Dearest Hannah

Letters of love

[dearesthannahletters]

Going Dutch with a Nickel

Dearest Hannah,

I’ve got a hot air balloon with your name on it. It’s a miniature, I did the “HANNAH” decal myself with duct tape. I’ve been flying it around the house----mother is awfully worried I’m going to set something aflame with the tiny propane fire that buoys the balloon. I told her to relax and that “I got it” and then I set her hair on fire. But it’s fine, she’s fine.

My teeth have been hurting as of late, more than the usual chewing hurt (which is excruciating as you know). I knew it was time to see the dentist when I sneezed and blood came out my eye. Because of a mix-up at the Department of Veteran Affairs my whole family has terrific health insurance through grandpa for the rest of our lives, so I see the best dentist in town: Dr. Onyx Gust, a chillingly white man with calm hands and and dentist chairs that are also fish tanks.

I walked into the waiting room and saw my good friend Rob Gravity, his jaw wired shut. He didn’t seem eager to speak so I explained to him my situation and that I’d probably need my molars pulled. He nodded, still silent. “I’m worried because I don’t have any cash to tip Dr. Gust,” I told Rob. His eyes lit up in an “I’ve got just the thing” manner; he grabbed a pen and paper and wrote “I’ve got just the thing”. Rob reached into the innermost sanctum of his jeans and produced a shiny nickel. He must have been saving it for a special occasion like this----Rob Gravity’s last nickel.

Dr. Gust called me into his office. He looked at my charts and told me that, indeed, I needed massive oral surgery. I grabbed the laughing gas, put it on myself (mother always says I’m a trooper) and passed out.

I woke up sedated, but still with all my molars. I guess the good doctor had made a diagnosis error; I was fine, just had some crud stuck in my teeth. Turns out he’d been looking at Rob Gravity’s charts, he was the one that needed massive oral surgery following his other massive oral surgery.

Rob Gravity gave me his last nickel so I could tip Dr. Gust, but since it was a misfire the doc and I decided to go dutch. He bit that nickel right in half and gave me my share. “Look at that,” he said, “I chipped a tooth.” We had a good laugh.

Sedately,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

The Effervescent Cedar Shingles

Dearest Hannah,

You appear nightly in my dreams. Or knightly, rather. As a knight. It was a little emasculating at first, but I’ve grown to find comfort in your strong touch, in your chainmail pressed against my cheek as I suck my thumb. You carry me like a baby through a blustery tundra and into a river of warm milk. And just as we’re about to finish a Sudoku puzzle, I wake up.

Big news: the most powerful soda magnate in the country is buying up all the soda fountains in town. Every soda fountain at every restaurant, every gas station, every preschool. All of them. The magnate, Cedar Shingles, built his empire during the Soda Boom of yore; he’s become incredibly wealthy from the generation of thirsty Soda Boomers.

He’s been villainized in the Local Newspoppins; Griswold Federman, the political/business/police cartoonist, drew a cartoon of a greedy Mr. Shingles riding a $1,000 bill on a massive wave of bright orange soda. The problem with the new business deal is that the townsfolk are worried that Mr. Shingles will raise prices on the town’s favorite bubbly drinks, like Peppermint Well Water and Refreshing Sand Mist and Coke.

He arrived in town to survey his purchase and immediately called a press conference. I was there with the grumbling townsfolk, all of us crowded around a podium in the town square, and from a stretch Mini Cooper emerged the man himself: Cedar Shingles, a man with a big, bushy white mustache and a suit of crisp blue feathers. The murmurs died down as he came forward and spoke.

“People of this lovely town. I do not wish to be your enemy. Instead, I wish to be your brother. Your confidant. Your Tony Hawk.” A few townsfolk began slowly nodding. He continued, “I’ve lived a blessed life filled to the brim with tasty, sugary, syrupy soda. Soda so fine it would make a colored woman wilt like she was sitting under the the Southern sun without a church bulletin to fan her sweaty face. And, well, I’m not one to be long winded, so..” Mr. Shingles’ cronies wheeled forward big cannons strapped with kegs. “Enjoy the fruit flavorings of my labor!” The cannons burst with ice cold soda, covering the expectant townsfolk head to toe. We all rejoiced and partied late into the night, chanting “Cedar Shingles gives us tingles! Rah, rah, rah!” until we went hoarse.

He may be an old fashioned racist, Hannah, but he’s our old fashioned racist. We’ve accepted Cedar Shingles into the community. Soda is three times the price now, but that cannon bit was so impressive no one seems to care. I only wish that someday you too will know the love Cedar Shingles has for us; that sweet, paternal, capitalist love.

