#dearesthannah

Dearest Hannah,

I’d be happy if I had an espresso machine that made you instead of espresso----you’d emerge from the steel contraption beautiful as ever and dripping with piping hot coffee. And I’d burn my mouth on you. “I need my fix!” I’d say. But the wonderful part of this scenario is that I’d get my coffee fix and my Hannah fix right away in the morning. It’d be like killing two go-go dancers with one bowstaff or whatever people say.

Today I went on a stroll through the cemetery with my younger sisters Jane and Ellie. Though they’re only 6 and 4 years old respectively, they have a very complex understanding of death. Jane waxed poetic about the passage of time and brevity of life; Ellie sketched an interpretation of the cemetery as a bustling thoroughfare filled with the ebullient souls of the deceased. And I was bouncing a tennis ball until I lost it.

We came to a pond at the south end of the plot. There’s a man, Chasco Onesie, who has been fishing off a very large skiff in the small pond for decades. (His boat touches the shore on all sides, that’s how small the pond is.) Chasco keeps hoping for his “big catch” but the pond is so small it likely can’t hold a fish of any size. I think poor Chasco has only seen fish in books----he thinks they’re the same size as they are on the page.

We approached his boat and greeted him. Jane asked him why he’s been fishing in the same pond for so long. “The fish, they will come. You must be patient,” he told us with a wink. A small radio crackled on the bait jar near his feet. “Listening to the big game, I see,” I said to him. “Yes, young man, I think the team may have a chance this year,” and it was clear neither of us knew what we were talking about.

“I’m growing older every day, I can feel it in my bones. But I can’t die happy until I’ve caught the big one,” he said. Ellie, always the hopeful empath, quickly sketched a cartoon of Chasco posing next to a freshly caught prize marlin, almost as tall as him. “That’s very sweet, little one,” he examined the drawing, “but big fish are much smaller than that. I’ve seen them in picture books. Big fish fit in the palm of your hand.” He tipped his straw hat and handed the drawing back.

We gave him what little trail mix we had left and went on our way. It’s strange, Hannah, but there’s something lovely about Chasco’s calm, simple existence. He sits with his line dangling in the gentle serenity of the 8-inch deep pond, forgotten by time and all else. Or something like that. I was actually just reading Jane’s journal and copying her word for word----she’s more eloquent than I. Truthfully, I think Chasco’s kind of a dummy. Probably he’s been there so long because he forgot how to get out of his boat.

Broadly,

Dearest Hannah,

Gone are the days when I dangled wet spaghetti over the microwave and pretended it was your head and face. I’m past such childish foolery. My longing for you manifests itself as a deep, pulsing ache in my chest that can be abated by few palliatives. But I am an adult now. No more spaghetti. Now I stomach my pain appropriately with a stiff drink of whiskey and lots of loud shoplifting from the supermarket.

I’ve been feeling glum as of late. Perhaps it’s from missing your sweet touch, perhaps it’s from the drought. Perhaps it’s from mother cancelling the HBO subscription. Lefty was nice enough to try and cheer me up. “We’ll go shopping, maybe get some fresh duds at the department store,” he said on the phone.

We went to Richard Beavens’s Lane & Leisure Items, a store for both the casually dressed and frequently bowling man. I didn’t need any new clothes other than a hot new pair of khaki romp-about short shorts, but Lefty was insistent that I get creative with my wardrobe. The store owner, Mr. Richard Beavens himself, approached us with his gleaming combover and gold teeth. “I see you young gentlemen are interested in some items----let me show you our special pieces.” My guard was immediately up. You see Hannah, Mr. Beavens is a consummate salesman, they say he could sell a glass of hot chowder to a drowning man or however the idiom goes. Well, in this case Lefty was the drowning man with the chowder glass because he’s easily wooed, and I knew he hadn’t any money.

While I resisted his wiles, Mr. Beavens whisked Lefty into the labyrinth of clothes and bowling equipment. They returned shortly with overflowing armfuls of stuff. Mr. Beavens had convinced Lefty that he needed a pair of suspenders for every day of Lent. He also had 3 scented bowling balls.

“These new scented bowling balls are top of the line, and they smell great!” Lefty told me excitedly. “How often do you bowl, Lefty?” I asked. “I’ve never bowled and don’t plan to!” he said. Mr. Beavens piped up from behind the counter “Those scented balls are a mighty fine price, boys, mighty fine!” Lefty didn’t have the money to pay, he begged me to buy the stuff for him with his cutest pouty face. I held out as long as I could, but between Lefty’s bulging, quivering wet lips, his doe eyes welled with tears, and Mr. Beavens whispering sweet salesy nothings in my ear, I acquiesced.

