Typing Letters to No One.

Here's to months on end. Here's to seats that don't have long enough edges to hold one's suspense. Cheers.

When I saw a red leaf barely hanging off the fingertip of some elm tree, I realized not only that fall was coming, but it was already here. I went to a thrift store that smelled like my parents’ attic – full of dust and rotting photographs – and I told the checkout clerk I would like to buy a typewriter. She didn’t speak English, or if she did, she didn’t speak it very well, and she replied by saying “Non comprendos!” I wandered the store for a bit, looking at corduroy suits that were always three sizes too big for me and the multitude of Barry Manilow records, until I came to the electronics. The store was trying to sell an original Nintendo for 50 dollars. I was certain if I were to buy a typewriter here, it would be more than I should pay for it, but I didn’t care.
All the “more expensive” merchandise was kept behind a counter where a friendly multilingual lady immediately asked me if she could help me. I explained to her how since it was fall I felt like I should buy a typewriter. She nodded her head saying “Yes, yes, another one of those. I suppose you’ll be wanting a globe as well.” Not understanding this comment, I asked her to explain.
“I know your type. Dressed in ironed button-down shirts and expensive blue jeans with a slight hesitance that people call confidence. Take the globe. You need it.”
She seemed sure of what she was talking about.
“How much for the globe?”
“Fifteen!” I exclaimed. The globe’s tattered paper was coming off with the ease of a half-peeled orange. Russia was still labeled the U.S.S.R and Czechoslovakia had yet to be divided into two. The globe no longer represented the world I lived in. What use would it be for me?
“You’ll see once you get down. A typewriter and a globe go together like salt and pepper shakers (aisle three).” She had a kind smile that would talk me into anything. I begrudgingly left her a twenty and walked away with a typewriter and a globe.
It took surprisingly long to clear off my desk. My desktop computer, it turned out, took up a lot of room. Sitting in my chair, I analyzed the space economics of the situation and realized there was no way I could have both. In order to embrace the mechanical past, I would have to get rid of the latest and greatest technology. My computer had been updated over the past few months with the fastest processor and video card available. This would have to go. Not quite able to make such a rash decision, I went to the kitchen and prepared myself a stiff glass of whiskey. I sat in front of the computer and sipped it until I managed the courage to clear the desk. The computer went on a high shelf in my closet that I couldn’t reach without the assistance of a chair. My decision felt final when I shoved the touch-type keyboard up there after three or four tries.
Finally placing the typewriter on my desk, I finished my drink and put my legs upon the desk. So much space had been saved by converting from PC to typewriter. Not only could I type, but I would also place a very carefully selected books on the desk – perhaps some Carver or Murakami. As I removed the books from their shelf, I realized that I had to put the globe somewhere. Another decision had to be made: books or globe. The world won. Now I could only put one book alongside the computer. I went back to my shelf and decided on an anthology I had yet to read that was made up entirely of short stories from the past fifty-or-so years. The setup looked good and I took a picture. When I reverted to the computer setup, I decided, I would hang this picture up next to it and show the simplicity I could experience but chose not to.
Then I sat in my chair. The lady from the thrift store was right: the globe and the typewriter did look natural sitting side-by-side. If she had allowed me to only buy the typewriter, I would have returned to the store and slightly angrily told her that what she sold me just didn’t look right.
I fed some fresh snowcap paper into the typewriter and typed my first sentence: “Hello world.” My friend who was a computer engineer had explained to me that “Hello world” was typically the first phrase written in any programming language. He wasn’t sure entirely why, but I assumed it had to do with learning any kind of new language. Any new language a person learns, I figure, is like a gateway to a new world. One needs to make his presence known, and what better way than the declaration “Hello world.”
But after typing that, my mind was sucked of ideas. Nothing interesting had happened throughout the day, I simply said my expected “Hellos” and “Goodbyes” and felt exhausted after even that much. Casual conversation takes a lot out of you.
I spun the globe a few times. It wobbled horribly as if it were about to come off the stand and roll onto the ground. I put my fingers on as I spun it and felt the geography of the thing, interpreting the mountains as Braille. Perhaps when felt correctly, the world was merely an S.O.S, and “Help me” message portrayed through mountain rangers, rivers, and lakes.
I must have sat at that desk for an hour writing nothing. I thought I would have a lot to say, if only I could find the means to say it.
