The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg (4 page)

Day Two:
Transcript 4

Authenticity is what I wanted. I wanted to live for something. (Of course I had no idea for what, after a failed attempt at a true love affair, my big heroic act, which was actually an illicit adulterous affair, which ended my sad marriage.) I mean . . .That's what I want for my kids. Authenticity. I lived forever to be alive . . . just to stay living, but not for anything . . . ate food just to . . . eat.

Yes, I did just get dizzy.

Pale?

I'm not a big fan of . . . and talking about it . . . That was a terrible accident, you know? My arm hurts in this stupid cast.

I'm tired, Barry. I'd like to stop.

Day Three:
Transcript 1

Yes, good morning.

Chipper? I am feeling better today—not so achy.

Only until ten. Shit . . . shoot. That's disappointing. I enjoy your company.

I really do.

I'm not normally such a sad schlump. Sorry about that.

No, no, no. No problem . . . I can read this afternoon while you're out.

You feel guilty? Did you have a Jewish parent, too?

Yeah, I'm funny. I'll do my best to be concise.

I knew the money was real when I quit my job. I wasn't risking anything when I quit.

I'd taken the check to the Wells Fargo branch in the neighborhood. I thought the check was fake, probably . . . I mean come on, you know? But . . . thought I should make sure. Then it wasn't fake, because the teller made a phone call and her eyeballs blew up and she took it, deposited it, and asked me about my other accounts, then she sent me to a cube in the corner, to the personal banker at the branch, Hector, who smiled across his whole bald head and shook my hand really hard. And then Hector insisted I make an appointment with a “wealth manager” in an office downtown, Linda, which I did from Hector's phone, and then I took the bus and took a fast elevator up to the twenty-third floor and walked into this—this office in a skyscraper down there and . . . Linda was so chipper. It was a lot of money. People don't have bank checks for that kind of money, except me, apparently. And I was fine with getting her help, too, you know, even if I don't necessarily like what Linda's about.

Oh. Well, I suppose I don't know what she's about. Linda has been great to me, really. She got an accountant set up. And I want to preserve as much as possible for the kids. Grow it for the kids. Linda helped me make trusts . . .

Protecting my kids. Those are big trusts, Barry. My kids have more money . . . not that money will protect them . . . Well, it sort of will. On one hand, anyway. Money goes a long way in this world. Huge insecurity for me . . . growing up . . . was fear of being poor . . . though we weren't that poor, I found out. My mother didn't tell the truth about money from Dad . . . I don't want to talk about Mom. My kids will not fear for their material security. This is the only way I can help them.

Letter 7
August 26, 2004

Dear Mom,

If you know about my death, if you're even cognizant, it isn't your fault. Okay? I mean, you did good work with not much in the way of resource. You made a decent home out of nothing. And look how David turned out. He sure is one of life's big winners, don't you think? That cat can really earn cash. And his wife is hot. You didn't have anything to do with me dying, Mom. You were David's mom, too, and he's great and his wife smells like expensive lotions. It just isn't your fault I'm dead.

Well, I kind of take that back.

In a sense it is your fault. Biology. Genetics.

I think I've read that depression is ninety percent inspiration and ten percent perspiration. And while I have perspired—yes, I fed the fire for years, muscles straining, mind trolling for the darker meaning up the silver clouds—I can't be blamed for the inspiration, can I? That's on you. I have to blame you for my biology. You did inspire me, breathed life into me, gave me my chemicals and my brain configuration and my combustible hardwiring, etc. For my biology, I must place responsibility squarely on your shoulders (and on Dad's—we can't forget).

But something else . . . you couldn't have known. You couldn't have thought straight about reproducing your own vulnerable infrastructure back in the sixties. You probably thought being blue was a personal problem. And, so, it was a thoughtless act, making me—thoughtless, because you couldn't have thought, “I don't want to make a sad child.” You shouldn't blame yourself. I'm not going to blame you for anything. Biology is out of your control. So okay? Don't blame yourself, Mom.

And . . .

