#dearest hannah

Dearest Hannah,

I’ve got a hot air balloon with your name on it. It’s a miniature, I did the “HANNAH” decal myself with duct tape. I’ve been flying it around the house----mother is awfully worried I’m going to set something aflame with the tiny propane fire that buoys the balloon. I told her to relax and that “I got it” and then I set her hair on fire. But it’s fine, she’s fine.

My teeth have been hurting as of late, more than the usual chewing hurt (which is excruciating as you know). I knew it was time to see the dentist when I sneezed and blood came out my eye. Because of a mix-up at the Department of Veteran Affairs my whole family has terrific health insurance through grandpa for the rest of our lives, so I see the best dentist in town: Dr. Onyx Gust, a chillingly white man with calm hands and and dentist chairs that are also fish tanks.

I walked into the waiting room and saw my good friend Rob Gravity, his jaw wired shut. He didn’t seem eager to speak so I explained to him my situation and that I’d probably need my molars pulled. He nodded, still silent. “I’m worried because I don’t have any cash to tip Dr. Gust,” I told Rob. His eyes lit up in an “I’ve got just the thing” manner; he grabbed a pen and paper and wrote “I’ve got just the thing”. Rob reached into the innermost sanctum of his jeans and produced a shiny nickel. He must have been saving it for a special occasion like this----Rob Gravity’s last nickel.

Dr. Gust called me into his office. He looked at my charts and told me that, indeed, I needed massive oral surgery. I grabbed the laughing gas, put it on myself (mother always says I’m a trooper) and passed out.

I woke up sedated, but still with all my molars. I guess the good doctor had made a diagnosis error; I was fine, just had some crud stuck in my teeth. Turns out he’d been looking at Rob Gravity’s charts, he was the one that needed massive oral surgery following his other massive oral surgery.

Rob Gravity gave me his last nickel so I could tip Dr. Gust, but since it was a misfire the doc and I decided to go dutch. He bit that nickel right in half and gave me my share. “Look at that,” he said, “I chipped a tooth.” We had a good laugh.

Sedately,

Dearest Hannah,

You appear nightly in my dreams. Or knightly, rather. As a knight. It was a little emasculating at first, but I’ve grown to find comfort in your strong touch, in your chainmail pressed against my cheek as I suck my thumb. You carry me like a baby through a blustery tundra and into a river of warm milk. And just as we’re about to finish a Sudoku puzzle, I wake up.

Big news: the most powerful soda magnate in the country is buying up all the soda fountains in town. Every soda fountain at every restaurant, every gas station, every preschool. All of them. The magnate, Cedar Shingles, built his empire during the Soda Boom of yore; he’s become incredibly wealthy from the generation of thirsty Soda Boomers.

He’s been villainized in the Local Newspoppins; Griswold Federman, the political/business/police cartoonist, drew a cartoon of a greedy Mr. Shingles riding a $1,000 bill on a massive wave of bright orange soda. The problem with the new business deal is that the townsfolk are worried that Mr. Shingles will raise prices on the town’s favorite bubbly drinks, like Peppermint Well Water and Refreshing Sand Mist and Coke.

He arrived in town to survey his purchase and immediately called a press conference. I was there with the grumbling townsfolk, all of us crowded around a podium in the town square, and from a stretch Mini Cooper emerged the man himself: Cedar Shingles, a man with a big, bushy white mustache and a suit of crisp blue feathers. The murmurs died down as he came forward and spoke.

“People of this lovely town. I do not wish to be your enemy. Instead, I wish to be your brother. Your confidant. Your Tony Hawk.” A few townsfolk began slowly nodding. He continued, “I’ve lived a blessed life filled to the brim with tasty, sugary, syrupy soda. Soda so fine it would make a colored woman wilt like she was sitting under the the Southern sun without a church bulletin to fan her sweaty face. And, well, I’m not one to be long winded, so..” Mr. Shingles’ cronies wheeled forward big cannons strapped with kegs. “Enjoy the fruit flavorings of my labor!” The cannons burst with ice cold soda, covering the expectant townsfolk head to toe. We all rejoiced and partied late into the night, chanting “Cedar Shingles gives us tingles! Rah, rah, rah!” until we went hoarse.

He may be an old fashioned racist, Hannah, but he’s our old fashioned racist. We’ve accepted Cedar Shingles into the community. Soda is three times the price now, but that cannon bit was so impressive no one seems to care. I only wish that someday you too will know the love Cedar Shingles has for us; that sweet, paternal, capitalist love.

Bubbly,

Dearest Hannah,

I’d string my tennis racquet with the discarded hair from your brush if only you'd airmail it to me. It’s so coarse and strong you could use it in a truck commercial, your hair tied to the trailer hitch of a Ford F-150 while it tows an airplane. If you ever make a citizen’s arrest, Hannah, you should pull a few strands to use as zip ties.