Bubbly,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Slathered in Sauce

Dearest Hannah,

I’d string my tennis racquet with the discarded hair from your brush if only you'd airmail it to me. It’s so coarse and strong you could use it in a truck commercial, your hair tied to the trailer hitch of a Ford F-150 while it tows an airplane. If you ever make a citizen’s arrest, Hannah, you should pull a few strands to use as zip ties.

The heat was sweltering today, and tempers in town were running as hot as the temperature (piping hot). I was pushing Lefty in a shopping cart through a traffic jam when we bumped into a brute of a man. “Woah there, boys!” It was Jonas Bedfellow, he was digging a hole in the street. “I’m going to dig my way out of the traffic jam.” Lefty spritzed himself with a misting fan, “Doesn’t seem very realistic to dig a car-sized hole to drive your way out of this jam.”

“I didn’t get where I am today by swimming with the current,” he leaned on his broken shovel, “hard work pays off.” Jonas is known for rattling off platitudes, sometimes so many and so frequently in one conversation that he’ll get mixed up; he once said to me, “Give a man a fish, he’ll know Rome wasn’t built in a day.” He takes advantage of every opportunity to grab someone’s ear ever since he went through the program and got off the sauce. All the sauces in fact. BBQ, honey mustard, tomato. He’s a better man for it; he was a hopeless addict before he got treatment.

Lefty and I said we needed to get through the traffic jam so we didn’t miss the signing at the bookstore (we take books off the shelves and sign them). Jonas didn’t seem to care and told us a long-winded story about how his “cheeks and fingers used to be sticky with sauces” and he’d go home, kiss his wife, and she would know he’d been at the smokehouse. “But I found that no amount of sweet, tangy, tasty rib sauce could fill the emotional hole inside me. So I cleaned up. With a wet wipe.” A tear trickled down Jonas’s face. Lefty smacked the side of the shopping cart like he was spurring a horse.

Just then, Brogan’s Pork Wheels, the best ribs food truck this side of creation, smashed into the jam of cars and slathered everything with all of Brogan’s sauces. It was a delightful hot mess. Of course, Jonas was frozen with fear, sauce covering his face and mouth. “Don’t swallow, Jonas, it looks like sauce splattered into your mouth. Mmmm! This sauce will buck you right off the wagon,” Lefty licked his fingers.

We left trembling Jonas at the scene, not because we don’t care about his well-being, but because books don’t sign themselves. I’ve attached a signed copy of a classic novel, I’m not sure which one, but I think you’ll find it quite delightful. My signature, that is.

Timely,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

The Temptress Foof

Dearest Hannah,

If we were deep in the cold ocean together, swimming like a two-whale pod, I would nuzzle you with my bristly chin and you would pluck the barnacles from my belly. And we’d migrate south for the winter because whales do that. And we’d argue about ocean politics and tease seals and I’ve been flipping through the encyclopedia looking at marine life all day can you tell?

I was watching the local news this morning because current events are my vice. After the requisite fear mongering and predictions of moral entropy came the weather; but the weather came differently today. Yes, Hannah, the sun still shone through clouds during the humid, blizzardy morning which gave way to violent afternoon thunder-tornadoes followed by the crippling evening dry heat----the weather itself was just like any other day. That’s not what I mean.

What I mean is there’s a new weatherman, she’s a woman. A she-weatherman I guess you’d call her. Her name is Tamara Foof and she speaks in the dulcet tones of a winged siren. She danced hither and thither in front of the green screen pointing at locations and weather patterns with her supple hands----I’ve never seen such a lithe performance from a meteorologist. She signed off with a smile that would make even the youngest babies blush. I don’t want to cause you to be jealous Hannah, but it was magical.  

Later in the day I was standing in line at Hester’s Meat Palace waiting for a french dip sandwich. When I go into Hester’s I eat like a king. Literally. I’m very sloppy and demanding, I cram meat into my mouth and drizzle au jus sauce from a great height. I belch loudly and demand to be entertained, it’s not fun for most people but I enjoy myself.

Someone tapped my shoulder, “Are you in line?” I spun around----it was her. Tamara Foof, dressed to the nines in a crisp pantsuit and a fancy brooch that said ‘Yes, I do dare’. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “Yeah, yep, I, I am in line,” I stammered. “You seem like a sensible young man,” she said, “what kind of meat should I have?” I was stunned.

She wasn’t asking about the sandwiches, she was suggesting intercourse (sexual) with me! It was clear as day. “I’m in love with another woman, Ms. Foof, and her name is Annis. Han. Brannah! And I don’t appreciate what you’re insinuating. I thought you were a respectable woman, but you’re just a harlot with cloud knowledge. I’m going to take my food andmy king routine elsewhere, good day!” I snatched my greasy bag of meat and left in a huff.

You’re the one for me, Hannah, even though I forgot your name during a poignant moment. Our love can weather any storm, and I’d like to see Tamara Foof try and predict that with her modern equipment and years of training and smooth legs.