Then I realized the purpose of the globe – it couldn’t have been more clear. Spin the globe with your finger making wave signs until it stops. Then send a letter to a person in the country it stops on. I spun it, closed my eyes, and waited. It stopped on the United States. I sighed. I wanted to write a letter to someone in an exotic locale – to someone who might not understand the language in which I was writing like China or France or maybe even an island whose name I wouldn’t be able to pronounce. I realized that my wants might yet be fulfilled: the state my index finger rested on was Nebraska. I wasn’t even aware that people lived in Nebraska – I figured it to be almost entirely populated with cows. My work was indeed cut out for me.
To determine who I would write to in Nebraska, I decided I needed a phonebook. But I wasn’t quite sure who to obtain one – was I to call some Podunk Nebraska phone company and explain to them that I wanted a phonebook so I could call someone? They would certainly laugh in my face saying, “Why don’t you just use the internet, buddy?” I decided on calling some John Smith from Omaha and explaining to him that I desperately needed a phone book and ask him for a back issue of his.
As absurd as it sounds, my idea worked. John Smith from Omaha sent out a phonebook from 1998 as quickly as he could.
While I waited for the book to arrive, I practiced my typing skills. I tried writing letters to close friend, then to friends, then to distant friends, but nothing came of it. I couldn’t break out of the unnecessary formality. All my letters began, “Hello Sir or Madame, True, we haven’t talked in some time..” and they ended abruptly when I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I could only type for a paragraph or two and then I ran out of thoughts: it was like plunging a bucket into what seemed like an infinitely deep well, but after only two pails, it is almost entirely dry.
On a peculiarly warm fall day, the phone book from Omaha arrived. John Smith enclosed a note that says “I hope you find some interesting people in here, god only knows that I have yet to find even one.” Ah, a challenge, I figured.
The most unbiased way to choose a name was to first rip out all of the yellow and white pages. Essentially, any page that didn’t have a phone number was useless to me. So I sat Indian style on my kitchen floor listening to “Almost Blue” by Elvis Costello and analyzed then tore out every page that didn’t contain a phone number. It took almost an hour. Then, gathering the book, I took it to the roof of my apartment complex and, after making sure no one was walking on the sidewalk, threw it over the edge. I ran so fast down the stairs that I could feel the lactic acid in my muscles as I held the book between my hands. The book landed on the Mcs. McDonalds and McCarthys all on the same page. I went inside with the book still opened to the Mcs and after clearing my spice rack, placed it on the middle and spun it. My finger wound up on Abigail McCarthy. Certainly an interesting name. She lived on a generic street – 43rd St, so I figured she would be an ordinary human being. I wrote her a letter explaining how essentially I was a twentysomething with far too much time on my hands. I wanted to keep a correspondence with someone and by mere chance of the Fates, she had wound up as my pen-pal. Whether she wanted to or not, she would be receiving letters from me. She need not respond; it would not deter my writing. The only thing that would stop her from receiving my letters would be her moving away which, I was very aware, might have already happened.
I might be writing to no one.
It didn’t matter. I wrote a long letter, longer than anything I could have written to someone I knew. I sent it out the next day first class.
The response I got was even more bizarre than what my first letter must have been. It went like this:
Dear J. [I had refused to put my entire name as the signer. True, she would be able to find out my address rather easily, but I liked the idea of being at least semi-mysterious.]
I have to say, I was flattered to find such a letter in my mailbox. I too am only twentysomething. Don’t you think it’s weird how we refer to ourselves as twentysomethings rather than a twentyfive year old or so forth? It’s like saying “No, I’m not married, but it’s ok because I’m still in my twenties. There’s no such thing as a thirtysomething, is there? If there is, I might not go on a date until I’m at least forty. As it stands now, I spend my weekends in bars talking to drunken boys. None of them would make a good date, let alone boyfriend. That’s the reason I’m actually responding to you.
Aren’t you lucky to have written to me, Abbey McCarthy, rather than the next name in the phonebook? She might be a ninetysomething. I can’t imagine you would have as much in common with her as you do with me. See, we’re really alike, but I don’t really want to get into that.
Anyways, I like to drink whiskey and listen to the Beach Boys and imagine I’m in California. Like most young people living here, I don’t plan to spend all my life in Omaha. I hope to move to someplace like where you are: Chicago. Or New York. Or San Francisco. Some place where I can get lost in a crowd and be found by a keen eye. That might just be idealistic, but I feel like I know anyone worth knowing here.
Anyways, I know I am cutting this short, but I do hope you write back like you promised.
Sincerely,
A. Mc.

