The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Page 4

  Yes. I met Cranberry.

  Letter 10

  August 28, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Mrs. Carter,

  I have a new friend named Cranberry and he thinks you suck. He should know—he finished high school a few months ago. He had a good English teacher who helped him plenty. Cranberry said you totally suck, Mrs. Carter. If you're still alive, I hope this letter finds you well, at least well enough to read, so you know how much me and Cranberry think you suck.

  How does a high school English teacher grade a poem based on whether it rhymes or not? Have you ever heard of free verse, Mrs. Carter? It got popular among poets in 1920, maybe? That's right, FREE VERSE! You totally suck.

  I thought my poems kicked ass when I was in high school. I'd write a poem and then jump up and down and pump my fist and shout out the window, “Fuckin A, you fuckers. Check this fucker out.” And I thought, while I was writing them, I'd like to be a professional poetry writer. I'd jump around some more, tearing New Order posters off my bedroom wall. I thought, no matter how bad I hate my fuckface brother and my fuckface dad who disappeared, it doesn't matter as long as I have my poetry. I filled notebook after notebook with rocket fire word. And then you gave me a C and told me my poems were not very good, because they didn't rhyme. And then I sat in my basement for two months smoking weed, listening to the saddest music of all time, until my mom told me my b.o. was making her dry heave, which was eye-opening—I couldn't smell anything. And then I said fuck that noise, fuck everything.

  I'm not a poetry writer anymore, Mrs. Carter. I sold my dick to the man, Mrs. Carter. I went to work at a large financial services company after college, where I still worked until a few weeks ago. And it was good times. During staff meetings I would think about overdosing on drugs or sometimes about sex, but mostly about overdosing on drugs. For years I sat there with the fluorescent lights burning a hole through my hair, staring at a computer. Then, a few weeks ago, during a staff meeting, I couldn't help it, I took off all my clothes, screamed and jumped around like a monkey on crack. I don't work there anymore. Maybe I'll write poetry. Thanks for your help.

  Cranberry got kicked out of his house. Cranberry is a poet. I know he is and I'd give him an A, Mrs. Carter, even though he doesn't rhyme his shit. Cranberry is about imagination and intensity. I thought he was going to mug me when he accosted me early this morning, carrying a wad of balled-up notebook paper. I almost ran away from him, because he ran at me on the corner of Nicollet and 26th, shouting, “Hey you—Mister . . . wait,” and I didn't know him and it was sort of dark still and his eyes were wild and red and he was sweating and he has a big mohawk, Mrs. Carter. He would mug you without thinking twice. I would, too. You suck so terribly, you poetry killer.

  Cranberry got kicked out of his house yesterday. His mom has his CDs, Mrs. Carter. She also sucks. Do you know why she kicked him out of his house? He stopped obeying the house rules, which I told him was fair . . . he's nineteen. Do you know why he stopped obeying the house rules, Mrs. Carter? Cranberry loves his friends, especially one, who he told me is fat and sweet and smells like perfect sweet armpit and is on drugs and she makes Cranberry's young heart explode, because she is so desperate and sad and self-destructive.

  Cranberry tried to help this friend. He stayed with her for a week, washing her fat and beautiful face with a washcloth, bringing her 20-ounce Sprites and roast beef sub sandwiches, buying her comic books at the store down the street—he stayed with her for a week without telling his mother, and remember his mother sucks. (So do you.) Then, while he was out buying the fat drug girl a Sprite a couple of evenings ago, she escaped her apartment, ran away.

  Upon his return, Cranberry wandered through the apartment looking for the girl under beds, though he knew she could not fit there, and in closets. But she was gone. He stayed in her apartment waiting for her to come back, sitting on the couch made moist from her sweat and his tears, the sun setting. It tore him apart and she didn't come back, so he went home to his mother's, yesterday, and his mother kicked his ass right back out, because he hadn't called to tell her where he was. His mother has his CDs, Mrs. Carter. He slept in a park last night without his CDs. Do you know how Cranberry suffers?

  You might remember my brother, David, Mrs. Carter. He never suffered. He had you for tenth-grade English a couple of years before I did. You gave him an A on his poetry. He rhymed nose with toes and chose and wrote about a rose and shows and waxed lyrically about the Black Crows, and apparently that shit blows you away. But I know the truth. David's poetry simply blows, as do you, you sucky old bitch. David is a lawyer now. He's unhappy and hates his pretty wife. Are you unhappy, Mrs. Carter? I should hope so.