Faithfully,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Chasco's Catch

Dearest Hannah,

I’d be happy if I had an espresso machine that made you instead of espresso----you’d emerge from the steel contraption beautiful as ever and dripping with piping hot coffee. And I’d burn my mouth on you. “I need my fix!” I’d say. But the wonderful part of this scenario is that I’d get my coffee fix and my Hannah fix right away in the morning. It’d be like killing two go-go dancers with one bowstaff or whatever people say.

Today I went on a stroll through the cemetery with my younger sisters Jane and Ellie. Though they’re only 6 and 4 years old respectively, they have a very complex understanding of death. Jane waxed poetic about the passage of time and brevity of life; Ellie sketched an interpretation of the cemetery as a bustling thoroughfare filled with the ebullient souls of the deceased. And I was bouncing a tennis ball until I lost it.

We came to a pond at the south end of the plot. There’s a man, Chasco Onesie, who has been fishing off a very large skiff in the small pond for decades. (His boat touches the shore on all sides, that’s how small the pond is.) Chasco keeps hoping for his “big catch” but the pond is so small it likely can’t hold a fish of any size. I think poor Chasco has only seen fish in books----he thinks they’re the same size as they are on the page.

We approached his boat and greeted him. Jane asked him why he’s been fishing in the same pond for so long. “The fish, they will come. You must be patient,” he told us with a wink. A small radio crackled on the bait jar near his feet. “Listening to the big game, I see,” I said to him. “Yes, young man, I think the team may have a chance this year,” and it was clear neither of us knew what we were talking about.

“I’m growing older every day, I can feel it in my bones. But I can’t die happy until I’ve caught the big one,” he said. Ellie, always the hopeful empath, quickly sketched a cartoon of Chasco posing next to a freshly caught prize marlin, almost as tall as him. “That’s very sweet, little one,” he examined the drawing, “but big fish are much smaller than that. I’ve seen them in picture books. Big fish fit in the palm of your hand.” He tipped his straw hat and handed the drawing back.

We gave him what little trail mix we had left and went on our way. It’s strange, Hannah, but there’s something lovely about Chasco’s calm, simple existence. He sits with his line dangling in the gentle serenity of the 8-inch deep pond, forgotten by time and all else. Or something like that. I was actually just reading Jane’s journal and copying her word for word----she’s more eloquent than I. Truthfully, I think Chasco’s kind of a dummy. Probably he’s been there so long because he forgot how to get out of his boat.

Broadly,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Scented Balls

Dearest Hannah,

Gone are the days when I dangled wet spaghetti over the microwave and pretended it was your head and face. I’m past such childish foolery. My longing for you manifests itself as a deep, pulsing ache in my chest that can be abated by few palliatives. But I am an adult now. No more spaghetti. Now I stomach my pain appropriately with a stiff drink of whiskey and lots of loud shoplifting from the supermarket.

I’ve been feeling glum as of late. Perhaps it’s from missing your sweet touch, perhaps it’s from the drought. Perhaps it’s from mother cancelling the HBO subscription. Lefty was nice enough to try and cheer me up. “We’ll go shopping, maybe get some fresh duds at the department store,” he said on the phone.

We went to Richard Beavens’s Lane & Leisure Items, a store for both the casually dressed and frequently bowling man. I didn’t need any new clothes other than a hot new pair of khaki romp-about short shorts, but Lefty was insistent that I get creative with my wardrobe. The store owner, Mr. Richard Beavens himself, approached us with his gleaming combover and gold teeth. “I see you young gentlemen are interested in some items----let me show you our special pieces.” My guard was immediately up. You see Hannah, Mr. Beavens is a consummate salesman, they say he could sell a glass of hot chowder to a drowning man or however the idiom goes. Well, in this case Lefty was the drowning man with the chowder glass because he’s easily wooed, and I knew he hadn’t any money.

While I resisted his wiles, Mr. Beavens whisked Lefty into the labyrinth of clothes and bowling equipment. They returned shortly with overflowing armfuls of stuff. Mr. Beavens had convinced Lefty that he needed a pair of suspenders for every day of Lent. He also had 3 scented bowling balls.

“These new scented bowling balls are top of the line, and they smell great!” Lefty told me excitedly. “How often do you bowl, Lefty?” I asked. “I’ve never bowled and don’t plan to!” he said. Mr. Beavens piped up from behind the counter “Those scented balls are a mighty fine price, boys, mighty fine!” Lefty didn’t have the money to pay, he begged me to buy the stuff for him with his cutest pouty face. I held out as long as I could, but between Lefty’s bulging, quivering wet lips, his doe eyes welled with tears, and Mr. Beavens whispering sweet salesy nothings in my ear, I acquiesced.

