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Dear Sister,

Mother wants me to tell you how relieved she is to hear from you. She also wanted me to tell you that I still can’t find your favorite potato bread anywhere, and yes, I spoke to the baked goods guy at Whole Foods, the Filipino guy with the nose ring, Ernesto. Honesto? Anyway, he still asks about you. I mean, really, he asks about you all the time. I tell him how busy you are, and then he gives me a deal on my favorite Artisan Rye, which is always in stock. You might want to switch.

Anyway, mother, Dr. Wilmots, and Dr. Metzger felt it was important that I tell you about the potato bread right away, considering the increasingly alarming series of events your letters have described. Things seem to have escalated a bit from the last time when your supply run in the Balkans was attacked by the provincial Night Squad goons. The section where you were pinned down by fire for two days while you watched birds eat what was left of your friend was gripping stuff, but it pales in comparison to scope, scale and suffering of this one. Dr. Metzger, who has been spending a lot of time with mother outside the office lately, believes the violent tone of your missives is directly related to your inability to handle disruptions to your daily routines. No shit, Sherlock. I was THERE that night in Office Depot when you couldn’t find your favorite paper to print your millionth draft of your oft-delayed dissertation. What was the title again? Ah yes, “Jewish Ethnic Politics in Argentina During the Military Junta Rule 1976-1983.” Catchy. I was there when you brained me with a with a Swingline stapler when I suggested another type of paper, and I was there later when the police found you naked and babbling in an Arby’s rest room in Anaheim, which, all in all, was the most disturbing turn of the whole evening. So yeah kiddo, no potato bread again, so, buck up. I hope your stay at the Private Club doesn’t descend into a nightmare of cannibalism and pedophilia, although I’m guessing the fellows down at the local pub would like to hear that story.

Oh yes, I’ve been reading your letters to the regulars. You see, they ask how my novel is coming, and I have to explain how my manuscript is locked in the apartment over the garage where you, my sister, has barricaded herself for a year after her total breakdown and, as a result, these fantastic letters are the only type of communication between us. That and the empty trays you return for the three meals mother insist I make for you each day. Dr. Metzger, bless his heart and generous stomach, thinks I’m a good cook and is convinced that the effort means a great deal to you. I wonder if we’ll ever know.

Anyway, when I’m not soothing mother’s nerves, or managing the family finances as the doctors siege the checking account, I’m not left with much time or energy to write. Reading your letters aloud in a pub, however, has become a thing, and is good for a few paid drinks. I should warn you: there may be a Facebook page devoted to your work.

Well, unlikely as it seems, should you make a state-bound voyage out your front door, I rented a movie tonight. Children of Men. Right up your alley, I should think.

Sincerely,

Your Brother

PS: If you come out, the orange toothbrush is Dr. Metzger’s. You know, for between meals. 

1 year ago  /  10 notes