Hey Finster, it’s Jack. Where are you? I only ask because I went by Lucy’s yesterday and watched- did you know that she only gets public television? What’s the point of even having a television if all you can watch are cooking shows and second rate Brit-coms?
Regardless, she was taking a shower and I was waiting so I sat and watched a program about a woman with some sort of mental illness that prohibited her from leaving her home. It was revolting, honestly, just thinking about it now makes me dizzy. She had a dozen cats and looked as if she hadn’t washed her hair in as many years. I thought to myself: This could be Irene someday. It worried me, pet, it really did. I’d hate to think of you living in a cruddy little shack, wearing stretch pants and oversized T-shirts, reading books about the mysteries of the bible. The first step to madness is not a step at all, you know, it’s hesitation. If you can’t ignore your own internal imperative, you’re really no better than a monkey.
This isn’t… It’s not all in fun. It’s been quite a few weeks now- months. People ask after you, I don’t know what to tell them. We were expecting you at Cindy’s party, not to mention Kelsea’s opening at the Richlieu. No one hears from you. You can pick up a phone. You can feel sorry for yourself and talk on the phone at the same time, you’re at least that clever. Maybe you aren’t, maybe I’ve deluded myself all these years. I don’t have time for this, I really don’t.
Pick up, Ingrid, I know you’re home. Have at least the etiquette to pick up the phone. Everyone thinks that I’ve somehow deterred you from seeing them or that I’ve sent you into a terrible depression. That’s not the case, is it? Well, fuck-all if it is. Grow up, why don’t you? What am I to say to these people? They see us as a couple, don’t you understand that? They’re only just getting used to the idea that we’ve split up. When they see me, they think of you. If you aren’t there, they ask. I’ve been telling people that you’re sick, that’s how low I’ve sunk. Soon it will have to be cancer, I don’t know what else to say.
I understand if you’re angry with me. That’s understandable, I’m a genuine asshole, you have every right to hate me. But you know I don’t go out alone. And when I go out with someone, they don’t deserve to spend the whole of the night nodding and smiling politely while all of our friends take turns hurling veiled accusations at me. You know how much I hate answering machines. Pick up the damned phone, Ingrid. I deserve more than this from you. All I’ve done for you, all of the money- I never asked for a dime back, not once. I spent the prime of my youth with you and this is how you fucking repay me, you make me talk to a machine. This is beyond the pale. I almost hope you do have cancer, because at least then you won’t make a liar of me. Clearly I’m wasting my time.
…If you really are sick, I’m sorry. Call me back. Bye. I love you.
Your message has been delivered.
next letter
previous letter
the mercy killings
return to the last car