Now I don’t have any money and Lefty has bowling balls that smell like lemon and spruce. But at least his pants will stay lifted up, Hannah, and I suppose the whole ordeal has lifted my spirits too. Just like Lefty’s pants.

Charitably,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Competitive Spirit

Dearest Hannah,

I’ve been practicing brooding to be seen as more of a tough guy, but It’s hard for me to maintain when I think about how much I miss your sweet scent of foot powder and cabbage----I turn into a melting fondue waterfall of feelings when I think of you. My only choice is to wear a ski mask full time, I imagine that would communicate toughness while concealing my sensitivity. But then I’d be itchy. No, I’ll just take up pipe smoking and I won’t hear another word on the subject.

I was at the country club earlier today playing a friendly game of tossing horse shoes. There’s a name for it… shoe horses I think it’s called. My opponent was Tin Feasley, a man-about-town and shoe horses expert. He was irate because I was beating him handily at shoe horses; he accused me of using black magic to win. “That’s racist,” I told him, “white people can do magic too. But I’m not using magic at all, I’m just a natural at shoe horses.” Tin didn’t like my being brazen.

He challenged me to a war of wits, winner take all. I was feeling confident so I bet my favorite pocket watch; Tin bet his whole family, a wife and two boys (which I thought was excessive, but Tin is as confident a man as I’ve ever seen). After we shook hands Tin introduced a twist: he would be asking all the questions and whoever answered first would get the points. I felt bamboozled. Of course Tin would know the answer first, he was asking the questions! But I had to compete, I gave him my word (which is “linnen” if you’re wondering).

Hannah, I thought I was in for a pummeling, but you’ll be shocked to know a pummeling is the opposite of what I received. A gnilemmup, if you will. Surprisingly, Tin asked questions to which he did not know the answers. I beat him easily at the contest, ten points to none. He was crumpled on the ground when I left him, distraught and moaning.

Now, as I write to you from my bedroom, Tin’s doting wife is sitting in the corner knitting me a cap and his two young boys are freshly bathed, hair combed, and tucked into my bed. I’m still unsure whether Tin lost the contest on purpose and his plan was to cast aside his family into the loving and smooth arms of a young man like myself, or if he’s just a hopeless degenerate and isn’t as sharp as I originally thought. Either way I don’t really need his family. I should give them away to someone else----not back to Tin though. Because fair’s fair.

Magnanimously,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Camp School and Dick's Stories

Dearest Hannah,

I feel a deep pain in my body because I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. If only you were here, you could butter me up a hot piece of toast in the morning----I’d stuff it down my shirt to keep warm on my walk to Camp School (school in which I learn how to go to camp). “Dress smartly,” you’d say, “don’t you want to impress the other young adults at Camp School with your keen sartorial sense?” And I’d say, “That word-a-day calendar is really paying off, Hannah! Now stuff my shirt with buttered bread!” And I’d leave and forget my lunch.

Camp School is going well, by the by. I just took an examination for my “Late Night Bunk Bed Oversharing” class, and I’ll be attending a lecture tomorrow on “Who To Exclude From Your Camp Clique, And Why”. I’m quite good at all this, I guess I have a knack for camp. Although I will admit my hands are sore from my Fire Starting class, but flicking a lighter all day will do that to a person. Also, a nearby neighborhood is now ash.

I’m enjoying all of it but yesterday I needed a break, I had to get away from all the “get away from it all” camp attitude. So I went to the library. It was quiet in there----too quiet. No, actually it was just quiet enough. A little too quiet enough.

I went to my favorite spot, Sharing Corner, and plopped down on a beanbag with some kids and moms. Dick Hushes was reading from his book of short stories. Dick is considered by some to be a recluse, but his true nature comes out when he reads to kids. He’s warm, his voice comforting; his aura is that of a serene lake on warm day, willows dangling gently in the water. He also has occasional angry outbursts.

Dick doesn’t let anyone proofread his work so it’s riddled with spelling and grammatical errors. He was telling a nice story about a young man at a swimming hole (I think he was mostly improvising) and he became cross when a titless shrew corrected his grammar. “Stay outta this, y’old crone!” he yelled at the mom and stormed off through the bean bags flailing his book furiously.

Today I read in the Daily Newspoppins that Dick boarded up his small cottage. Outside hangs a crooked sign with jagged letters painted in red, “NO MOR DICK STOREYS FUR YOU! KIP OWT!” Perhaps, with your encouragement, Hannah, I can take over as the new Dick Hushes and read those young boys and girls tales of my love for you. I do love you deeply Hannah, it definitely feels like we’ve met more than once----which of course we haven’t!

