RE: Salinger's Letters To Be Auctioned

Sean Draine (seandr@Exchange.Microsoft.com)
Sat, 15 May 1999 20:28:47 -0700 

Fellow list members, a toast, to the lovely and talented, Jake McHenry. 

-----Original Message-----
From: Jake McHenry [mailto:seymour@ktis.net]
Sent: Friday, May 14, 1999 2:22 PM
To: bananafish@lists.nyu.edu
Subject: Re: Salinger's Letters To Be Auctioned


Make Me An Offer.

Part One: Steeple Chase
"I don't recommend any of the processional wives. I wouldn't take a dollar
from a dead, dying man. I tried to last without exploding into a million
star pieces but I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Couldn't keep my eyes open.
Couldn't mistake one for the other. This for that. Could not exhaust all of
my options. Couldn't swear at the steeple. Couldn't see the forest for the
trees. Couldn't speak to droves of people. No, I don't recommend the
processional wives."

Part Two: Cancer in April
"I wouldn't bother with any of the children. It wouldn't be fair and they
are far too needy. Tomorrow has a bellyache that can't be driven out. And
that bitch still sleeps on my couch."

Part Three: Silly Myths
"You needn't look at the husbands. They are far too macho with grief. Never
knew what bit them and now they spend time avoiding their dreams and
settling for something less. I am a fellow who gives a good goddamn about
what is right and true and lean. I will throw down for you in a fight. But
there are other men I have met who linger in dismal denial. For a dollar or
two I can have them beaten. Pay me in pennies because I like Lincoln. From
here on in you are on your own. No one is going to accept a note from your
mother. Fuck you. I'd like to have tome for the sick and the poor but hey
man, I am one of the sick and fired and I need a better saddle for this
trip. My poncho was left out in the sun too long and I think it's starting
to rain. Not a damn thing you can do about it. Not anything at all. You can'
t hop on a train and get off at Utopia Stop. I just doesn't exist. God knows
I have tried it all. I always think it will work out good, but to hell with
that. She is leaving or has already left. Happiness is a silly myth and I
have grown bored of playing with it. So I'm going to be so drunk and stoned
I'm sober. I'll be there in the spring. I will grow my hair out and discard
my hat so that I'll look different than when I left."

Part Four: Decisions, Decisions
"But goddamnit. I just want it all to be the way it was before. Even if I
was miserable half the time. It's better than being miserable all of the
time. I think that I could have made good if I hadn't blown my cover so
quickly. No one has to know me somewhere. I am almost ready for a small town
startover. A small place is the best to be. I've got a pile of laundry
quarters and a pile of porno tokens in the other. Which one do you want? You
can't have both. Which one will it be? Or would you rather have me instead?
(I know better than that.) I will stand on a freeway with my eyes to the sky
if you want. I'll trade pomes for peppers and red beans and rice and make
you a Mexican stew. I'll abandon all hope of recovery from this one and
accept whatever comes, hanging by my thumbs. I'll fight for you to the
death. I'll paint you paintings and leave you notes and conquer Philistines
and submit to common laws. I'll buy you tinsel and kite string and
construction paper and we'll make paper lanterns when it rains. And we can
dance to Etta James and John Coltrane when we make love. We will drink fine
bourbons and ride own damn show ponies and sell out crowds of one hundred
and eight. We will dine on bagels with cream cheese and macaroni. We will
laugh until our bellies hurt and we'll struggle when we are apart. I'll be
sick. I promise. I'll give you whatever I've got and we'll negotiate for
more. And hey, you aren't getting a bargain here. You'll have plenty of
trouble whipping me into shape. You may have to learn things just so you can
teach them to me and then I'll claim them as my own and condescend to you
because I am better at Jeopardy. I am in trouble with a capital "T" and that
stands for trivia, baby. And that's what sucks about the whole goddamn
thing. And "suck" is quite a deterrent, believe you me."

Part Five: Make Me a Star, Baby
"A retrospective is not a wake. Or is it alright to want a signed, limited
edition of your work before you are even published? But we should start out
there, shouldn't we? And hey, motherfucker, who asked you? Why isn't my face
on the box of Wheaties and the cover of Rolling Stone in the same week? Why
can't I be the darling of the press? Why can't I be a star? And I don't even
want to be a star right now. I just want to be in need of nothing as much as
I am in need of something right now. I like talking in code so don't ask me
to change the tires, change this twenty, change the topic, the channel, the
alarm clock to read a quarter past five and change your mind."