Do you remember Martha's Vineyard? You rented me a three-speed to use around the campground. But one day I biked out of there without letting you or David know. I was 13. And I biked along that busy country road, past the gray million-dollar clapboard homes, through the sea air, until I hit the quaint town there and pulled between parked sports cars to this ice cream shop and parked the yellow bike and bought a strawberry cheesecake ice cream on a waffle cone. Christ, was that good ice cream. Makes my mouth water thinking about it . . . There were so many opulent automobiles running slow down the central street of the little town: Beemers, Mercedes, Jags. Holy Christ. I have no idea what we were doing in Martha's Vineyard, except you had Kennedy fantasies, loved John F. Kennedy, who is also dead, by the way, and was then. And I felt like such a chump in all that wealth, us camping out at the crappy campground, driving cross-country in a Chevrolet Chevette (with which we pulled a camper? How?). Then I saw you drive down the town's main strip, your face white and blotched. You looked like an antelope with lions circling, just so scared, apparently for my sake. And when you drove past the other direction, I called out, “Mom.” And you slammed on the brakes so some Richie Rich had to skid on his scooter not to hit you. And you jumped out of the Chevy in the middle of that busy street with all those Beemers and Mercedes honking at you and ran to me and hugged me, and Mom, I felt mortified and in love to see you and so rich to be cared about like that. I know you tried your best.

So, don't worry about it, you know? Don't blame yourself for this, if you're even cognizant. I existed because of you, and the good parts of my existence were because of you. I'm dead for other reasons. Be well. I love you. Charlie, Kara, and Sylvie love you, too.

Your son,

T.

Day Three:
Transcript 2

Tick tock. Getting to ten. What do you want to know, Barry?

What?

I couldn't be with my kids. That's a different story.

No. No kids and I had money so I didn't have to go to work. Why not just die?

No family. No work. Should I watch cartoons and drink beer? Have some more nightmares so I'm awake for three a.m. infomercials about exercise equipment? That's a lonely—that's a lonely place . . . Should I think about Chelsea's long . . . her smile, her eyes . . . all gone? Why not cash it in?

I had the affair with Chelsea.

I told you I couldn't see the kids.

I really don't want to talk about it.

Mary wouldn't let me see the kids without her being there. Okay? Just . . . because.

Fine. Early in August Mary stopped by to drop off the kids—their Saturday with Dad! And I was completely wasted . . . It was ten a.m. I wanted to have one drink . . . to relax so I could enjoy being with them. I had maybe a hundred beers and Mary was extremely furious . . . about me being . . . and she worked with the lawyer . . . So, no kids. No more kids.

Listen. I know it's not . . . I think I have to . . . I'm going to grab a cup of . . . I have to run. You go to your meeting, Barry.

Things changed, yes. In the next day or so. Everything.

Letter 8
August 26, 2004

Dear Mary,

Listen. There's going to be a lot of talk. Who did what to whom, etc. Just to set the record straight, Mary (Mary . . . Mary . . . Do you know I love your name? I do. It is so solid. It is to be counted on. I love you.): I did it to you. I was the cause.

There is nothing you could've done to save us. Not paid me more attention. Not given me wider range to explore. You are the good one. I am the bad. And, you were right to kick me out. And . . . AND, you are not the cause of my death (though my inability to be a good husband and good father are parts of the calculation).

Feel free to photocopy this and send it to anybody who knows us.

Today, on the twenty-sixth day of August, in the year two thousand and four, I, T. Rimberg, say to you all, heareth this: My Sweet Wife Mary (divorced so not widowed) Has No Blame In My Death, Which Was Done Unto Me By Mine Own Hand, Thank You.

Yours truly,

T. Rimberg

Letter 9
August 26, 2004

Dear Mary,

I'm not bitter. If you ever get my other letter, I want you to know I am not bitter even though I said that Divorced So Not Widowed thing. And I would want you to be my widow. Not just my former wife. Oh Jesus. If I hadn't been such a fuck-up. I am a fuck-up, Mary. I got so lucky to find you and then fucked it all up . . . I fucked everything up.

I'm so sorry.

I do love you,

T.

Day Four:
Transcript 1

I had pancakes today for breakfast. I love Mrs. Butterworth. Is it even syrup? I don't know. It glistened in the sun.

Yes. A little will and testament in the journal. Here:

Item: The Chicken Dance is to be played at the funeral. Everyone in attendance is required to dance the Chicken Dance.

You know the Chicken Dance?

Of course. Green Bay weddings!

Item: My skull is to be cut in two, the top part polished a shiny white and used to serve mixed nuts on Super Bowl Sunday.

That's disgusting. No, I know.