Handily,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

A Hero In Our Midst

Dearest Hannah,

Allow me to dropkick your tender feelings into the river, for today I am a man. Actually that seems a little harsh especially because I love you deeply. Allow me to gently toss your feelings into the river. That doesn’t seem right either. Perhaps my idea of how men act around feelings is skewed? Allow me to put your feelings in my pocket alongside my keys and a haypenny. Much better.

Hannah, the reason for my brazen attitude and newfound virility is because I am a hero. No, you don’t need to put your cheaters on, you read that word correctly. Hero. Lauded by many, needed by all.

Earlier today I was catching some Rays in the park (Raymond Walsh and Raymond Albanetti love to play tag). I was thirsty after the rousing match and went to the General Sto’ to get some ice-chilled lemon dranks for me and the Rays. I hadn't been inside more than a minute when a wave of screams erupted from the back. Then I saw it: Megan Landparty, my ex-girlfriend from elementary school, was chasing around her pet badger. The badger had escaped from her purse and into the cramped produce section where it was terrorizing the ladies.

The loose badger riled everyone into a red hot panic. Oh no, I thought, This can’t be happening. Not on a day like today----Flag Day. Megan, the dainty heiress to the Landparty Steel fortune, tried to recapture the little devil but she lacked gumption and forearm strength. I knew I had to do something. I walked boldly into the fracas and grabbed the biggest watermelon I could find. I cornered the nasty beast; he raised on his hind legs like a Tyrannosaur of the Rex variety, I raised the watermelon over my head.

THUMPFT! In an onomatopoeic punctuation of the grisly scene the watermelon and badger splattered into a thousand bloody, juicy pieces. The ladies stood, shocked. I preened. I had saved the day. “Don’t worry ladies, that nasty critter,” I said and dramatically removed my fake sunglasses, “won’t be badgering you anymore.” I winked at Megan. She must have thought I looked great because she stared at me with her mouth agape, her clenched fists shaking violently.

I walked out into the sun, chin held high with my ice-chilled lemon dranks in hand, the continued screams of horror fading behind me. I am a protector, Hannah, and I’ll protect you with my hot moves when I see you next.

Undeniably,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

The Hole: Part 3

Dearest Hannah,

Can I eat your delicious face? “I don’t know, can you?” is what my 3rd grade teacher would say. She was so silly, Mrs. Billary Clinton, I wonder what ever happened to her. Anyway, what I should have said was may I eat your delicious face? I only ask because I’m very hungry.

Or at least I think I should be hungry. I’ve lost touch with almost all my bodily signals since Lefty and I fell into this hole. It’s nice, really, I’ve sunken into a calm numbness, almost as if the border between my body and the energy of the world around me has dissolved----I simply am. And I’ve come to terms with our situation

I can’t say the same for Lefty, who has become unbearably neurotic. He’s developed Stockholm Syndrome, sympathizing with the hole for holding us hostage. He gave the hole an endearing nickname, “Holey”. He whispers fun secrets to it constantly.  I’d like to put him in a peanut butter cocoon to shut him up but I don’t have any peanut butter or the knowhow on cocoon making.

I fear we may never make it out, Hannah. I wish you the best. I’ll write you from heaven and perhaps someday we’ll be reunited there (if you make it up, which is honestly unlikely). There’s a bright light peering down into the hole. It’s beautiful and calming, like a bath with a cousin. I’m going toward the light… just… to… see.

Hannah, I’ve just awoken in a hospital bed. I’m hooked up to new fangled health robots and they’re telling me my business. Lefty is in the bed next to me. Remember earlier I wrote to you about the light I saw? It’s in the paragraph above, dummy! Well, that light was God. Detective Jim God, to use his formal title. He’s been investigating these burglaries for a while now, tracking every step of the criminals and knew that Lefty and I were doing some sleuthing. He followed our trail into the woods and found us in that hole, our little mouths as dry as the desert without even a sweet wolf to be our mother.

After he had us airlifted to safety, Detective Jim found the burglars’ stash less than a mile from where Lefty and I were stuck. J.P. Solitude and his brother Clem were there among the stolen items, which they claimed they were simply keeping safe. Detective Jim, a rube at heart, thought they were telling the truth and agreed not to arrest them if they returned everything. Which of course they didn’t do. J.P and Clem were last scene piloting a blimp out of town.

Lefty and I are slowly returning to normal life, but it’s been difficult because we were gone for so long. We missed almost whole Saturday after all. Wish me a speedy recovery, Hannah, but probably it won’t make a difference.

Legendarily,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

The Hole: Part 2

Drst Hnnh,

Why did I ever bother with vowels? They’re clumsy and take up space and don’t make much sense. Although, I just read the first line and I’m realizing now that I really need them, like woah (for example). I need vowels the way I need you, Hannah. I wish with all my being you could throw me a rope-swing and heft me out of this dark place with your meaty quads.

