tripped twice on the way to where I thought the front door was. And I ran over a little kid (which I didnât realize until I heard the crying). I also think I pawed some girlâs chest by accident. Eventually, after Iâd made a complete fool out of myself, Chin Piercing grabbed my arm and escorted me out, depositing me out on the curb. I had to hold this sign that said âAbominable Gaming at Star Arcade.â People beeped car horns and yelled stuff at me like, âForget to shave?â For my entire two hour shift, I stood in the rain, contemplating running into traffic. Tomorrow is Day #2 at Star Arcade. Baking Club isnât looking so bad now.
Sincerely,
James Turner
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 15, 2012 at 12:25 PM
Subject: Shells
Dear Stanley,
Happy birthday and sorry I didnât make it down for the cake. I was caught in a horrendously long meeting with some policy makers on the benefits of creating a boat-free zone in the ocean, a sort of âwhale lane,â if you will.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Iâve been racking my brain as to who could have sent me those shells and I think Iâve made some progress. I questioned a couple of friends from my marine biology days back at UMass and even called my ex-wife, which probably only further validated her belief that all I care about is the ocean and its related creatures.
No dice there.
Then I thought harder and came up with an entirely different hypothesis.
What if the shells came from someone else? Like maybe Elsie? What if this was her way of getting in touch with me after all these years? Maybe sheâs clean and she wants to reconnect and she doesnât know how. Shells were always so important to her when we were little. On vacation in Oregon, she used to bring bucketfuls home from the beach, clean them, then line them up in little rows on the outdoor porch to dry in the sun. They cluttered up her bedroom at homeâit drove my mom crazy. But Elsie made these little sailorâs valentines with the smallest shells, mosaics that were actually quite beautiful. I still have one that is a picture of two birds, one flying and one perched on a tree branch. Elsie wasnât much of a student, but the one thing she actually did study was her field guides and she could tell you anything you wanted to know about seashells. So all this makes me think Iâve got the mystery finally solved.
Anyway, I put a call in to the halfway house to see if they might know of her whereabouts. And then last night, I had this dream that I found Elsie living near the sea and she smelled like strawberry ChapStick and bath soap again like when we were little. We drank lemonade from sweaty glasses on the dunes and went for a swim. After a while, she got tired of swimming and the waves started to claw at us. A storm was churning on the horizon. I saw her go under once then twice. Her mouth formed a silent scream and the tide was strong. Iâm not a strong swimmer, but somehow, Stanley, I was able to grab my sisterâs wrist. She struggled against meâalmost foughtâand it felt like she was trying to pull me under with her. Iâve heard that people do that when theyâre drowning sometimes because they panic. But I saved her.
Best,
Peter
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 17, 2012 at 3:52 PM
Subject: RE: Shells
Dear Peter,
I donât check this email as much as I should now that Janâs back. Thanks for the birthday wishes. The party at work was real nice cause when I got home I just warmed up a Hungry-Man Salisbury Steak dinner like always and watched Fox News. My mother didnât call, but sheâs got dementia and thinks she lives on a deserted island with Bob Barker from The Price Is Right . The real shitter was my dog. Dogs donât get birthdays, dumb animal didnât even sit with me on the couch.
Did you hear anything from the
Sincerely,
James Turner
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 15, 2012 at 12:25 PM
Subject: Shells
Dear Stanley,
Happy birthday and sorry I didnât make it down for the cake. I was caught in a horrendously long meeting with some policy makers on the benefits of creating a boat-free zone in the ocean, a sort of âwhale lane,â if you will.
Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that Iâve been racking my brain as to who could have sent me those shells and I think Iâve made some progress. I questioned a couple of friends from my marine biology days back at UMass and even called my ex-wife, which probably only further validated her belief that all I care about is the ocean and its related creatures.
No dice there.
Then I thought harder and came up with an entirely different hypothesis.
What if the shells came from someone else? Like maybe Elsie? What if this was her way of getting in touch with me after all these years? Maybe sheâs clean and she wants to reconnect and she doesnât know how. Shells were always so important to her when we were little. On vacation in Oregon, she used to bring bucketfuls home from the beach, clean them, then line them up in little rows on the outdoor porch to dry in the sun. They cluttered up her bedroom at homeâit drove my mom crazy. But Elsie made these little sailorâs valentines with the smallest shells, mosaics that were actually quite beautiful. I still have one that is a picture of two birds, one flying and one perched on a tree branch. Elsie wasnât much of a student, but the one thing she actually did study was her field guides and she could tell you anything you wanted to know about seashells. So all this makes me think Iâve got the mystery finally solved.
Anyway, I put a call in to the halfway house to see if they might know of her whereabouts. And then last night, I had this dream that I found Elsie living near the sea and she smelled like strawberry ChapStick and bath soap again like when we were little. We drank lemonade from sweaty glasses on the dunes and went for a swim. After a while, she got tired of swimming and the waves started to claw at us. A storm was churning on the horizon. I saw her go under once then twice. Her mouth formed a silent scream and the tide was strong. Iâm not a strong swimmer, but somehow, Stanley, I was able to grab my sisterâs wrist. She struggled against meâalmost foughtâand it felt like she was trying to pull me under with her. Iâve heard that people do that when theyâre drowning sometimes because they panic. But I saved her.
Best,
Peter
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: October 17, 2012 at 3:52 PM
Subject: RE: Shells
Dear Peter,
I donât check this email as much as I should now that Janâs back. Thanks for the birthday wishes. The party at work was real nice cause when I got home I just warmed up a Hungry-Man Salisbury Steak dinner like always and watched Fox News. My mother didnât call, but sheâs got dementia and thinks she lives on a deserted island with Bob Barker from The Price Is Right . The real shitter was my dog. Dogs donât get birthdays, dumb animal didnât even sit with me on the couch.
Did you hear anything from the
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