We wrote back and forth for a while, but never exactly answered one another’s questions. Instead we intentionally avoided topics the other would bring up. If she brought up music, I decided to talk about literature. Or art. Whatever I viewed as more opposite at the time I wrote the letter.
One week I couldn’t make it to my trusty typewriter. I enjoyed the correspondence so much that I decided to do the nearly unthought of: write a letter by hand. I composed it in cursive, although I hadn’t written in that script since high school. I sent the letter as normal and eagerly waited a reply. None came.
I played the Beatles song “No Reply” on and on and on for a week. This didn’t help. I typed out a letter asking her why she didn’t reply and she quickly responded:
“J.: I did never not reply. All the letters I’ve gotten from you I’ve promptly responded to. They are always lighthearted and make my day seem better. If you write, I respond.”
I felt flattered. I made someone, someone who I didn’t really know, day a little better. I sat down at the typewriter and wrote a five page letter. Only four days later did I find a ten page reply. Abigail surely had not forgotten me.
We kept the correspondence for months.
Then one day while composing an epic letter a few of the keys jammed. I tried straightening them out with my fingers, but the metal wouldn’t budge. The keys were stuck together. I decided to finish the letter by hand and promptly sent it out. Hearing Abbey respond to my letters was a high point of every week. Our dialogue never ceased: it kept going. I didn’t want to risk losing a week worth of conversation.
Upon receiving her response, I realized that she had almost entirely directly avoided any handwritten parts of the letter. She didn’t even do our roundabout ordeal of talking about something opposite,: she had neglected altogether my observations. She didn’t even try to counter them.
I tried taking my typewriter to the shop. They told me the price to fix the thing would be well over a hundred dollars. As much as I enjoyed hearing from Abbey, I wouldn’t be able to pay that much money.
I went to the same thrift store I bought the typewriter from. The girl at the counter once again tried to sell me a globe, but I explained to her I already owned one. She arched an eyebrow and hesitantly sold me an old typewriter. When I took it home, I realized the font was slightly different, as was the spacing. I tried anyways to write a response to her letter.
Even three weeks later, nothing. She didn’t respond. I wrote again about her favorite topics and sent another letter. I eventually hooked my computer up again and typed a letter out on my computer with the exact font and spacing as my original typewriter. Yet somehow she still sensed its inauthenticity. No response.
It’s been a year since I last heard from Abbey. And I don’t think of her much, but occasionally whenever I’m at a thrift store I look for the typewriter I bought. No place seems to carry the model I’m looking for. If I ever do find the model I bought – I think it was a Remington something, I would pay a hundred dollars for it, at least, just to get in one last letter to Abbey, maybe asking her out to Chicago for a drink. Just one, to see if we liked each other as much in person as we did in text. But this has yet to happen. My girlfriend would be infuriated if she knew my exact thoughts.
I threw out all the letters she sent me after I read them, but I still remember the last line of the last letter she sent me: “As one twentysomething to another, I feel like we could have a sincere conversation with one another, and when we walked away from our beer or coffee or whatever we decided to bond over, the day would be sunnier and happier than the last.”