Literally. Lefty and I are still stuck in this dark hole and we need someone to pull us out. Things have become grim since I last wrote you. It’s damp and dark, fear has gripped our souls. And there’s actually a smaller hole within this hole that Lefty and I keep keep falling into. It’s pretty shallow, perhaps better described as a divot, but it’s still annoying.

There’s no way to know how many days we’ve been down here, but I think it’s been almost one. Our phones are below 20% battery, but I’m not sure what that means anymore. Is it a lot? A little? Is this the first time we’ve been in this hole or have we been here many times before? Time is a flat circle, Hannah, don’t you know. At least that’s what Lefty says but I can’t tell if he’s just describing a wall clock. He’s very crafty, I’m not sure I trust him.

We are growing increasingly suspicious of each other. I watch him while he watches me. We sit against opposite walls of the hole listening to the drip, drip, drip of the white noise forest rain Pandora station on my phone. I have the volume all the way up to drown out the real nature noises. Occasionally one of us will speak, usually a hopeful ponderance of our future lives or a reminiscence of our past. And sometimes about dogs. We both like dachshunds, especially the ones that are overfed with little saggy tummies wobbling back and forth like a little body pillow soaked in juice. Other than those rare agreements between us, things are getting very Lord of the Flies in here, at least I think so. I plagiarized my book report on it so my knowledge is foggy at best.

Moments ago Lefty declared that he wishes to take me as a wife. I have no legal grounds to fight him on this because we don’t have laws down here. And, truthfully, I can’t remember if this would happen in our previous reality anyway. Friends become friend’s wives, right? Yes, that sounds right.

I have to go, Hannah, Lefty is getting ready for bed and he wants me to tuck him in. Typical, he just took the right side. He knows that’s my side. I can already see where this marriage is headed.

Wetly,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

The Hole: Part 1

Dearest Hannah,

The vast wall of Chinatown lined with thousands of malevolent archers could hardly deter me from coming after you, from fighting tooth and nail, even just to catch a momentary glimpse of your beautiful face and your neck brand. Unless I had just eaten a big meal. If I was full of hot soup, I may call up to the archers, “Hey, hold on. I’m pretty full and I need a second.” And then I’d maybe forget what I was doing and go home.

A growing number of burglaries has caused alarm in town. First it was only small things, jewelry, electronics, then a few cars went missing, and yesterday an entire house was taken along with its owner, Ol’ Frau Vanden Goober, who was inside. I guess that’s a missing persons crime too. These burglaries have warranted increased police presents (we bring gifts to the police hoping to bribe them into being vigilant). Thus far, Hannah, the presents haven’t shifted those lazy sheriffs away from their game of jacks. They love jacks, and they don’t love policing.

Lefty Roberts and I took it upon ourselves to do a little detective work. Flashlights: check. Notebooks: check. Chex Mix: check. We heard from a little birdie that the robbers may be squatting in a makeshift hovel deep in the woods. The little birdie was a man named J.P. Solitude who claimed to be one half of the at large criminal duo. “Me and my brother have everything stashed in the woods,” he told us, “hell, my backpack is full of jewelry right now.” But that seemed all too obvious to Lefty and me. There was something strange about J.P., he seemed very untrustworthy, so of course we couldn’t take his word that his jingly backpack was full of stolen jewelry.

We resolved to search the woods----J.P. may have been untrustworthy, but we knew we could probably trust him on the whole woods thing. We made it about a mile in when Lefty and I fell through a false leaf-floor. It was a trap most likely, a hole too deep to climb out of.

Hannah, I’m writing to you from that hole right now. We have no rations, I’m delirious with hunger----we finished the Chex Mix before we even left my house. It’s dark. Reality is slowly melting away. We’ve been in here almost 40 minutes according to our iPhones.

I’m going to attach this letter to a rock and heave it out of this wretched hole. I hope it reaches you.

Treacherously,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Hot Lace

Dearest Hannah,

Coo, Cooooo, Hannah. Those are the sounds of love I would make towards you if we were owls. Then I’d poop out a pellet of mouse bones and hair. And we’d sit in our tree until the sun went down, then we’d hunt under cover of night and pursue our quarry with the bloodlust of hellions who thirst for souls in the eternal fire of the underworld. And we’d kiss beaks.

Gram gram’s in the throes of something called Hip Hop Hospitalization. She’d been spitting hot rhymes for days on end and it finally got the best of her----she’s in an induced coma. We had to delay her freestyle battle with The Big Meat and his Marbled Posse. The townsfolk are disappointed, but gram gram needs to recover.

