Friday, November 07, 2008

Correspondence

Dear Rob—

I think you may have mistakenly grabbed one of my pens. The black one. Would you please return it to me here in my office as soon as possible? I know it’s just a pen, but it has enormous sentimental value to me.

I have a meeting in an hour and need to take notes.

Thanks!
Jim


Jim

A meeting! Good for you! Get back up on the horse, man!

Sadly, I don’t have your pen. I only write using blue ink pens. Black ink is far too harsh for me. Have you looked all over your office? Perhaps underneath one of those stacks of books?

Good luck!
Rob


Rob,
I’ve had that pen for years. Last time I saw it, you had asked to borrow it to write yourself a note to pick up one of your anti-psychotic meds at the pharmacy. You were standing in my doorway, while we discussed your shrewd plan to “monetize” your back catalog of Frankenberry cereal boxes.

Maybe you put it in your sweater vest pocket by accident?

No harm, no foul! But I’d like it back as quickly as you can roll yourself down here.

Thanks.
Jim


Jim,
Ah, yes, that fateful conversation where you slyly chided and aloofly criticized my boyhood collecting proclivities. You know, you really should come up to the house sometime and see all the improvements my “psychotic need to hoard” has achieved after my numerous and insanely successful ebay sales. You could stay for the weekend in the new east wing of the main house.

As to your pen. My only guess is that it may be hiding under one of those teetering towers of paper, books and clutter on your desk.

“Look to thine own house.”

Rob


Rob—
“Look to thine own house”?
Um…
What?
Is that scripture you are trying to quote? I’m sorry, it’s quite difficult to type as I’m laughing so hard at the notion of you over there in your office, scouring sacred and religious texts for an applicable quote. It occurs to me that only you would be so crass and bold as to try and cover your tracks with a divinely inspired quote. Especially since that “incident” with the collection plate at First Presbyterian all those years ago.

Thanks for the comedy, Rob. You crack me up. I needed that.

But if you could simply take a moment to look in your desk drawers for my beloved pen. It’s engraved with my name on the barrel in bold letters and the line “Thanks for all your hard work! —Bill Clinton”. Maybe it slipped down into the drawer where you keep your not-so-secret stash of Stolichnaya?
Jim


J.
As I have explained to you (and the authorities) many times, my hand accidentally jarred the collection plate, knocking it over. It was a simple mistake. Any monies that incidentally landed in the folds of my coat were promptly returned to the rectory. Your clumsy attempt at repartee leaves me feeling even more sorry for you. I had not previously thought that possible.

You are quite welcome for the giggles. I’m sure levity must be in short supply in your life these days, since Rita left the state with her yoga instructor last April. We got a card from her the other day, by the way. She and Haji seem to be doing quite well. She’s pregnant now, had you heard? I guess it wasn’t she who was the infertile one as you had always posited.

I can absolutely understand your continuing reluctance to search your office for your woe begotten pen. The smell alone from the southeast corner is enough to gag even the hardiest of souls. Maybe you should call the Health Department and ask them to send over a team to evacuate the more fetid crevices before you begin a search in earnest?

Ah yes, my “secret stash.” How funny you should bring that up, given all the rumors I’ve heard of late about how your last “sabbatical” wasn’t spent over at the Sorbonne doing “research,” but was at the Promises Rehab facility. I hear they do good work. Shame it didn’t take in your case.

R.


Rob.

I am tired of these games.

You have my pen. I saw you using it as one half of a set of chopsticks in the company cafeteria, while you gluttonously slurped down your Thai noodles last Tuesday.

And my heavens man, they have napkins there! You should look into using those instead of your left sleeve after you shovel food into that gaping maw of yours.

I am sorry it has come to this, but have my pen back to me by the top of the hour, or I’m calling Security. I wonder if they also might be interested in your extra-curricular accounting practices?

Jim


J.

Well, congratulations, James, you have sunk to a new low. I hadn’t thought that possible in this liftime. But you have stretched your wings far and wide in order to glide down to this abysmal low. Petty blackmail threats for what amounts to a useless trinket from a womanizing amoral adulterer.

Did you know that everyone who gave even $5 to the re-election campaign got one of those trinkets you are currently obsessing over?

And, as I recall during my ever so brief encounter with your obscenely treasured pen, it didn’t write smoothly at all. I can’t for the life of me see why you hold it in such esteem. My normal flowing script was reduced to a shaky line that resembled an epileptic’s EEG or perhaps your scrawl after one of your late night benders.

R.


Robert:

FOR THE LAST TIME, DO NOT CALL ME “JAMES.”

That represents my father and I think of it as my “slave” name.

I expect my pen to back in my hands at the end of the day.

Security is on speed dial.

J.


James.

Your “slave” name. Now I’m having trouble typing again as the waves of laughter cascade over me.

You do remember that you are as white as a lily and born and bred of old WASP-y New England money, don’t you? Surely, your personal delusions haven’t carried you that far down the road to madness, have they?

Rob


Rob.

You should be hearing the bootfalls of Security outside your office door any moment now.

I hope the mace they use on you doesn’t stain your clothes. Though obviously your dry cleaner is a miracle worker, given your horrid grooming habits and poor hand-eye coordination at meal times.

Jim


James:

Good News!

I believe I have found your pen!

It was in the possession of a local transient named “Gilly.” Gilly, though I’m loathe to judge another human being harshly, doesn’t appear to be the most wholesome creature walking the streets these days. It also seems that he’s wiped the pen off as best he could with good old fashioned “spit and polish.” Au natural as it were. And, notwithstanding the difficultly in understanding his rambling mutterings, it’s also possible he believes himself to be a medical professional of some sort and was convinced your pen was a rectal thermometer. You’ll have to check to be sure on that score, though; I think he’s quite mad. Also, don’t be alarmed, he’s kept the pen quite safe and tucked into the folds of his mountainous flaps of sweaty skin.

He should be delivering it in person to your office post-haste.

Good luck at your meeting!

Rob

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