Now I don’t have any money and Lefty has bowling balls that smell like lemon and spruce. But at least his pants will stay lifted up, Hannah, and I suppose the whole ordeal has lifted my spirits too. Just like Lefty’s pants.

Charitably,

Dearest Hannah,

I’ve been practicing brooding to be seen as more of a tough guy, but It’s hard for me to maintain when I think about how much I miss your sweet scent of foot powder and cabbage----I turn into a melting fondue waterfall of feelings when I think of you. My only choice is to wear a ski mask full time, I imagine that would communicate toughness while concealing my sensitivity. But then I’d be itchy. No, I’ll just take up pipe smoking and I won’t hear another word on the subject.

I was at the country club earlier today playing a friendly game of tossing horse shoes. There’s a name for it… shoe horses I think it’s called. My opponent was Tin Feasley, a man-about-town and shoe horses expert. He was irate because I was beating him handily at shoe horses; he accused me of using black magic to win. “That’s racist,” I told him, “white people can do magic too. But I’m not using magic at all, I’m just a natural at shoe horses.” Tin didn’t like my being brazen.

He challenged me to a war of wits, winner take all. I was feeling confident so I bet my favorite pocket watch; Tin bet his whole family, a wife and two boys (which I thought was excessive, but Tin is as confident a man as I’ve ever seen). After we shook hands Tin introduced a twist: he would be asking all the questions and whoever answered first would get the points. I felt bamboozled. Of course Tin would know the answer first, he was asking the questions! But I had to compete, I gave him my word (which is “linnen” if you’re wondering).

Hannah, I thought I was in for a pummeling, but you’ll be shocked to know a pummeling is the opposite of what I received. A gnilemmup, if you will. Surprisingly, Tin asked questions to which he did not know the answers. I beat him easily at the contest, ten points to none. He was crumpled on the ground when I left him, distraught and moaning.

Now, as I write to you from my bedroom, Tin’s doting wife is sitting in the corner knitting me a cap and his two young boys are freshly bathed, hair combed, and tucked into my bed. I’m still unsure whether Tin lost the contest on purpose and his plan was to cast aside his family into the loving and smooth arms of a young man like myself, or if he’s just a hopeless degenerate and isn’t as sharp as I originally thought. Either way I don’t really need his family. I should give them away to someone else----not back to Tin though. Because fair’s fair.

Magnanimously,

Dearest Hannah,

I feel a deep pain in my body because I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. If only you were here, you could butter me up a hot piece of toast in the morning----I’d stuff it down my shirt to keep warm on my walk to Camp School (school in which I learn how to go to camp). “Dress smartly,” you’d say, “don’t you want to impress the other young adults at Camp School with your keen sartorial sense?” And I’d say, “That word-a-day calendar is really paying off, Hannah! Now stuff my shirt with buttered bread!” And I’d leave and forget my lunch.

Camp School is going well, by the by. I just took an examination for my “Late Night Bunk Bed Oversharing” class, and I’ll be attending a lecture tomorrow on “Who To Exclude From Your Camp Clique, And Why”. I’m quite good at all this, I guess I have a knack for camp. Although I will admit my hands are sore from my Fire Starting class, but flicking a lighter all day will do that to a person. Also, a nearby neighborhood is now ash.

I’m enjoying all of it but yesterday I needed a break, I had to get away from all the “get away from it all” camp attitude. So I went to the library. It was quiet in there----too quiet. No, actually it was just quiet enough. A little too quiet enough.

I went to my favorite spot, Sharing Corner, and plopped down on a beanbag with some kids and moms. Dick Hushes was reading from his book of short stories. Dick is considered by some to be a recluse, but his true nature comes out when he reads to kids. He’s warm, his voice comforting; his aura is that of a serene lake on warm day, willows dangling gently in the water. He also has occasional angry outbursts.

Dick doesn’t let anyone proofread his work so it’s riddled with spelling and grammatical errors. He was telling a nice story about a young man at a swimming hole (I think he was mostly improvising) and he became cross when a titless shrew corrected his grammar. “Stay outta this, y’old crone!” he yelled at the mom and stormed off through the bean bags flailing his book furiously.