I was ready to commit suicide on August 28, I think . . . I really thought so on August 27, before I had too much beer. But I had this dream that night, or in the morning. This dream was so real . . . I'd gotten into that apartment building and the war noise outside . . . I took the elevator . . . that little girl standing next to me, holding my hand . . . and I went up and into an apartment on the fifth floor—we both did, me and that little girl—and my dad was in the apartment standing at the window looking out at Nazis marching on the street. And he was laughing . . . me and the girl standing next to him . . . He was just . . . crazy . . . ha ha ha ha . . . just dying at all this . . . troop movement, and violence. The Nazis were marching deportees—Jews with the Star of David sewn on their clothes, who were trying to carry huge suitcases and their kids were trailing along behind . . . tripping on dropped bags, skinning their knees and legs, dragged up to their feet by guards . . . And my dad's laugh rang out (now that I think about it, it was probably my grandfather, not my dad—but I wouldn't have recognized that guy), and I screamed, No! What are you doing? No! and then I woke up, this scream in my throat, heart exploding, the walls and ceiling collapsing in.

I jumped out of the bed and there was some light in my mom's room, some morning light . . . I was still in my clothes from the night before . . . the walls were coming down . . . I ran out of the house . . . It was five a.m.

For a long time people I love . . . just atrophy. Mom going away. And I lost Chelsea and Mary and my children. College friends—gone. And before that my dad and with my dad—all the family I might have known from him . . . My brother . . . I was completely alone. But, because I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn . . .

Yes. I met Cranberry.

Letter 10
August 28, 2004

Dear Mrs. Carter,

I have a new friend named Cranberry and he thinks you suck. He should know—he finished high school a few months ago. He had a good English teacher who helped him plenty. Cranberry said you totally suck, Mrs. Carter. If you're still alive, I hope this letter finds you well, at least well enough to read, so you know how much me and Cranberry think you suck.

How does a high school English teacher grade a poem based on whether it rhymes or not? Have you ever heard of free verse, Mrs. Carter? It got popular among poets in 1920, maybe? That's right, FREE VERSE! You totally suck.

I thought my poems kicked ass when I was in high school. I'd write a poem and then jump up and down and pump my fist and shout out the window, “Fuckin A, you fuckers. Check this fucker out.” And I thought, while I was writing them, I'd like to be a professional poetry writer. I'd jump around some more, tearing New Order posters off my bedroom wall. I thought, no matter how bad I hate my fuckface brother and my fuckface dad who disappeared, it doesn't matter as long as I have my poetry. I filled notebook after notebook with rocket fire word. And then you gave me a C and told me my poems were not very good, because they didn't rhyme. And then I sat in my basement for two months smoking weed, listening to the saddest music of all time, until my mom told me my b.o. was making her dry heave, which was eye-opening—I couldn't smell anything. And then I said fuck that noise, fuck everything.

I'm not a poetry writer anymore, Mrs. Carter. I sold my dick to the man, Mrs. Carter. I went to work at a large financial services company after college, where I still worked until a few weeks ago. And it was good times. During staff meetings I would think about overdosing on drugs or sometimes about sex, but mostly about overdosing on drugs. For years I sat there with the fluorescent lights burning a hole through my hair, staring at a computer. Then, a few weeks ago, during a staff meeting, I couldn't help it, I took off all my clothes, screamed and jumped around like a monkey on crack. I don't work there anymore. Maybe I'll write poetry. Thanks for your help.

Cranberry got kicked out of his house. Cranberry is a poet. I know he is and I'd give him an A, Mrs. Carter, even though he doesn't rhyme his shit. Cranberry is about imagination and intensity. I thought he was going to mug me when he accosted me early this morning, carrying a wad of balled-up notebook paper. I almost ran away from him, because he ran at me on the corner of Nicollet and 26th, shouting, “Hey you—Mister . . . wait,” and I didn't know him and it was sort of dark still and his eyes were wild and red and he was sweating and he has a big mohawk, Mrs. Carter. He would mug you without thinking twice. I would, too. You suck so terribly, you poetry killer.

Cranberry got kicked out of his house yesterday. His mom has his CDs, Mrs. Carter. She also sucks. Do you know why she kicked him out of his house? He stopped obeying the house rules, which I told him was fair . . . he's nineteen. Do you know why he stopped obeying the house rules, Mrs. Carter? Cranberry loves his friends, especially one, who he told me is fat and sweet and smells like perfect sweet armpit and is on drugs and she makes Cranberry's young heart explode, because she is so desperate and sad and self-destructive.

