Dear Sir:
No doubt your daughter has now informed you of our intention to elope in Reno rather than stay for the whole church-wedding thing. While our intentions seem to be simultaneously selfish and inconsiderate, you will most likely find the underlying reasons to be no better, so I'll spare you a fascinating discussion of the inner workings of our psyches. After all, if it were indeed possible to translate our reasons from their current form into language you would be able to comprehend, we would have done so already and saved us both the trouble and effort of attempting to understand one another.
You must believe that I wish it were possible to demonstrate my affection for you and the family I'm soon to wander into through a big wedding, but Brenda and I both feel that trying to explain the relationship to my best man for the toast is simply too involved. How can mere words express the depths of our love?
This morning, lying beside her, I poked her in the ribs to wake her up. (She's adorable in the morning, especially when she's grumpy.) She rolled over and turned her back toward me. I poked her again, and she hit me with a pillow, muttering mild obscenities about my morning habits. How could this be anything but true love? I hope you can understand as it has been so long since you've been in love as Brenda and I are.
I was thumbing through Bride magazine for some dress ideas (for your daughter, not me--I try to limit my dress-wearing to special occasions) and I encountered a letter that begged the resident wedding guru to provide a brief synopsis of the advantages of less traditional weddings1 over Wagner's wedding tune2. She replied that she and her three former husbands had all tried traditional weddings, and the ceremonies had set a funeral pall on the remainder of each marriage (six months in once case, two years for the longest). She went on to discuss why it was better to avoid funeral parlor weddings and perhaps opt for something more eccentric.
As Brenda and I would rather avoid the magazine lady's marriage woes, we thought we'd try Reno. We've all heard of people who did silly things at their weddings-the groom wears a sign that says "kick me"; the guests throw pies rather than rice; the newlyweds release angry geese instead of doves or pigeons; the clergyman officiating the service does so in the nude--but Brenda and I feel it would be like playing Mozart at a funeral on a kazoo.
Hence the inherent ridiculousness of a Reno wedding: Elvis (They do they have Elvis in Reno, do they not? If not, we'll simply have to go to Vegas), an express-line wedding where we simply insert our names in the right pauses, the unquestionable knowledge that we're doing the right thing.
It's been difficult to understand just why Brenda worked so hard to convince me of the Reno wedding. I finally concluded that it's all your fault.
The times, they are a-changin'. When Ben Spock wrote his original book on child-rearing, Brenda was not yet born. Yet it is evident that you raised (poor) Brenda utilizing many of the then-popular fads in child-raising. (Have you any idea how long it's taken me to coax her out of the Spock-created prison? Thank God she's had the sense to listen to me and come to her senses.)3 In a remarkably short period of time after the first publication of the book, Spock has lost favor with the educated, replaced instead with far more insightful understandings of raising children (although he seems to have maintained his hold on the popular imagination of the dullest cretins)4.
I cannot fault you alone, of course. There were, no doubt, innumerable influences on your daily decisions regarding Brenda's upbringing. It might be far easier to lay the blame at the feet of your parents-there's no sense in holding onto any more guilt than absolutely necessary. (The society of the victim is marvelously freeing somehow.)
Brenda and I went shopping for groceries last week. I decided I wanted some salsa5 so I left Brenda and the cart. I found what I wanted, and I wandered back toward where I'd seen her last. I finally found her in the ice cream aisle, staring blankly at Rocky Road, Chunky Monkey, Heavenly Hash, Neapolitan, Vanilla (all-natural and artificially-flavored), Triple-fudge-extra-chocolate-chunks-chunk-funk-love (with extra fudge bits for good measure), and all the rest. I watched her for a few minutes as she opened this door (behind which sat various incarnations of strange flavors, all related to broccoli), then that (with all sorts of chocolates), then this (vanilla), then that (sorbets), 'til finally I asked her if she'd found a flavor she liked. She looked up, suddenly blank. She opened a door at random, thrust in her hand, and withdrew the first flavor her hand encountered.
That was the best ice cream we've ever shared. Notwithstanding the wonderful flavor and consistency of the ice cream, I find it fascinating that her method of selection bordered on nearly random rather than deliberate. When I interrogated her later, she refused to reveal her rationale, preferring instead to drift off to sleep while murmuring sweet nothings. Remembering what I'd read in Interrogation: Techniques and Tricks to Secure Evidence6, I quietly questioned her in her sleep, revealing all the answers to all sorts of questions. Unfortunately, she still didn't tell me why she utilized such an unsystematic ice-cream selection process. But I must conclude, based on her behavior, that the blame falls directly onto your shoulders (and onto whomever else you choose to share your guilt with). Such an inefficient and error-prone method of decision-making must be result of substandard socialization within the home.
But I promise to free her from the shackles of her upbringing, and bring her into a glorious new world of decisiveness and efficiency.
One last story: Brenda and I visited a small museum dedicated to the history of the desk. In the back, near the desks of the 1920s, she turned to me, placed her hands on my face, and kissed me. That was all. Nothing said.
Decisive and efficient. Forever.