Other than that horrifying ordeal, things have been cool. Very cool. Catch my drift? Of course you don’t, Hannah, you darling fool. I’m alluding to Bernadette’s Lace Emporium acquiring a device that conditions the air, or an “air conditioner” to the layman. The town has been waylaid by a recent winter heat wave and Bernadette is the first one to get an air conditioner (most of the townsfolk are apprehensive about bringing such witchy technology into their homes and businesses). The Lace Emporium has become unbearably crowded with folks trying to get a taste of the sweet, cool air.

The trouble is that Bernadette has one strict rule: if you come enjoy the cool air, you must make a purchase. As you can imagine, business is booming for her, and I now have a doily collection that would make any old crone swoon. I’ve resolved to make a tunic from my collection, something practical and masculine. Like a dress but shorter. A dress that barely covers my waist.

I’m writing to you now from the Lace Emporium, sandwiched in between two burly sisters. They’ve been exchanging blows for what seems like hours, even after I said “Stop blowing on each other! Your hot breath won’t cool any of us off!” Oh well, I have to leave for hospital anyway. Mother just sent me a text that comatose gram gram is piping hot and needs the family to rub ice and tiger balm on her tummy.

Generously,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

High School Bairs

Dearest Hannah,

The foamy froth that dribbles from my mouth when I brush my teeth once a week makes me think of the dish washing suds you’ll playfully dab on my nose once we live together and you’re washing the dishes. “Get back to work!” I’ll scream at you affectionately but not really. Maintaining a household is work, Hannah, we won’t have time for tomfoolery.

Skim Felcher invited Lefty Roberts and me to a state championship baseball game last night. He had free tickets that he stole from a nice family at knife point. Skim is generous fellow, always thinking of others. He invited us to his cottage before the game for a pre-game ritual of drinking bottles of liquor and yelling at the Xbox. Once we were nice and tight we hopped in Skim’s Hummer and took turns driving to the field with our knees.

We sat under the bright lights and watched the High School Bairs lose to the Red Savage-Indian Skins. The name, “Bairs”, comes from a classic miscommunication between Coach Stibbins and the t-shirt presser, who printed the uniforms with the incorrect name. Legend goes that Coach Stibbins called Hot Randy’s Press Shop and yelled, “No no no! We’re the High School Bares! You have to reprint these uniforms!” But it was too late because Hot Randy died on the spot, and so the High School Bairs were born.

I don’t remember most of the game because I was blackout drunk. Apparently, from what I read in the Local Newspoppins, Lefty stumbled onto the field and insisted on pitching. Everyone began screaming at him and he got nervous, so he took the championship trophy from the dugout and ran. Security camera footage shows that we used hot liquid butter to unwedged Skim’s Hummer from the South entrance tunnel and we absconded with the trophy.

I’m now sitting next to a championship trophy. I felt that I should give it back to its rightful owner, but then I set it down on my armoire and thought, “Hey, not bad.” So I packed dirt and some other treasures into it and am carrying it around the house.  There’s a large cash reward being offered for any information about the missing trophy. Grandma said she was going to turn me in, but I put The Matrix: Reloaded on her iPad and she forgot all about it.

Scandalously,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Santa comes to Town

Dearest Hannah,

I’ve been writing your address out longhand all day, just thinking about you. I’ve become quite good at it, look:

        Unnumbered Indistinct Avenue

    Somewhere, Earth    (Redacted ZIP)

I love the specificity of it, of knowing exactly where you are at this moment. I can look up at the stars and know that you too, Hannah, are doing something else while I do that.

My family received a lovely package this week in the form of a person. She’s an exchange student from Idaho, Ohio, and her name is Santa. She’s kind enough, she speaks fairly good English for an exchange student. She’s on track to graduate high school two years early then attend Stanford. My family is quite fond of her, although she’s awfully strange looking with her impossibly small waist and large, perky breasts. Bleugh. It’s a far cry from the hefty, broad shouldered women that men traditionally find attractive. Like you, sweet Hannah. And your goiter.

Last night mother pressured me into showing Santa around town. Culturally, she’s a fish out of water. Saying hello to everyone, smiling. I’m constantly apologizing in her wake. The townsfolk seem to love her even more than my family loves her, but I know it’s an act because she’s the worst.

There was commotion by the old clock tower in the square; Santa wanted to know what was happening because she’s annoying. It was Jeffrum Smalls, on top of the clock tower again, threatening to jump. “Do it!” I called up to him, as usual. A few others joined me, we started a chant until Santa shushed us. The nerve!

She spoke firmly, but kindly, up to Jeffrum. He’s always upset that there aren’t enough butts to go around, that he has a little butt when he deserves a big round butt. Santa reassured him that butts don’t mean everything in the world, and that intelligence, compassion, and selflessness will take one farther in life than a butt will; which of course is a lie. But I kept my mouth shut because I was sucking on a root beer Dum Dum.

