An Open Letter to a Town of Brookhaven Public Safety Officer

This letter was inspired by McSweeney’s “Open Letters to Individuals or Entities that are Unlikely to Respond” (thanks Jeff). I actually submitted this letter for publication on their site, but failed to see the submission guidelines before emailing it. Yeah… turns out I didn’t come very close to following them (woops) so I imagine you won’t be seeing this on that site any time soon. Additionally, most of the other letters I saw published didn’t have the profanity or hatred this one has. What can I say? I’m extreme!

A little background: Brookhaven Public Safety Officers suck.

Enjoy!

An open letter to a Town of Brookhaven Public Safety Officer:

Dear Brookhaven Public Safety Officer,

It has come to my attention that your presence in my community has increased exponentially. This is undoubtedly a direct result of the dire state of Brookhaven’s economy. Years of dirty politics, along with the country’s economic downturn, have pushed our local financial system into a state of disarray. As a result, it isn’t really surprising to see an increased amount of summons issued for trivial violations in an attempt to generate money for this failing economy.

I must say, however, your attitude is fairly off-putting. I understand, your job is largely considered a joke by just about everyone—that includes both general community members and those in respectable law enforcement positions. I’m also fairly certain you have a lot of issues stemming from your inability to become a legitimate police officer. This is undoubtedly a result of your lack of intelligence, your feeble physical state, and most likely, your extremely small penis (I’m told this can lead to confidence issues). But, simply put, your inexplicable sense of power and entitlement really makes you come off as a total fucking douche bag.

When I politely inquired as to why I received a parking ticket, your response of, “If you want to argue, you can show up to court and argue,” wasn’t particularly helpful. I wasn’t looking to argue. I was simply looking for clarification. If I were trying to argue, I would have said, “hey dimple dick, fuck you and fuck your ticket,” and you would have stood there and taken it, because… well… you’re a public safety officer, not a real police officer, and you don’t deserve respect.

Nevertheless, I was simply seeking an explanation as to why I was being ticketed. Unfortunately, I guess the fact that you’re forced to masturbate to a bikini shot of your little brother’s 17-year-old girlfriend must have really been on your mind that day and subsequently led to your unkindly and impertinent response. Perhaps he had just beaten you up again the previous night because he walked in on that sad, perverse display. I’m sure if I were a socially awkward loser that failed out of community college after a semester, I’d probably have a curt response to certain inquiries as well. Perhaps your mind was just too busy contemplating the advantages of becoming a homosexual. Well, I’d agree, it might make your life easier.

Maybe you were simply trying to use your “authority” to impress the young lady standing within earshot. But you must have been too infatuated with your own response to notice her flipping you the middle finger and laughing with her friends while your back was turned. It’s probably best you’re not aware that after I left your company and spoke with that same girl, she referred to you as an “unbelievable faggot who doesn’t realize his only power is handing out parking tickets.” We both got a kick out of that one. Anyway, it can’t be easy having that kind of disrespect dulled out to you on a daily basis.

Do you think that because you wear a uniform there are authoritative connotations associated with it? Clowns wear uniforms. So do janitors. Both are typically more pleasant than you and command more respect (they’re almost certainly paid better as well). Perhaps a weapon would elicit more respect from community members. No, I’m not referring to the pellet gun you use to shoot squirrels in your back yard. Or the water pistol you fill with your own urine and shoot at pre-pubescent trick-or-treaters on Halloween. I’m talking about a real firearm—the kind actual police officers carry. Although I suppose when you have multiple restraining orders from female cashiers at McDonald’s posted against you, passing the obligatory background check can be difficult.

Did I mention I used to have a friend who worked as a public safety officer? He didn’t take himself quite so seriously though, probably because he had a college education and just needed an easy, low-stress job for the summer. We used to smoke pot in his vehicle and laugh about the people who considered that job a legitimate career. Remarkably, there are quite a few of you losers. That’s why we’d purposely leave pieces of chewed gum stuck to the front seat of the public safety cruisers. Could that have contributed to your poor attitude? Did you ever find yourself picking watermelon Bubbalicious from the taint area of your freshly cleaned uniform? Well look on the bright side: The smell of watermelon probably covered up the general stench of fresh skid marks adorning the ass of your tightie whities. You know tightie whities are supposed to reduce your sperm count? Although when you’re a virgin at the age of 24 and pretty much use your semen as an improvised form of starch for your bedsheets, I guess sperm count isn’t really a consideration. At least your mom doesn’t mind doing your laundry!

In closing, I suppose I understand your lack of tact in answering my simple question. It’s true, my life is significantly better than yours, and I can see how that would make you uncomfortable. You let you’re jealousy get the better of you. Hey, it happens to the best of us. Still, I’d recommend you shove that pad of parking tickets directly up your ass and jump off a fucking cliff. This may sound malicious, but in truth, you’d be performing a true service to yourself, your family and your community.