Today I read in the Daily Newspoppins that Dick boarded up his small cottage. Outside hangs a crooked sign with jagged letters painted in red, “NO MOR DICK STOREYS FUR YOU! KIP OWT!” Perhaps, with your encouragement, Hannah, I can take over as the new Dick Hushes and read those young boys and girls tales of my love for you. I do love you deeply Hannah, it definitely feels like we’ve met more than once----which of course we haven’t!

Handily,

Dearest Hannah,

Can I eat your delicious face? “I don’t know, can you?” is what my 3rd grade teacher would say. She was so silly, Mrs. Billary Clinton, I wonder what ever happened to her. Anyway, what I should have said was may I eat your delicious face? I only ask because I’m very hungry.

Or at least I think I should be hungry. I’ve lost touch with almost all my bodily signals since Lefty and I fell into this hole. It’s nice, really, I’ve sunken into a calm numbness, almost as if the border between my body and the energy of the world around me has dissolved----I simply am. And I’ve come to terms with our situation

I can’t say the same for Lefty, who has become unbearably neurotic. He’s developed Stockholm Syndrome, sympathizing with the hole for holding us hostage. He gave the hole an endearing nickname, “Holey”. He whispers fun secrets to it constantly.  I’d like to put him in a peanut butter cocoon to shut him up but I don’t have any peanut butter or the knowhow on cocoon making.

I fear we may never make it out, Hannah. I wish you the best. I’ll write you from heaven and perhaps someday we’ll be reunited there (if you make it up, which is honestly unlikely). There’s a bright light peering down into the hole. It’s beautiful and calming, like a bath with a cousin. I’m going toward the light… just… to… see.

Hannah, I’ve just awoken in a hospital bed. I’m hooked up to new fangled health robots and they’re telling me my business. Lefty is in the bed next to me. Remember earlier I wrote to you about the light I saw? It’s in the paragraph above, dummy! Well, that light was God. Detective Jim God, to use his formal title. He’s been investigating these burglaries for a while now, tracking every step of the criminals and knew that Lefty and I were doing some sleuthing. He followed our trail into the woods and found us in that hole, our little mouths as dry as the desert without even a sweet wolf to be our mother.

After he had us airlifted to safety, Detective Jim found the burglars’ stash less than a mile from where Lefty and I were stuck. J.P. Solitude and his brother Clem were there among the stolen items, which they claimed they were simply keeping safe. Detective Jim, a rube at heart, thought they were telling the truth and agreed not to arrest them if they returned everything. Which of course they didn’t do. J.P and Clem were last scene piloting a blimp out of town.

Lefty and I are slowly returning to normal life, but it’s been difficult because we were gone for so long. We missed almost whole Saturday after all. Wish me a speedy recovery, Hannah, but probably it won’t make a difference.

Legendarily,

Drst Hnnh,

Why did I ever bother with vowels? They’re clumsy and take up space and don’t make much sense. Although, I just read the first line and I’m realizing now that I really need them, like woah (for example). I need vowels the way I need you, Hannah. I wish with all my being you could throw me a rope-swing and heft me out of this dark place with your meaty quads.

Literally. Lefty and I are still stuck in this dark hole and we need someone to pull us out. Things have become grim since I last wrote you. It’s damp and dark, fear has gripped our souls. And there’s actually a smaller hole within this hole that Lefty and I keep keep falling into. It’s pretty shallow, perhaps better described as a divot, but it’s still annoying.

There’s no way to know how many days we’ve been down here, but I think it’s been almost one. Our phones are below 20% battery, but I’m not sure what that means anymore. Is it a lot? A little? Is this the first time we’ve been in this hole or have we been here many times before? Time is a flat circle, Hannah, don’t you know. At least that’s what Lefty says but I can’t tell if he’s just describing a wall clock. He’s very crafty, I’m not sure I trust him.

We are growing increasingly suspicious of each other. I watch him while he watches me. We sit against opposite walls of the hole listening to the drip, drip, drip of the white noise forest rain Pandora station on my phone. I have the volume all the way up to drown out the real nature noises. Occasionally one of us will speak, usually a hopeful ponderance of our future lives or a reminiscence of our past. And sometimes about dogs. We both like dachshunds, especially the ones that are overfed with little saggy tummies wobbling back and forth like a little body pillow soaked in juice. Other than those rare agreements between us, things are getting very Lord of the Flies in here, at least I think so. I plagiarized my book report on it so my knowledge is foggy at best.

