Dear Becky,
I don't know if you got the letter I hand wrote, cried on, lightly dusted with my cologne (the one you said you wanted to smell for ever and ever), folded tightly, and squeezed into your bedroom through the window that is painted open approximately a quarter of an inch that you are constantly trying to seal up with old stockings and electrical tape. So I thought I would follow up with an email just to make sure you know what is on my mind. I want you to know that I'm really upset you ditched me in the middle of our date.
I know I'm not the most good looking, caring, richest, most cleaver, best smelling, well dressed, talented, charming, successful in anyway, spiritual, kind, generous, playful, mature, sexy, tall, strong, well groomed, and gracious man in town. But I think I deserve better then to be treated like that. If you only knew how I felt on the inside right now, you would break down and cry. Possibly on your little sisters bed. You know, the sister with like a thousand stuffed animals and that tired poster of Joey Fatone right above the headboard. You would probably end up in the fetal position and everytime a tear hit the her mauve colored sheets you would kick one of the animals in the groin region, sending it flying into the pink and white shag carpet she begged and begged your father for until he bought it just so he wouldn't have to listen to her whine about it anymore, even though at that time your family was on a limited budget and he was collecting unemployment but was so ashamed by the loss of his job and possibly his career due to industry changes every day he would just go for a really long breakfast at Dee's Family Restaurant but only order coffee which normally waitresses can't stand but this one imparticular had an attraction for men who looked depressed and wore, as she put it "A mustache like a movie star."
No one at that diner knew what she meant by that and some of her co-workers claimed she had one of the most extensive collections of Classic movies ever heard of. Almost to the point where she could put MGM's vault to shame. But I'm sure that was just a rumor. So there your father was sulking in his own self pitty and staring at reflections in the rich black coffee. He liked it black, no cream, but lots of sugar and it was always a habit for him to order it and then immediately after in a quiet and soft voice, he would say to himself "Yeah, just like I like my women" but it was always loud enough that everyone including any table adjacent to him would hear. Your family dinners out must have been embarrassing and or uncomfortable at times I'm sure. Especially since everyone in that small of a town knew he was a closet racist and some how there was always the educated and well dressed black family sitting in a booth nearby and he never noticed until it was too late.
But It wasn't his fault really, he just developed a distaste for black people from the experiences he went through. Or maybe it was his fault. It all started with him refusing to forgive Jimmy. Yes Jimmy, a good man, a decent and kind man, a black man. I mean, sure he could have forgiven Jimmy, but he just wouldn't let it go and now for some reason he thinks the color of his skin is to blame. See, Jimmy and your father were best friends all through life up until their senior year of High School. Oh, those were the good ol' days, when gas was cheap, a new Mustang was less then four grand, dippidy doo hair gel and madras shirts were in style, teens were listening to The 5th Dimension and the one thing that never goes out of style and the one thing we should all blame was all the rage, Hormones. That's right, hormones. That's what we should blame. I'm sure you don't want to hear the story again but in my opinion, your father is better off without her. Last time I saw Jimmy he was living in a Red Roof Motel and smoking Parliament Lights. Although I can't blame him, who doesn't like a recessed filter?
So, I guess what I'm trying to tell you is that I miss you and it hurts because you're the only one who made me feel alive and who could also replace my unhealthy addiction to an extensive harpsichord collection. Well, I suppose its just more expensive then it is unhealthy, I mean its not only the pieces themselves but also the enormous storage costs involved. Plus, no one can even believe how many cases of Pledge I go through in a year. Please just call, I want to talk.
With all my Love,
Brad