Cordially,
Footnotes
(1) From what I could gather, the individual writing the letter wished to marry his cousin (once removed) while bungee jumping from a bridge. Brenda and I nearly opted for this type of ceremony, but decided that our grandmothers might object to hanging upside down for extended periods of
time.
(2) Wagner's wedding tune, is, of course, the traditional wedding march: dum-dum-dee-dum / dum-dum-dee-dum / dum-dum-dee-dum-dum-dee-dum-dum-dee-dum.
(3) For more of my criticisms of Spock, see "Spock v. Spock: Star Trek as Fundamental Model of Parenting, Contrasted with Dr. Benjamin Spock's Landmark Book, Baby and Child Care," available at my website.
(4) See your local Barnes & Noble bookstore or library for some suggestions. It would be wise to avoid anything published before 1972 or by men who describe themselves as "dedicated lovers of children." My personal favorite is the ever-classic Parenting for Dummies, $17.99 at www.bn.com.
(5) I've discovered Salsa Herdez, an all-natural blend of goodies with no preservatives that goes delightfully with nearly everything. I suggest you try it. I recommend the medium: not too spicy, but it has enough of an edge to perk up most anything.
(6) Paladin, Press, ed. Interrogation: Techniques and Tricks to Secure Evidence. (1991). $9.60 (you save $2.40 off the cover price with bn.com!).
“You may now kiss the bride.” Smiling, the minister motioned for the two to seal their pledge with the traditional kiss.
Slowly lifting the veil, the groom grinned foolishly at his bride. Lowering his head, their lips met, their arms wrapped around their tense bodies and pulled one another close.
The congregation performed the prescribed “Ooo”s and “Ah”s for a few moments, then clapped, fully expecting the two to separate and continue on with the wedding.
The two in question, however, had other ideas.
As everyone began to realize that, unlike the phrase in the song, a kiss was not just a kiss, signs of extreme discomfort began to appear on both sides of the aisle. The bride and groom sank noisily to the floor of the stage, becoming more passionate and earnest in their so-called kiss.
As if on cue, the bridesmaid and groomsman immediately behind the flower girl and bible boy placed sweaty hands over the children's eyes, attempting to protect their innocent souls from a moment of such an adult nature, but found they could do nothing about the sounds emanating from the intertwined couple. The remainder of the congregation either resigned itself to waiting until the two had concluded their business or stared on in perverse interest.
Twenty minutes later, sweaty and flushed, the two separated and resumed their rather more traditional roles in the wedding ceremony. The minister, to his credit, recovered nicely, pointedly ignoring the disruption and pronounced them “man and wife,” muttering under his breath that he didn’t know why he had to say that since everyone now knew it anyway.
Someone later commented that they had never been to a nicer wedding.
Frank decided it was time. He didn’t really know what for, but it was time.
Now that he’d come to that conclusion, he needed to find something to apply his decision to. Trouble was, he really didn’t have anything to do it to.
But that was okay, he’d find something to do. Maybe.
Across town, in another world (not literally, but another world nonetheless), a rather subdued individual named Screech—well, not really named Screech, but named Niles but who’d decided that Screech was somehow preferable to Niles—was putting the finishing touches on a project he’d spent the last four weeks of his life on, neglecting nearly everything with the exception of his appetite, as his bulging midriff would attest, and his backups for his computer, attempting to insure that his labor would not be lost by some freak accident such as his computer deciding that it would be a lot more fun if it were to suddenly explode when the Enter key was pressed for the 14,893rd time that day or some dope tripping over his power cord and pulling it out, losing all his unsaved data, which, in all likelihood, would amount to slightly over four weeks of work, regardless of how much time was actually spent entering and processing the data.
Soon, however, Screech would soon learn the meaning of the words “put out” in a very meaningful way.
But not just yet.
Frank closed the door behind him. Apartment 3D. He traced the outline of the D, somehow expecting the letter to empower him with the knowledge of what he needed, or rather, wanted to do. It didn’t work. Frank sighed and turned to go down the stairs, deftly avoiding the skateboard left in the hallway by his neighbor’s son.
He began going down the stairs, soon becoming lost in his thoughts about his upcoming date with Veronica and how he really needed to buy orange juice, and not that lousy store brand, but the good, expensive stuff, like Minute Maid or Tropicana.
He reached the second floor and continued down the stairs, waving a quick hello at Mrs. Murphy, a widow who periodically invited him over for dinner claiming he reminded her of her dear Charles, “a wonderful man. Too bad he walked in front of that truck back in 1964.”
Screech rubbed his eyes briefly while waiting for the massive file to save. He yawned and looked at his calendar, leaning back in his chair and imagining that the picture was a window rather than an overused image on a cubicle wall.
He glanced over at the computer monitor, checking the status of his save. Satisfied it was coming along nicely, or as nicely as it going to get, he stood up to stretch.
Frank reached the first floor without much loss of breath. Glancing quickly in his mailbox to establish that it indeed was empty, he started out the door onto the street.
Screech decided it was time for him to go on a break. Weaving his way out of his crowded cubicle onto the crowded floor, he maneuvered himself in the general direction of the restrooms and drinking fountain.