Moments ago Lefty declared that he wishes to take me as a wife. I have no legal grounds to fight him on this because we don’t have laws down here. And, truthfully, I can’t remember if this would happen in our previous reality anyway. Friends become friend’s wives, right? Yes, that sounds right.

I have to go, Hannah, Lefty is getting ready for bed and he wants me to tuck him in. Typical, he just took the right side. He knows that’s my side. I can already see where this marriage is headed.

Wetly,

Dearest Hannah,

The vast wall of Chinatown lined with thousands of malevolent archers could hardly deter me from coming after you, from fighting tooth and nail, even just to catch a momentary glimpse of your beautiful face and your neck brand. Unless I had just eaten a big meal. If I was full of hot soup, I may call up to the archers, “Hey, hold on. I’m pretty full and I need a second.” And then I’d maybe forget what I was doing and go home.

A growing number of burglaries has caused alarm in town. First it was only small things, jewelry, electronics, then a few cars went missing, and yesterday an entire house was taken along with its owner, Ol’ Frau Vanden Goober, who was inside. I guess that’s a missing persons crime too. These burglaries have warranted increased police presents (we bring gifts to the police hoping to bribe them into being vigilant). Thus far, Hannah, the presents haven’t shifted those lazy sheriffs away from their game of jacks. They love jacks, and they don’t love policing.

Lefty Roberts and I took it upon ourselves to do a little detective work. Flashlights: check. Notebooks: check. Chex Mix: check. We heard from a little birdie that the robbers may be squatting in a makeshift hovel deep in the woods. The little birdie was a man named J.P. Solitude who claimed to be one half of the at large criminal duo. “Me and my brother have everything stashed in the woods,” he told us, “hell, my backpack is full of jewelry right now.” But that seemed all too obvious to Lefty and me. There was something strange about J.P., he seemed very untrustworthy, so of course we couldn’t take his word that his jingly backpack was full of stolen jewelry.

We resolved to search the woods----J.P. may have been untrustworthy, but we knew we could probably trust him on the whole woods thing. We made it about a mile in when Lefty and I fell through a false leaf-floor. It was a trap most likely, a hole too deep to climb out of.

Hannah, I’m writing to you from that hole right now. We have no rations, I’m delirious with hunger----we finished the Chex Mix before we even left my house. It’s dark. Reality is slowly melting away. We’ve been in here almost 40 minutes according to our iPhones.

I’m going to attach this letter to a rock and heave it out of this wretched hole. I hope it reaches you.

Treacherously,

Dearest Hannah,

Coo, Cooooo, Hannah. Those are the sounds of love I would make towards you if we were owls. Then I’d poop out a pellet of mouse bones and hair. And we’d sit in our tree until the sun went down, then we’d hunt under cover of night and pursue our quarry with the bloodlust of hellions who thirst for souls in the eternal fire of the underworld. And we’d kiss beaks.

Gram gram’s in the throes of something called Hip Hop Hospitalization. She’d been spitting hot rhymes for days on end and it finally got the best of her----she’s in an induced coma. We had to delay her freestyle battle with The Big Meat and his Marbled Posse. The townsfolk are disappointed, but gram gram needs to recover.

Other than that horrifying ordeal, things have been cool. Very cool. Catch my drift? Of course you don’t, Hannah, you darling fool. I’m alluding to Bernadette’s Lace Emporium acquiring a device that conditions the air, or an “air conditioner” to the layman. The town has been waylaid by a recent winter heat wave and Bernadette is the first one to get an air conditioner (most of the townsfolk are apprehensive about bringing such witchy technology into their homes and businesses). The Lace Emporium has become unbearably crowded with folks trying to get a taste of the sweet, cool air.

The trouble is that Bernadette has one strict rule: if you come enjoy the cool air, you must make a purchase. As you can imagine, business is booming for her, and I now have a doily collection that would make any old crone swoon. I’ve resolved to make a tunic from my collection, something practical and masculine. Like a dress but shorter. A dress that barely covers my waist.

I’m writing to you now from the Lace Emporium, sandwiched in between two burly sisters. They’ve been exchanging blows for what seems like hours, even after I said “Stop blowing on each other! Your hot breath won’t cool any of us off!” Oh well, I have to leave for hospital anyway. Mother just sent me a text that comatose gram gram is piping hot and needs the family to rub ice and tiger balm on her tummy.

Generously,