The heat was sweltering today, and tempers in town were running as hot as the temperature (piping hot). I was pushing Lefty in a shopping cart through a traffic jam when we bumped into a brute of a man. “Woah there, boys!” It was Jonas Bedfellow, he was digging a hole in the street. “I’m going to dig my way out of the traffic jam.” Lefty spritzed himself with a misting fan, “Doesn’t seem very realistic to dig a car-sized hole to drive your way out of this jam.”

“I didn’t get where I am today by swimming with the current,” he leaned on his broken shovel, “hard work pays off.” Jonas is known for rattling off platitudes, sometimes so many and so frequently in one conversation that he’ll get mixed up; he once said to me, “Give a man a fish, he’ll know Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He takes advantage of every opportunity to grab someone’s ear ever since he went through the program and got off the sauce. All the sauces in fact. BBQ, honey mustard, tomato. He’s a better man for it; he was a hopeless addict before he got treatment.

Lefty and I said we needed to get through the traffic jam so we didn’t miss the signing at the bookstore (we take books off the shelves and sign them). Jonas didn’t seem to care and told us a long-winded story about how his “cheeks and fingers used to be sticky with sauces” and he’d go home, kiss his wife, and she would know he’d been at the smokehouse. “But I found that no amount of sweet, tangy, tasty rib sauce could fill the emotional hole inside me. So I cleaned up. With a wet wipe.” A tear trickled down Jonas’s face. Lefty smacked the side of the shopping cart like he was spurring a horse.

Just then, Brogan’s Pork Wheels, the best ribs food truck this side of creation, smashed into the jam of cars and slathered everything with all of Brogan’s sauces. It was a delightful hot mess. Of course, Jonas was frozen with fear, sauce covering his face and mouth. “Don’t swallow, Jonas, it looks like sauce splattered into your mouth. Mmmm! This sauce will buck you right off the wagon,” Lefty licked his fingers.

We left trembling Jonas at the scene, not because we don’t care about his well-being, but because books don’t sign themselves. I’ve attached a signed copy of a classic novel, I’m not sure which one, but I think you’ll find it quite delightful. My signature, that is.

Timely,

Dearest Hannah,

If we were deep in the cold ocean together, swimming like a two-whale pod, I would nuzzle you with my bristly chin and you would pluck the barnacles from my belly. And we’d migrate south for the winter because whales do that. And we’d argue about ocean politics and tease seals and I’ve been flipping through the encyclopedia looking at marine life all day can you tell?

I was watching the local news this morning because current events are my vice. After the requisite fear mongering and predictions of moral entropy came the weather; but the weather came differently today. Yes, Hannah, the sun still shone through clouds during the humid, blizzardy morning which gave way to violent afternoon thunder-tornadoes followed by the crippling evening dry heat----the weather itself was just like any other day. That’s not what I mean.

What I mean is there’s a new weatherman, she’s a woman. A she-weatherman I guess you’d call her. Her name is Tamara Foof and she speaks in the dulcet tones of a winged siren. She danced hither and thither in front of the green screen pointing at locations and weather patterns with her supple hands----I’ve never seen such a lithe performance from a meteorologist. She signed off with a smile that would make even the youngest babies blush. I don’t want to cause you to be jealous Hannah, but it was magical.  

Later in the day I was standing in line at Hester’s Meat Palace waiting for a french dip sandwich. When I go into Hester’s I eat like a king. Literally. I’m very sloppy and demanding, I cram meat into my mouth and drizzle au jus sauce from a great height. I belch loudly and demand to be entertained, it’s not fun for most people but I enjoy myself.

Someone tapped my shoulder, “Are you in line?” I spun around----it was her. Tamara Foof, dressed to the nines in a crisp pantsuit and a fancy brooch that said ‘Yes, I do dare’. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Yeah, yep, I, I am in line,” I stammered. “You seem like a sensible young man,” she said, “what kind of meat should I have?” I was stunned.

She wasn’t asking about the sandwiches, she was suggesting intercourse (sexual) with me! It was clear as day. “I’m in love with another woman, Ms. Foof, and her name is Annis. Han. Brannah! And I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating. I thought you were a respectable woman, but you’re just a harlot with cloud knowledge. I’m going to take my food andmy king routine elsewhere, good day!” I snatched my greasy bag of meat and left in a huff.

You’re the one for me, Hannah, even though I forgot your name during a poignant moment. Our love can weather any storm, and I’d like to see Tamara Foof try and predict that with her modern equipment and years of training and smooth legs.

Faithfully,

HANNAH!