Cranberry tried to help this friend. He stayed with her for a week, washing her fat and beautiful face with a washcloth, bringing her 20-ounce Sprites and roast beef sub sandwiches, buying her comic books at the store down the street—he stayed with her for a week without telling his mother, and remember his mother sucks. (So do you.) Then, while he was out buying the fat drug girl a Sprite a couple of evenings ago, she escaped her apartment, ran away.

Upon his return, Cranberry wandered through the apartment looking for the girl under beds, though he knew she could not fit there, and in closets. But she was gone. He stayed in her apartment waiting for her to come back, sitting on the couch made moist from her sweat and his tears, the sun setting. It tore him apart and she didn't come back, so he went home to his mother's, yesterday, and his mother kicked his ass right back out, because he hadn't called to tell her where he was. His mother has his CDs, Mrs. Carter. He slept in a park last night without his CDs. Do you know how Cranberry suffers?

You might remember my brother, David, Mrs. Carter. He never suffered. He had you for tenth-grade English a couple of years before I did. You gave him an A on his poetry. He rhymed
nose
with
toes
and
chose
and wrote about a rose and shows and waxed lyrically about the Black Crows, and apparently that shit blows you away. But I know the truth. David's poetry simply blows, as do you, you sucky old bitch. David is a lawyer now. He's unhappy and hates his pretty wife. Are you unhappy, Mrs. Carter? I should hope so.

Who doesn't suck? Cranberry. Cranberry has great panache. After he accosted me and read a poem instead of mugging me, a poem for which I paid him fifty dollars, a poem that detailed his fall from grace in beautiful symbolic language, I invited him to my house. He napped on my couch while I watched Montel, and he woke up crying for his fat friend on drugs, worried so much about her, his face green with fear, which broke my heart. He tried to call her. We drove by her apartment and she wasn't there. We could not find her, which made Cranberry dry heave like my mother when I smelled so bad back in high school.

We returned to my apartment and Cranberry wanted pizza. We ordered a wonderful pizza from Fat Lorenzo's, a sausage one. The pizza didn't ever come. Cranberry, instead of calling back the pizza place, called 911. They wouldn't help us, even though our hunger was mounting. Cranberry called 911 again and again and again and again, screaming at the dispatcher about injustice. “No peace, no justice,” he screamed (while I laughed and laughed). Eventually the dispatcher sent the police. Cranberry received a citation for unlawful use of the emergency system. I received a disorderly conduct citation for telling the cop he would die, which is true—it wasn't a threat, just a fact, Mrs. Carter. That cop will die. The cop didn't like my saying so—in fact he was really bent out of shape about it, told me to shut my goddamn trap, and then he booked us both. Luckily, me and Cranberry were especially polite at the station and there were no hard feelings. I paid our fines and everything's cool. On the way home we stopped by Fat Lorenzo's and ate a beautiful pizza.

Now we're sharing a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and we're both crying about life's terrible beauty.

That's good stuff, don't you think? Life as poetry.

But you couldn't know. You are a killer of good spirits. And you don't know shit about poetry.

Have I told you my wife left me? She took our kids. I'm glad she did, because I'd boinked another woman. My wife never knew about that, but she knew something real: T. Rimberg, who is me, is a gutless, soulless, middle-class fuckface. Who wants to be married to me? Answer: nobody. I had no poetry in my life. You took it away.

But now that I have Cranberry, I am a new man. Cranberry will be my administrative assistant. Cranberry will be my head of Research and Development. Cranberry will comb the cul-de-sacs of the Internet for the perfect contraption that will put me out of my misery. He understands me. He knows what I need to do.

I am going to die. No, not from cancer in 2017, but by my own hand and soon and it will be beautiful. And just before Cranberry revs up whatever death contraption he finds in his research, I will write a beautiful rhyming poem with red Sharpie across my right thigh. It will say:

O' the verdant valleys of my tender youth
O'er run by jack-o-lanterns' spilt seeds of mistruth!
Then pack-ed was my craw with sweet burning pot
So high, a balloon, so empty I got.
And thus I shall shuck off my coil mortal
And slide like greas-ed owl poop through portals
Of deadly poesies and shit spun muck.
Do you hear me Mrs. Carter?
(Please hear me!) You suck.

How you like them rhymes? I hate them. I hate myself. I hate you.

Hope this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,

T. Rimberg