Sincerely,

Jim S.

Dinner Plans

Holy shit! Posts two days in a row?? Well aren't you a lucky bunch of fuckers!

So I submitted this story to an online publication and it was... (drum roll please)... rejected! Insert deflated trumpet sound here. Wah wah. Hey, it happens. One man's garbage is another man's... uh... un-garbage. I don't know. Maybe it sucks. But I think it's pretty alright. I guess you guys can be the judge. I mean that's pretty much why I keep you around.

Dinner Plans

Her eyes are shivering pools waiting to overflow. She stops mid-sentence as her voice cracks and she pushes a few loose strands of hair back behind her ears. Her movements are forced and uncomfortable. Twitchy. She doesn’t want me to know how upset she is.

A variety of consolatory clichés tumble clumsily through my brain. At least I can recognize how petty they all are before I spit out some unintentionally condescending remark. She appreciates honesty. She always has. So I close my mouth and awkwardly stack my hands on the table in front of me, shifting my eyes briefly down to the shimmering, golden circle polluting the situation as much as it’s polluting my mashed potatoes.

Now there’s poison in her shaky stare. It’s ugly and scathing. She makes me hate her when she looks like this. She thinks it’s putting me on edge, like her scorn will make me reconsider. It’s the same juvenile tactic used by kids who’ve just been punished by their parents. It really just makes me want to scream at her—stand up from the table in a burst of profanity and calculated attacks that will turn her into a sobbing, slobbering, borderline-suicidal mess. God, I want to dig my fingers into her pale cheeks just to change her fucking expression.

And I feel my own face changing color, turning from its usual pallid tone to a glowing, angry crimson. I want to tell her how stupid she is for expecting anything other than this. Instead, I take a deep breath and try to embrace the stifling silence, like if we continue to sit without movement or speech the universe will forget we exist and we’ll both simply evaporate. We’ll just disappear into nothing and be removed from this unbearable discomfort without any further confrontation.

No such luck. Now we’re just two kill-faces slaughtering the air between us. The space is collateral damage. The time moves backwards, but not in that typical cinematic rewind you might expect. It’s more like a momentary bombardment of the past. Supposedly when you die you’re life flashes before your eyes in an instant. I guess that’s what this is. But it’s angrier. I can only see the times she was too drunk to be kind. Or the moments her lack of social graces became so apparent. I feel the hard steel pole of the pullout couch dig into my back the way it did those nights I couldn’t stand to sleep next to her. I taste the noxious flavor of her tongue like I did on the evenings she smoked too many cigarettes.

She’s the first to break, her anger transforming into misery in a matter of seconds. Her features soften so quickly and drastically, for a moment I almost suspect that someone is standing behind me, holding a picture of the saddest and most affecting event of her life. Then I realize with a creeping bit of shame that this just might be that moment. Say cheese; this is a still frame of your weakest point. This is rock bottom.

She balls uncontrollably, shoulders heaving as she buries her face in her hands. I’m torn. As I watch this microcosm of common tragedy, courtesy and empathy tell me I should do something to comfort her. But I want to stand my ground. This could easily be a trick—an attempt to elicit pity from a person who has been trapped by love for so many years. Because I should fall for it, shouldn’t I? I should see her hopeless tears, reach across the table, take her hands in mine and apologize for my hasty decision. I should think about standing beside her on apartment building rooftops, watching Fourth of July fireworks combat the stars over New York City. I should remember her falling asleep beside my hospital bed after the car accident, a drip of her warm drool leaking onto my hand, waking me softly to remind me that there is love in life and I’m so goddamn fortunate to have it.

Again, I look down at my plate as she sobs. I stare at the gleaming ring representing eternity, carefully hidden in the mangled heap of white potatoes. She was never one for conventions, particularly gender roles. I guess this is something that shouldn’t have surprised me. She’s been ready for a long time. At least she thinks so. I should have expected her to take the initiative. She’s impulsive and she wants what she wants when she wants it.

Her face is still buried in her hands; tears escape down her wrists and arms, forming small puddles where her elbows rest on the navy blue tablecloth. She’s an expected portrait of heartbreak. And it should be so easy for me to remember a time when I was the pathetic, convulsing mass of waterfalls and mucus. It should be so easy for me to be sitting on her side of the table, hanging on to some fading hope that nostalgia and circumstance will save a crumbling future that once seemed so certain.

I reach down and pick up the ring, using my napkin to chase the clinging potatoes from its flawless surface. As I stand, she pulls her face from her hands, her red, waterlogged eyes following me with anticipation so sadly expectant, I have to turn my head. I move towards her and place the ring on the table. Without stopping, I walk out of the kitchen and make my way to the front door, hearing one last outburst of unadulterated grief as I step into September’s waiting darkness, closing the door behind me.