I Hear Southern Bells

The last thought I had before falling asleep was someone should turn on the heat in the house. My roommates, in an effort to “conserve energy and save the environment” (meaning save a penny) have boycotted central heating. Living in the basement means I get to experience lake effect Chicago lows more than anyone else in the house. Whatever. I always manage to fall asleep.
When I blink it feels like bathroom in the morning after a scalding shower. Its humid and I can hardly breathe. Not only am I sweating through my Oxford shirt, but also my white Tom Wolfian suit. Things are not right: I don’t own a single suit and I should not be sweating unless my roommates have all suddenly undergone compassion. One of my roommates counts his Ritz crackers in an effort to make sure no one eats them: I’m not expecting a random act of kindness anytime soon.
A young lady in bright whites comes next to me, twirling her umbrella and batting her eyelashes. Granted, I look stunning, but I like to think I always look this good. Such behavior being exhibited towards me is unheard of unless I initiate it.
“Isn’t she pretty?” she asks with a long Southern drawl. It could take days for her to talk more than a sentence towards me.
I look dumbfounded for a while. I haven’t even adjusted myself to the surroundings: unending Easter grass hills curving as subtly as conversation. There’s a white gazebo where a crowd has gathered. Not just any crowd – it seems to be made up entirely of females. All are adorned in white hats with white umbrellas and have a figure a sculptor would love to shape. Ah, this is undoubtedly a dream. My dream. I smile, thinking I have finally outdone myself. A dream with at least a hundred southern belles – creative, yes.
“Not as pretty as you,” I continue our conversation, grinning. A terrible pickup line, yes, but this is a dream, a fantasy, I can be as corny as I want.
And then she slaps me.
“You! You!” she exclaims.
“Me! Me!” I counter back.
“It is entirely improper for you to be making eyes on a lowly bridesmaid at your own reception. Well I never!”
Perhaps I should not be describing this as dream. Perhaps nightmare is closer to the truth. I reevaluate the situation: I am in a suit, sweating, with girls who I apparently cannot hit on. I try taking off the suit, but the buttons seem fastened stiff. Next, I attempt to remove my pants. I have never had this problem before: they won’t come off. After rummaging through my pockets, I find a ballpoint pen and attempt to rip the fabric. Hard as I try, nothing happens. The pants stay on immune to tears and blue ink stains. Amazing.
I see another white gowned girl making her way to me from the gazebo. She stamps angrily over the soil and wears a countenance that terrifies me. I feel like running but assume that my legs wouldn’t go for the idea. I stand in place and wait for this peeved (albeit beautiful) woman come my way.
“Who are you?!” she demands.
“Your husband?” I half ask, half declare. I assume I’m not quite welcomed here.
“The hell you are! My husband is tall. And handsome. And he doesn’t have that ridiculous accent you do. And, he does not, I repeat, does not, hit on the bride’s sister.”
Her points sting a bit. Tall, I am not, but handsome, let me at least believe I am. And the accent is great.
“Then who am I?” I sincerely ask. I try futilely to take the coat off once more.
“I am asking you that question mister. You are ruining my dream.”
“Your dream? I thought this was my nightmare,” I try explaining.
“Most certainly not. Look at the attention to detail.” She waves her hand to show the scope and elaboration of the wedding reception. The chairs are pearl colored and look delicate enough for angels to sit on. All the women have rosy cheeks. She’s right - a lot of attention has been paid to detail. This is definitely not my dream.
I look her in the eye - her brown hair is swooped across her face and reveals only one of her eyes (which looks like hazelnut coffee).
I sigh. “Well, that’s a relief. I was worried for a while what kind of dream I was having. At first I was proud of myself – hundreds of women, all in white, me looking charming as always. Yet they seemed prone to my general Don Juanness. I figured it was certainly a nightmare.”
She slaps me, harder than the last woman.
“What was that for?”
She removes her hand from the white glove and holds it, tenderly.
“For being a pig. And ruining my dream. Now get out.”
I laugh a bit. “I would, if I could. But I’m stuck in this suit. What makes you think I’ll be able to escape this dream. Your dream.”
She grins and pulls at the sleeve of my suit. It submits to her and is immediately ripped off. My pale undeveloped arm just hangs there at my side.
“What was that for?”
“Just cause.” For a southern girl, she seems awfully improper.

We sit for a while, trying to figure things out. Hours must pass. We come to the realization that dream time does not coincide with sleep time. Something must happen in this dream in order for us to escape it – something terribly exciting that one wants desperately to know the conclusion to so badly that they wake up.
“We could get married,” I suggest.
“I thought we decided on something exciting,” she protests. “What’s the fun in ‘they live happily-ever-after?”
“You view me as repulsive, right?”
“Correct.”
“Beast gets the beauty. Or the belle in this case. Think about it.”
She bites her bottom lip in the cutest way, like the harder she tugs at it, the more profound her thoughts will be.
"Maybe I’ll wake up from fright of having to kiss you,” she jokes. It’s this thing we have – I say I’m repulsive, she agrees.

I get to the altar. The priest rambles forever – this is a proper wedding. Soon enough, I’m hearing the words, “You may kiss the bride,” and, with my weak revealed arm, I unveil the bride and wink at her. I kiss her.
Nothing happens.
We looked perplexed at one another. I raise my eyebrows; she mouths “I don’t get it.”
And as confusingly as the whole thing started, it stops. I wake up in my bed shivering. All is normal.

In the kitchen as I prepare my bowl of cereal, one of my roommates looks at me.
“What are you grinning about?” he asks. It’s true, I am smiling.
“Oh, I think I might be married.”
He looks expectedly confused, then responds, “Listen man, I’ll talk to the other guys about turning the heat on. If you’re hallucinating and crap, we can spare a few extra bucks a month for your health.”