We haven’t talked in some time, my friend, so I thought I’d write to inquire of your state of mind and the path your life is taking. And, since I have a pen in hand, I’ll relay my latest news, as well. I like writing letters, you know? The way we used to, before email and texting became the way to communicate.
My left hand is considerably older than my right hand. It sounds ludicrous, I know. But I have evidence to back up my claim. Photographic evidence. Well it could be photographic evidence, if you were here, right now, with a camera. But you’re not, are you? And so you’ve missed another shot that could have put you on the cover of Time or Newsweek or Women’s Wear Daily.
How many times must I remind you to take your camera everywhere? Even when you’re showering or shaving, even when you’re engaged in a tawdry affair with Genevieve, your friend’s wife. Oh, surprised I know about Genevieve? My friend, I know everything, and then some.
But that’s for a later conversation. Back to my new hand. I got my right hand just sixteen weeks ago, thanks to an unfortunate accident that took the life of Curtis McGee’s eldest son, Bryan. He was already dead as the big-rig started to burn. I made a quick and risky decision. His right hand was freshly available and I needed a new one, so I abandoned all my scruples and took it before fire consumed the truck. I was just a quarter mile up the road when I felt the explosion, then felt the heat of the flames. The truck, Bryan, and any evidence of my harvest were incinerated in an instant.
Do you remember Peter Cameron, the guy who left to go to medical school about the time we left for Iraq? Well, he’s an orthopedic surgeon now. And he, too, is involved with Genevieve, as well as your old favorite, Cynthia. He’s “happily” married to another doctor, a woman who accompanied him back home when he set up his practice. Her name is Karen and she’s a forensic psychiatrist. With my knowledge, and my photographs, of Cameron’s dalliances with Genevieve and Cynthia, it wasn’t particularly hard to persuade him to handle the surgery.
I know before you even ask: what was to prevent him from eliminating the problem while I was under the knife? You know me, my friend, I’m a planner. I took steps to ensure that wasn’t even an option for him.
Now, back to Genevieve. I have a favor to ask you, my friend.
Yes, I know, this is disjointed, confusing, and thoroughly bizarre, plus it’s not good writing. That’s what Sunday mornings are for, yes? My fingers needed some exercise this morning. Nothing more.