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Balls of Yarn

Not much to say about this little piece. I started writing it a while ago, forgot about it, left it on the shelf, stumbled across it the other day and finished it up. Anyway, it's just a little something to keep me (and you) occupied. I've got a legit short story I'll be posting either today or tomorrow. So, in the words of Les Grossman, "Go fuck yoursellllves."

Balls of Yarn

She says, “I’m like a kitten… and you’re my favorite ball of yarn.”

And I’m not sure whether to be flattered or incensed.

She says, “You’re my fuck-the-world plan.”

And I can only guess what that means.

I say, “You can tell how much someone loves you by how much you disappoint them.”

She asks if she’s disappointed me, so I tell her, “Of course.” I use “in the past, anyway” as an addendum. I don’t want her getting the wrong idea.

I think about asking her the same question, but I already know the answer. Disappointment is as tangible as an out of focus photograph with her—it’s dark and forbidding, but somehow nostalgic.

She says, “He claims he’s never been disappointed by me.” So I tell her he’s either full of shit or doesn’t love her.

We both agree it’s the former.

She feigns distress, like this is a pivotal moment, like she needs to know she’s the cause of someone’s disillusionment.

Someone besides me.

I offer some half-assed consolation, assuring her he’s almost certainly had moments of frustration and disenchantment so strong, he’s thought about leaving her.

She thanks me for my support and concedes he was probably just trying too hard to read her.

At this point I know I’m just something to keep her entertained, something to keep her crazy—synthesized psychosis in primitive skin.

And I don’t want her to think she’s still a lightning bolt jumping from synapse to synapse in my well-worn brain, trapped in a memory like it’s a conductor. But I want to talk myself into believing she really happened—that beaches weren’t just made for summer, and summers weren’t just made for tourists.

Still, these days she’s nothing more than a shadow of oblivion on a well-lit boardwalk.

We should probably be telling each other to shut the fuck up, like we’ve done so many times.

We should probably be ignoring each other, like we do for months on end.

But tomorrow we’ll be contemplating whether or not to speak to each other. It’ll undoubtedly depend on how lonely we are. Or how much work we have to do. Or what our dreams were. Or what destination was visited on the Travel Channel last night.

In the end we’ll let circumstance push us one way or the other, allowing the universe to dictate our relationship... like a kitten playing with two balls of yarn.

Underbelly

Okay, I really debated whether or not to post this. It’s just so… well… angry and unhinged. I don’t want people to think I’m going to burst into some Latin dance class and open fire. Cause I won’t. But I wrote this at dark-thirty in the morning on an awful night. I was in a bad place and what came out, although mildly sincere at the time, was really just a result of my circumstances and my general discontentment. But I’m posting it anyway. When I first started this shitty little blog, I said I was going to give you the good, the bad and the ugly. So here’s some of the bad and ugly.

Underbelly

There are plenty of thoughts still bounding around this exhausted brain: Thoughts that despite spending multiple hours with the same exclusive group of people, they’re all still nameless to me; thoughts that shelling out two-hundred dollars to sleep in a filthy bed for six hours might be worth it; thoughts that stepping off the sidewalk into Manhattan’s speeding traffic would bring about a welcome rest.

Instead I’m sweating in the bowels of Penn Station, slowly becoming aware that the humid August air outside is preferable to this manufactured, circulated attack on my alveoli. Like sitting in some immense commercial airplane, I’m hoping I don’t wake up with a serious illness. I’m hoping I might actually get some sleep. Fortunately, if insomnia has its way tonight my frantic tossing and turning will be mercifully brief. Still, the simple prospect of laying atop my crumpled sheets for two hours is starting to look like a vacation; a vacation from bruised, swollen wrists and piss-stained cells; a vacation from too-loud elevator music blasting amidst public safety announcements; a vacation from this slinking, stinking, disgusting cross-section of humanity.

Hours ago, we were all standing there like tired, fascinated specters—observing the mechanics of this process with no control over them. We were sweating like pigs, bitching about bureaucracies and everything else we could never change. We were pulling crusted strands of gum from our pant legs and wondering what songs we were missing. We were slowly degrading into stereotypes, hoping we’d make the 12:15 train back to Long Island… then the 1:15… then the 2:15. Now, reality hands me a 3:15 train with a teasing smile and a big fuck you.

The nearby bars are all closed and the people in this waiting area are just misery sleeping on misery. I don’t know any of them, but I hate them all—hideous creatures with no dreams, no sentiment, no passion. I want them all to collectively wake and stand, then stab their neighbor in the throat. I want them to know what death feels like. I want them to cry like aspiring ghosts while their pathetic, broken lives bleed out onto this salt and pepper tile. Because they all deserve to be lost. And I could use a little entertainment.