Which Brings Me to You by Steve Almond & Julianna Baggott

Author:Steve Almond & Julianna Baggott [Almond, Steve & Baggott, Julianna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing

Mantling my past in search of sorrowlessness,

The French Maid

REBECCA “SUNNY” DARLING

January 5, 2004

Dear Sonny Liston,

I am going to restrain myself, just barely, from making any cracks about your French maid outfit. You’re raising a serious concern and all I can say, really, is that the past is always too much. That’s what makes the past such a tough customer. One minute you’re waltzing down memory lane, the next you’re besieged by what could have been. Pascal doesn’t sound like a guy who would have survived your twenties. But who knows? Maybe he would have. And, at any rate, the possibility of Pascal persists. He remains dreamy and tender, bathed in milk and bleeding from the mouth. (Note to self: Jane punches. Hard.) And frankly, who wouldn’t rather live in France at this point, given how dumb and murderous America has turned.

Which leads me to my next order of business, a quick word about the republican thing—in short, I was hotdogging, mugging for effect, making myself romantically despicable. I did vote republican, but only in one local election, and mostly because the Democratic candidate wanted to turn this one toxic beach area into a Superfund site, which meant all of us surfer wannabes wouldn’t be able to pretend that we boarded there and we were all like, No way, those waves are our waves, dude. Don’t go harshing on our gnarly. This is, like, America. Civil rights and shit.

I was probably also trying to test your mettle. But I realize that the word republican has, of late, acquired a more sinister valence. I can’t begin to describe how sad this great country has become. Never mind the conniving nutbag who stole the election, or his minders (nakedly devoted to greed) or the lazy chickenshits of the press. What upsets me most is the royal we, We the People, our lonely and deranged populace, cheering for death on TV, renouncing the sick and poor at every turn, choosing to fear and hate at the precise historical moment when love seems most essential. How very Christian of us.

So you see? All better.

A final possibly relevant note: I need you to not get a big head about the whole Arctic lover thing, because most of my former lovers wind up in the Arctic sooner or later. They’ve got a kind of support group going up there, last I checked. (Out of sheer charity, I’m not going to mention the hottie Laplander I was balling during Clinton I.)

No, the one I should tell you about now is Rebecca Darling. Yes, Darling. Rebecca of Sunnysnatch Farm, I used to call her, soon shortened to just plain Sunny. (And she did have a sunny snatch—a natural blond down below. Not even Jodi Dunne could match that.) This was a few years removed from Los Angeles. I’d moved on to Miami, to a design firm, and stumbled into a therapy that helped me understand just how furious I was at my mom and how much she frightened me. I’m not going to burden you with all that.

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