Pausing for a moment to catch a quick drink, he entered the restroom, observing his figure disapprovingly in the mirror before proceeding to do his intended business. Completing his task he walked to the sink, washed his hands and dried them. Looking closely into the mirror he inspected his face and hair, straightening it conscientiously, then left.
He returned to the drinking fountain, this time drinking deeply, enjoying the sensation of cold liquid in his mouth. He stretched once more, wiped his mouth with his hand, and returned to his cubicle.
Frank walked for awhile, then entered Tony’s Café, a not-so-classy place with good food and clean tables. Motioning to Tony’s son, Jake—recently “paroled from high school,” as he put it—Frank asked for a glass of water.
Taking his napkin, Frank began to scribble random words, letting the previous one guide the next.
Jake arrived with the water.
Frank thanked him, and looked back to his napkin.
“Come now, Frank, what are you doing?” Jake questioned.
“I’m not sure. Why?” Frank looked up at Jake. “Sit down for a sec., if you can.”
“Of course. Why couldn’t I?” Jake pulled back the chair and sat down. “If you are thinking that Father might object, I’m reasonably convinced that he is pleased with my job performance to date and will allow me a small bit of latitude to associate with a dear friend to both of us.”
Frank glanced at Jake. “’Kay. If you say so.” He continued to scribble.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“And that was?”
“What are you doing?”
Frank paused, wrote one more word, then looked back to Jake, suddenly alarmed.
Screech reached his cubicle and checked the progress of the save. It was completed. Screech stretched again, sighing loudly.
Stan, his next-cubicle neighbor, popped his head over the top of the cubicle wall. “Whatcha doin’?”
Screech looked up, smiling with satisfaction. “Just finished up the Gorman project. Four weeks, and it’s over. All done. Give it to the boss tomorrow.”
Stan nodded understandingly. “Yeah, know what you mean. Worked on a project for almost three days once. Sure felt good to get that over with.”
Screech grinned.
Frank quickly thanked Jake and stood up.
Noticing the alarmed look on his face, Jake asked “What ever is the matter, Frank?”
Frank only handed him the napkin and turned to leave.
“Are you sure?” Jake asked incredulously.
Frank nodded.
“Oh, my.”
“Tell me about it. Thank your dad for me.” Frank walked out the door rapidly, leaving Jake shaking his head slowly. Frank nearly collided with an older lady walking a rather large and unhappy looking Great Dane. Briefly apologizing, Frank continued towards his apartment, soon losing himself in the memories.
Opening the door to the apartment building hastily, Frank hurried up the steps to his apartment two at a time. Reaching the door, he unlocked it and stepped inside.
Now he knew what it was time for. And he wasn’t happy about it.
Screech began to straighten up his desk in preparation to leave. He shut down his computer, gathered his coat, and began walking briskly toward the elevator, reaching it just before the door closed. Opening the door, he nodded his thanks to the other three occupants of the elevator, and waited for the descent to the lobby.
Reaching the lobby with no further incident, he made his way outside, hailing a cab with one hand stretched upwards and whistling loudly. Seeing a cab about to pass, he rushed to the curb waving his hand in an effort to draw the driver’s attention. The driver, noticing his antics, pulled over and collected his passenger.
“Where to, pal?” the cabby asked.
“That parking garage over there,” Screech pointed.
“That it? How ‘bout I take you home.” Noting Screech’s shaking head, he shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Pulling the cab over to the left side of the street, the driver glanced at his meter, noting sadly that the total wouldn’t be much over a dollar, meaning little or no tip. Making the turn and stopping just short of entering the garage, he stopped and looked back at Screech, who was already on his way out of the door.
“What do I owe you?” Screech asked into the open driver’s side window.
“Looks like about $1.13.”
Screech handed the driver a five, then turned to leave.
“What about your change?” the driver called after him. Screech merely waved. The cab driver shrugged and started to pull out of the garage entrance, only to have his way blocked by another car. Pounding his steering wheel in frustration, the cabby pulled into the parking garage and began to approach the exit, observing it would cost him $1.50 to get out of the garage. Paying the charge, he pulled out onto the street.
Screech began heading up the stairs to the third level, where he usually parked. He found there weren’t as many people willing to go up three flights of stairs to get their cars, so he was able to park in nearly the same place every day. Reaching the second level, he noted that he was quite out of breath—more so than usual.
He reached the top of the stairs, and headed towards his car. Reaching the driver’s side, he fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and then for the correct key for the door. Opening the door, he dropped heavily into the seat, throwing his coat onto the passenger’s seat. Closing the door, he started the engine and pulled out of the parking spot, heading down towards the exit.
Frank sat down at the computer, looking in disbelief at the napkin he held in his hand. Starting up his e-mail program, he entered his password and began to compose a new message. Completing it, he pressed the send button and got up to get a drink.
Based on an informal calculation, I've calculated that I will read only about 3000 more books in my lifetime.
Here's the math:
I'm guessing I'll live to be about 80. Since I'm 24, that only leaves me 56 more reading years. If I read one book a week, I'll read about 52 books a year.
That's 52 books x 56 years = 2912 books / year
Since that number seemed low, I rounded up to 3000. That doesn't seem like a whole lot, somehow.
I guess I'd better get reading.