only been in town for
seven months, but I’d already heard enough to realize
that BJ exits a shindig early only if it harbors the
very lowest elements.
I suppose it was easier for Kathy to slander me—a
friendless young bike messenger from out of town who’d
delivered a couple of envelopes to Vogue once but
hadn’t been allowed inside its offices—than to admit to
her parents and the docs at the ER that the foreign
object lodged inside her had not only been inserted at
her direction but lubricated by her own left hand. In
the end, that’s what chapped my ass about your “set,”
even more than the way you ate your hamburgers by
setting aside their perfectly good buns and neatly
wrapping the patties in lettuce leaves. (The actual
reason, by the way, that I accused you of being OCD.)
You pitied practically every creature on earth, from
Guatemalan coffee farmers to endangered forest gorillas,
except for the men you lured into your beds. Depending
on whether we seized you from behind (as you invariably
dared us to) or requested a brief, loving kiss before we
serviced you (as you mocked us for desiring) we all were
either psychopaths or closet cases, would-be-murderers
or latent fags, and nothing in between.
Or maybe “borderline” is in between. Perhaps you don’t
remember, but that’s the diagnosis you laid on me that
night—a full hour before I said you were OCD. Did I
deserve it? Not at that point, no. All I’d done was
point out in the movie theater that for the price of the
popcorns and diet sodas that you so patronizingly bought
for both of us, even though I had my wallet out, I could
have paid the teenage couple in front of us to put on a
live-sex show back at your place and give us nude
cocoa-butter massages afterward. “You’d like that kind
of thing?” you asked me, and I said, “Who knows? But I
moved here to find out.”
Borderline. I didn’t get it but I didn’t mind, since
there are certain disabling ideas that I’d rather die
not understanding than to have to spend my life being
undercut by. The word reminded me of two other terms
that you used that night but which I haven’t heard
spoken since leaving New York: “pyrrhic” and
“Kafkaesque.” Keep them, Amy. We don’t need them here.
Or whatever the heck they stand for. We’re doing fine.
And you are also doing fine, I gather. (I searched your
name at work the other day and learned that you’re still
writing your little stories about loyal animals and
lousy humans.) That pleases me, Amy. As I said, I’ve
changed. I eat much less meat now. I sold my antique
sword. I’ve learned to appreciate modern German cinema,
I’ve given up collecting, and I’ve befriended a former
Marine Corps colonel who helped cook up several of the
new “religions” that the Pentagon developed to influence
Hollywood but has withdrawn its support for recently due
to changing budget priorities. As for my novel,
Portal People—which you so kindly helped me edit
even after I borrowed your purse that night—it was lost
by the Library of Congress, to whom I stupidly sent my
only copies. Don’t worry, though: The place is on my hit
list. Someday fairly soon (July, perhaps, when my
paintball squad plays in a tournament in Maryland) I
plan to sneak into the Library’s main reading room with
a kitchen match taped behind one ear and a balloon full
of kerosene or diesel fuel tucked into my jeans. What a
barbecue that will be! And what a menu! Baked Hemingway.
Fried Fitzgerald. Roasted Thoreau. (I know you’re
“literary,” Amy, but since all the great books will be
safe on Google soon—including yours, let’s hope—there’s
really no need for that flammable old castle.)
Seriously, though, I’m doing well. And maybe better than
well, if things work out. I’m basically under contract
at the moment to star in a major national ad campaign
promoting the AidSat Active Angel service (which I urge
you to subscribe to, since I assume that you still live
alone and do a lot of walking after dark). But before we
start filming, there is one tiny hurdle that I’m
wondering if you can help me with: a background check.
I have no right to ask this, considering the grief I
caused you, but if you have even a microdot of mercy for
the guy who “hitchiked” on your credit history and
snapped a few photos of you on his phone that he sold to
an amateur porn site in the Netherlands you’ll do me
this favor: Forget you ever knew me. Either that, or
remember (if you’re ever asked to) that you knew
another, better me. The Kent I’m becoming, not the Kent
I was. And maybe you can ask Kathy to do likewise.
In closing, I must ask you to stop writing me and to
stop expecting that I’ll write you. This is for your
protection as well as mine. Revisiting the past, I’ve
found, is like dabbling in black magic—it seems a
harmless rush at first, but you never know what dark
spirits it will unleash. There are more souls than
bodies on this planet, more ghosts than there are houses
for them to haunt, and I’m content with the one inside
me now. I’d rather not open a back door to those which
I’ve shut out.
Eventually you’ll see the ads I’ll make and understand
that I’m not who you remember.
And thank God for that, I bet you’re thinking!
Kent
P.S. Borderline between what and what?
Don’t answer.
* * *
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