Jeffrum came down and tearfully embraced Santa (gross) as the crowd cheered (a mocking cheer, no doubt). My face was hot with embarrassment when The Mayor declared a town holiday in Santa’s name, we left town hurriedly before the disaster grew worse.

Later than evening I boxed Santa up and shipped her back to Idaho, Ohio. Some people just aren’t ready for real life, Hannah.

Tenderly,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Football Team

Dearest Hannah,

I long for you so deeply, not even five fox cubs could cuddle my pain away. I miss the hue-ish hue of your human skin, a deep red like the Burmese sun setting in the Bay of Bengal. I recently bought a book of alliterations, does it show?

The fellas (fellows) and I are putting together a flag football team. All the positions are falling nicely into place: we’ve got a ballman, a runny, a catchster, two meat muffins, three dads, and a terrific numbers guy. The only position we’re missing is a quarterback----it’s pretty important Hannah, you big stupid!

Lefty Roberts and I went into town in search of a strong leader, and we found ourselves outside Simpson’s Bait and Tackle Shop. “Rim Simpson’s got a strong arm, perhaps we should inquire within?” I suggested.

Rim was polishing his favorite lures with his feet up on the counter and slightly racist country music droning quietly from his small radio. “What can I do for you boys?” he asked. “Ha!” Lefty blurted, “you said doo doo!” I elbowed him in the ribs. Rim scratched his head with a toothpick and put it back in his teeth. “I don’t believe I did, or I’d be awful embarrassed. Don’t usually say that sorta thing. But if I do, do tell me, please.” Lefty bit his lip with the force of a thousand vice grips.

I asked Rim outright if he would be our quarterback. He was a star in high school, after all. We reminded him of his popularity back then, and that now he had become a sad stereotype: unmarried, tortured by drink, and that he’d probably die alone unless he reclaimed his position under center.

Rim became quiet. “I used to throw heat on the gridiron, but those days are over. I vowed never to throw another tight spiral to young man in spandex. No sir, I can’t throw a pass to a young man with his tight little butt and grass stained jersey, a jersey so dirty that the boy should take it off because he’s a dirty boy, and then I’ll be the one to teach----”

“Rim!” I interrupted. He snapped out of his reverie, “Sorry, got carried away.” He explained that he couldn’t take the field as a player any longer because during his high school days his dad yelled very loudly from the sidelines, things like, “A dirty boy indeed!” and “shower stalls, not footsy balls!” Rim has PTSD from the ordeal, he suffers crippling flashbacks when he plays foot-b.

But Rim offered to coach, which is more than we could have hoped for. Although quarterback would have been better. Wish me luck during our first game, Hannah. I’ll do a goal for you!

Barely,

Andy

[dearesthannahletters]

Bread And Poetry

Dearest Hannah,

You’re the missing puzzle piece in my favorite puzzle--the one about me and my life. The puzzle is laid out on the coffee table, mostly finished except for the piece upon which I drew your face. I’m missing that piece, probably lost in the couch cushions or something. Keep an eye out for it.

Beckett Colliers, a meek young man and student at the university, started a petition to change the annual poetry contest from “slam poetry” to “slim poetry”, which from what I understand is poetry promoting a healthy lifestyle and slim frame. He stood in the town square chanting quietly, “Slim slim, hit the gym!” and “keep it skinny, you might win-y,” and a whole mess of other poor rhymes.

I approached him to protest his idea (maybe it’s just me, but it seems like poetry about being slim could be a bit boring). He told me that our town has an extraordinarily high rate of obesity, mostly due to misinformed citizens. “Our citizens vote with their dollars, and those dollars are lining the pockets of the powerful carbohydrate lobby, who in turn spread false information about the nutrition in the food products that they support. For example, the lobby claims we should eat only bread for every meal,” he said. “That’s very interesting,” I lied, “and it makes me hungry for a slice of Jeremiah Tonn’s sourdough bread.”

Jeremiah Tonn bakes his famous sourdough loaves often, but he only bakes them “often” during one day per calendar year, which is to say, rarely. Today was that day, Hannah. I ran as fast as I could across town to Jeremiah’s humble bread mansion, at which there was a huge line waiting for some delicious, piping hot bread. “Will there be butter?” I heard a short fellow ask. A gruff man replied, “Does another man make love to my wife while I watch?” The crowd roared with laughter. Of course there would be butter. The finest butter from the smartest cows.

Unfortunately, Hannah, none of us got the piping hot buttered bread that we so hoped for. Jeremiah’s loaves had been claimed by his chubby wife, who also happens to be the defending champion of the slam poetry contest. She’s fattening up before she reads her new poems; she wants her jowls to sag and wobble with the weight of every syllable. The audience loves watching her flab quiver and shake during her animated performances. If have to sacrifice my bread for that visual treat, so be it!

Bruce Lee,

Andy