Dispatch (26 page)

What of that? I wondered. We had a talent, a gift, a curse or whatever it was, and it had landed us here in this segregated world of our own. But what was our purpose? Were we the champions of those who couldn't write ... or their tormentors? Were we here to help or hinder? Whose agenda were we furthering with our words?

I didn't know, and the truth was, I didn't really care. Despite all of my qualms, I was doing what I loved to do, what I was born to do. Some of my letters might be hurting people, ending relationships, causing misery—but I didn't care. I never had before, and I still didn't now. Even the fatigue and boredom that sometimes set in after endless days and weeks of the same routine came and went, ebbing and flowing, alternating with the joy and excitement of writing what I loved. I recalled those periods after intense activity where I would stay away from letter writing entirely, and assumed that the same pattern was reasserting itself here.

I wrote to a woman whose son had been in the army and killed on a peacekeeping mission, and pretended to be a friend from his platoon:

Dear Mrs. Simmons,

I was with Josh when he was killed, and I just wanted you to know that he died a painful, horrible death. He died cursing you. I don't know what the official line was or what the brass told you, but the truth is that Josh cried like a pussy and pissed himself, shitting in his pants and yelling that he never wanted to join the military, that it was all your fault he was there. You filled his head with all that gung ho patriotic bullshit. With his dying breath, he said, "Fuck my mom! Fuck that whore! Fuck that bitch!" He hated you at the end.

I just thought you should know.

Josh would want you to know.

I knew that old Mrs. Simmons would feel guilty for the rest of her life, would live out her remaining days in emotional agony, believing that she was a horrible person and responsible for her son's death, but I liked that. I felt the same rush of power that I had first felt when fighting city hall so many years ago. I realized that for all my introspection and attempts at self-improvement, I was the same dark person I had always been. Letter writing brought out the worst in me, and here not only was I allowed to indulge myself to the fullest extent; such extremism was encouraged.

My letters were either formal and cutting in their complaints, or nasty and angry and full of rage.

It was what I wrote.

It was who I was.
 

I accepted a free condominium from the company.

There was a new housing project roughly adjacent to the office building where we worked, in a previously undeveloped area of Brea, a gated neighborhood owned by the company, and one by one my friends and fellow coworkers had been uprooting themselves and moving there, taking advantage of the offer so generously offered by our employer. I finally succumbed, too, and though I did not sell or rent out my house as did so many others, I did pull up stakes and with the help of Stan, Shamus and Fischer transported all of my belongings to my new, smaller digs.

The condo was nice. Airy, well lit, with high ceilings and an efficiency kitchen suited to my bachelor's cooking skills, it was perfect for me. As with my office, it seemed to have been designed with my needs in mind, specifically tailored for me personally, and I found that a little unnerving.

I took from home only the items that were unequivocally mine. A lot of Eric's things I'd shipped over to him the week after he and Vicki had left, but bed, dresser and remaining possessions I left in place, along with everything of Vicki's and those things we had bought together that I thought might have some sentimental value to her. It was a calculated move on my part, an attempt to play her, and I sent her a letter—or, rather, sent one to her lawyers—explaining that I had vacated the house. If the divorce went through, she would probably get it anyway, and I figured if she knew I was gone and it was available, she might move back in.

That's the real reason I moved.

I wanted her in California. I wanted her and Eric close by.

For two weeks after, I phoned my lawyers every day, trying to find out if Vicki had responded, if there'd been any indication she intended to move back. It was only a matter of time, I reasoned. Her life was here, her friends were here, and her parents had to be getting on her nerves by now. But there was nothing. Stone silence from her end, and finally Lou Stevens, the lawyer handling the bulk of my affairs, told me to stop calling.

I did.

But I didn't stop writing letters. I had no idea if they were getting to her, but I assumed they did, and while Vicki might not be reading them, at least she wasn't sending them back.

I considered that a good sign.

To my surprise and somewhat to my consternation, I enjoyed life in my new gated neighborhood. I liked my little condo, and I liked living near my friends. We were like our own small city, a community of Letter Writers, and as much as I hated to admit it, it felt good; it felt comfortable; it felt right.

Stan, of course, grumbled all the way. He was one of the first to jump at the free housing offer, but as usual he saw conspiracies around every corner, ascribed malicious motives to everything the company did, no matter how seemingly benign or altruistic.

There was one weird thing, though. I had a small white bookcase, three to four feet high, that I'd bought in college and that had been with me ever since. I kept it in my office next to my computer desk.

Only when I brought it to the condo, when I unpacked it from the U-Haul, it was no longer white but a dark simulated wood. I asked Stan, asked Fischer, asked Shamus, if any of them had seen my white bookcase or if any of them knew where this dark one had come from. None of them had.

I put the bookcase in my new office next to my computer desk, unboxed my books and placed them back in it. As with the color of my car and several other small discrepancies I occasionally came across, I put this occurrence out of my mind, chose not to think about it.

But I remembered it later.
 

I got a letter from Kyoko.

Though she was listed as an element in Vicki's divorce petition, I'd almost forgotten about my former pen pal in the hubbub surrounding my new job and my new home. She hadn't written since Vicki and I had separated—in a strange way, it seemed almost as though that had been her goal, and upon reaching it, she had retired—but now she was asking to get together again. The sex talk was gone; there was only an innocent, chaste inquiry. All she wanted, she said, was to meet me.

But I didn't want to meet her. I didn't even want to write to her. I was too tired. I spent enough time writing during the day. At night, I just wanted to relax and veg out. No, that wasn't exactly true.

I blamed Kyoko for breaking up my marriage.

Yes. That was the real reason I did not write back, the real reason I threw away her letter.