Part Six: Expensive Glowing Women
"But don't think for a minute that I don't have a plan B. I am the phoenix
rising from the ashes always in times like this and here is where I come to
life. My face is glowing as I experiment with my facial hair. (Mustache or
no?) The women all look at me and I can smell their thoughts. Could snatch
them all up if I had a good couple of minutes alone with them, provided I
had the inclination to do so in the first place. But I have grown weary of
seducing these kittens in the name of Anais Nin. (My name isn't even Henry,
silly rabbit.) This whole thing is tiresome and my taste is far too fucking
expensive. You can't afford a guy like me, baby. Don't even try it. I am the
Gingerbread Man. Catch me if you can."

Part Seven: Molding Clay
"I am the wisest of fools and I can tell you exactly what you want to hear.
I will tickle those cute little ears of yours until kingdom come or God has
a bad day. And when the laughter and the tears have passed me by, you will
be the one left open. An outpouring of anger? Indeed. But please don't act
like it matters to you. I blame myself for it all. Really I do. It all comes
back to this unattainable mold that I created for you in the first place. Do
you still fit?"

Part Eight: Truck Stop Love
"I want a Heavenly Her. Not a Luck Charms marshmallow trinket. I want a love
that feels like a toy Stomper 4x4 monster truck with brand new spanking
batteries inside. Fully charged, kiddo. And climbing full-force over
mountains of Lincoln Logs and crayons and other pieces I have left behind.
Headlights glaring bright. And this is where I want to be. Raise your hand
if you want to come along. There are a lot of you out there. I am 20 pounds
leaner and feeling fine. I will hold your hand forever if you let me. The
one that holds my cup will dance on her tippy toes for a long, long time.
And let God be called I liar if that's not true. I would even let you beat
me in a game of chess every once in a while. That is how much I love you. I
will stand on a street corner with a cardboard sign saying, "Will Work For
Love."

Part Nine: Habits Galore
"If only the mother of my children won't pick a fine time to leave me with
crops in the field. That bitch, Lucille. Where does she get off? And double
entendre runs amok everywhere. And you look in the mirror and see wrinkles
and graying temples and thinning hair and you brush your teeth and drink
from the shower head and swallow and wash an older body and holy mother of
God where does it all stop? How did I get here from there? And I will fall
in love with a woman's neck before I can even make it to her neighboring
barstool. I am an endangered species. Heterosexual renaissance man. I can
even cook. And I am here on display. And I will give $100 and a blowjob to
anyone that kills Rikki Lake, Judge Judy, Jenny Jones, Maury, (What in God's
name was Connie Chung thinking?), and Susan Powter. Stop the insanity, my
ass. Just stop her before she kills again."

Part Ten: Raging Bull
"But more and more I feel like I'll end up like poor old Dante. His Beatrice
ended up dead and was gone for good before they ever really had a chance.
And I am really trying to hash it all out here. And I am fighting my heart
on a daily basis. An hourly basis. And my brain is delivering what should be
knockout blows to my heart but to no real avail. A giant slap to the head
and Milan Kundera is no real help at all. Sure, sure. All women dig Kundera.
But I am just reading his books for material. Just to show that little hotty
over there just exactly how sensitive as hell I really am. "Care for an iced
cappuccino?" "You like Kundera? I just adore Kundera?" But I really only do
this thinking that if I can keep this little sham going for a week or so
more I just might stand a chance at kissing the corner of her mouth. I just
might be able to hold her hand and smell her hair when I kiss her goodbye.
And that nervous butterflies feeling is where it's all at for me. Up in my
chest and down in my belly is the thing I love best. And I will have a crush
on you at the drop of a hat. And later, when we are alone and I let her read
some of my silly pomes and dig on my art and my feelings on God and
literature and all that business, I will move in for the kill. So there you
have it. I let you in on my best part. Her cool company and me with
eternally shy darting eyes laying it on thick. Real thick. "And I can only
tell you this because you make me feel so comfortable." "I really relate to
you." "Only you can understand the real me."

Part Eleven: The Best One Yet
"But here's the deal. (And I'm not asking a lot here, mind you.) I am a
simple high-cultured low brow. A dungarees and crew neck T-shirt taste. And
my end of the deal is more than fair. A hug from behind as we sleep and hold
hands. And I get to jump on you and wake you up at three o'clock in the
morning when I can't bring myself to sleep. And I get kiss your belly and
smell your breath and look you square in your tired puffy eyes and swear on
God and man that you are mine."

-Jake