She wrote back a week later, but I didn't even open that one. I threw it away unread. I guess she got the hint, because that was the end of it; that was the last time I heard from her.

I started getting other letters, though.

Dear Jason,

I watched you last night as you ate your dinner. Macaroni and cheese. Was it good? You didn't smile much, so I wasn't sure you enjoyed it. You just kind of stared at TV when you watched it, too. I thought that was a good episode of

Friends
, but you didn't have much reaction.

At least you enjoyed beating off, though. You really went to town! What were you thinking about when you were stroking yourself? I noticed that you held your balls with your left hand while you pulled on your penis with your right. Were you pretending it was someone else doing it? Fantasizing about Vicki, perhaps?

Or me?

I'll find out eventually.

Love,
Your Secret Admirer

* * *

Dear Jason,

Stan and Fischer are so full of shit. And don't even listen to what Shamus or Franco say. Ellen and Beth are the only ones with any sense at all. The rest of you? Who can even tell what you think?

I was listening to you guys talk when you were at Stan's house yesterday. Remember when you looked out the window after you ate that first handful of chips? You were practically staring right at me!

But even though you couldn't see me, I could see you.

You were very cute.

Love,
Your Secret Admirer

* * *

Dear Jason,

I'll bet you miss listening to your own records, tapes and CDs, don't you? Radio plays such crap these days. Why did they take your music collection, I wonder? They didn't take anything of mine. What about your friends, if they really are your friends? I don't think any of their
belongings were excluded. Why are you being picked on? Don't you ever wonder about that?

I do.

I saw you naked again last night. After your shower. You forgot to get a towel and you walked out into the hallway to get one out of the linen closet. You were hard! Had you been playing with yourself in the shower? Maybe you just washed it and got turned on.

Looked pretty good to me!

Maybe one day you'll let me wash it for you.

By the way, what was that song you were humming? Was that "It's Different for Girls?" I love Joe Jackson!

Love,
Your Secret Admirer

* * *

Dear Jason,

Wow! That was quite a dream you had last night! The first part was creepy, with the haunted house and the endless swamp and all. But that second part! When you forced Beth to take it up the ass while Fischer watched? I can tell you, I was certainly aroused. My panties smelled like a trout farm after that one!

I had a dream, too. And you were in it. You were naked, of course, but it wasn't really a sex dream, at least not like the kind I usually have. Instead, you just lived in my house and did chores for me: dishes, laundry, dusting, sweeping, vacuuming. Weird, huh?

When I checked your refrigerator yesterday, I noticed that you were getting low on milk. You really like milk, don't you? A lot of men do. A lot of women don't, though. I think it's because women have tits and milk comes from tits and it's just sort of gross.

One time I had a dream where you milked me like a cow while you took me from behind.

I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?

Oh, yeah, you need some butter, too. And luncheon meat.

Love,
Your Secret Admirer

Receiving anonymous letters was just as unsettling as ever, and though they were now coming twice a week on a regular basis, I told no one about them. Not even Stan. It could have been anyone writing them, and until I found out for sure, everyone was a potential suspect.

It certainly appeared to be a female, though.

Could it be Ellen, Beth or our newest disgruntled employee, Kerri? I didn't think so. I had no real idea who it might be, however, not even any educated guesses, and that bothered me.

There was an old movie I saw on TV when I was a kid where two girls, as a joke, randomly called people on the phone and said something like "I saw what you did and I know who you are." It freaked the people out. Eventually, the girls called a guy who'd just murdered someone and he thought they were witnesses to the deed and hunted them down.

I could understand now why the recipients of the calls would get so upset. It didn't have to be anything specifically threatening; just an inappropriately intimate knowledge of everyday behavior was enough to make a person paranoid. At work, at home, everywhere I went, I found myself searching the perimeter of each space for a pair of unfamiliar eyes secretively following my every move. I watched everyone I met, trying to determine whether they were paying a little too close attention to me. I felt alone no matter how big a crowd I was in, and never felt as though I was truly by myself even if there appeared to be no one around.

While I didn't tell him specifically about the letters I'd received, I did ask Henry about the mail in general. I'd never seen a postman in our gated community, but I'd started to receive mail, including answers to complaint letters that I'd sent out.

"Yes," he said, "the postal system is in tip-top condition." He laughed. "It has to be with the paces we put it through, don't you think?"

I nodded, smiled.

"We don't have regular delivery, as you've obviously guessed. The company filters out what's unimportant. There's no junk mail or anything generic. But we do have specialized delivery for responses to queries or complaints and, of course, magazines and periodicals. You won't get mail every day, but each time something comes in for you, it will instantly be delivered to your home."

I opted not to open that day's anonymous letter when I arrived home after work. I recognized the type style on the envelope, and as I used to do in the real world, I tore it up and threw it away unopened. As always, this little act of independence made me feel invigorated, and I walked into the kitchen to heat up my dinner of frozen pizza, happy.

It had been a long day. I'd attempted, through letters, to avenge the killing of a Korean teenager by a Russian shopkeeper, and it had taken a lot out of me. Neither party was particularly proficient in English, and it was difficult to adjust my writing so it read as though it had been written by someone who spoke English as a second language. Stan had invited me over to check out the new James Bond flick on Showtime, but I was too tired, and I declined and spent the evening watching reruns and reading
Keyboard
magazine.

Before taking a shower that evening to wash away the dust of the day, I checked my bathroom carefully for holes or cracks through which someone could peek. I made sure the window was closed, and even peered around the edges of the inset circular light in the center of the room to ensure that no hidden camera had been placed in there.

Then I took a quick shower, wrapping a towel around me immediately after shutting off the water and then slipping my underwear on beneath the towel.

Goddamn that Letter Writer.

Now I knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of our correspondence.