  Who doesn't suck? Cranberry. Cranberry has great panache. After he accosted me and read a poem instead of mugging me, a poem for which I paid him fifty dollars, a poem that detailed his fall from grace in beautiful symbolic language, I invited him to my house. He napped on my couch while I watched Montel, and he woke up crying for his fat friend on drugs, worried so much about her, his face green with fear, which broke my heart. He tried to call her. We drove by her apartment and she wasn't there. We could not find her, which made Cranberry dry heave like my mother when I smelled so bad back in high school.

  We returned to my apartment and Cranberry wanted pizza. We ordered a wonderful pizza from Fat Lorenzo's, a sausage one. The pizza didn't ever come. Cranberry, instead of calling back the pizza place, called 911. They wouldn't help us, even though our hunger was mounting. Cranberry called 911 again and again and again and again, screaming at the dispatcher about injustice. “No peace, no justice,” he screamed (while I laughed and laughed). Eventually the dispatcher sent the police. Cranberry received a citation for unlawful use of the emergency system. I received a disorderly conduct citation for telling the cop he would die, which is true—it wasn't a threat, just a fact, Mrs. Carter. That cop will die. The cop didn't like my saying so—in fact he was really bent out of shape about it, told me to shut my goddamn trap, and then he booked us both. Luckily, me and Cranberry were especially polite at the station and there were no hard feelings. I paid our fines and everything's cool. On the way home we stopped by Fat Lorenzo's and ate a beautiful pizza.

  Now we're sharing a bottle of Jack Daniel's, and we're both crying about life's terrible beauty.

  That's good stuff, don't you think? Life as poetry.

  But you couldn't know. You are a killer of good spirits. And you don't know shit about poetry.

  Have I told you my wife left me? She took our kids. I'm glad she did, because I'd boinked another woman. My wife never knew about that, but she knew something real: T. Rimberg, who is me, is a gutless, soulless, middle-class fuckface. Who wants to be married to me? Answer: nobody. I had no poetry in my life. You took it away.

  But now that I have Cranberry, I am a new man. Cranberry will be my administrative assistant. Cranberry will be my head of Research and Development. Cranberry will comb the cul-de-sacs of the Internet for the perfect contraption that will put me out of my misery. He understands me. He knows what I need to do.

  I am going to die. No, not from cancer in 2017, but by my own hand and soon and it will be beautiful. And just before Cranberry revs up whatever death contraption he finds in his research, I will write a beautiful rhyming poem with red Sharpie across my right thigh. It will say:

  O' the verdant valleys of my tender youth

  O'er run by jack-o-lanterns' spilt seeds of mistruth!

  Then pack-ed was my craw with sweet burning pot

  So high, a balloon, so empty I got.

  And thus I shall shuck off my coil mortal

  And slide like greas-ed owl poop through portals

  Of deadly poesies and shit spun muck.

  Do you hear me Mrs. Carter?

  (Please hear me!) You suck.

  How you like them rhymes? I hate them. I hate myself. I hate you.

  Hope this letter finds you well.

  Sincerely,

&n
bsp; T. Rimberg

  Day Four:

  Transcript 2

  * * *

  That's a terrible poem.

  I was mean. I'd forgotten. Mrs. Carter doesn't deserve that.

  I might still be mean, Barry. Don't know. I'm on sedatives.

  Cranberry and I were taken to the police station, which was . . . great, I guess. We were taken and fined for a completely absurd act.

  No. I don't write poetry.

  Without Cranberry? I'd be dead. He might be, too, without me. Or maybe I wouldn't be dead, given my inability to die. I know this: without him I'd be very unhappy.

  I didn't want him to stay with me. That first night, since he was so messed up, I told him to sleep in my mom's room. (I slept on the couch . . . I'm not interested in . . . )

  The whole place smelled like a horse or something the next morning.

  I asked him to leave late the next night. He said he had nowhere else to go. He shouted at me, “You want me to die in the fucking park?” Of course I didn't, but what responsibility did I have? And I sincerely did not want to spend the last days of my life worried about what the neighbor lady, one of my mom's friends . . . what Mrs. Peterson thought about me having a kid with a mohawk in the house. I honestly cared. Don't know why. So, I wanted Cranberry out. I told him he had to leave in the morning.

  I woke up early. I went outside and had a cigarette. (Cranberry smoked, so I smoked his cigarettes.) I'd dreamt again of cowering in the corner of that apartment. Outside there were . . . volleys of machine-gun fire and people screaming and crying, and my dad (or dad-like guy) is at the window, laughing. And this little, vulnerable black-haired girl is next to me . . . and I could hear people crying for their children in the street. Sobbing for their poor kids . . . you know . . . “No—no . . . please—leave him alone . . .” And I woke up shaking . . . my kids and Cranberry's mom and how . . . how she should be protecting him, would be if she knew anything at all. Then all I could think . . . Cranberry . . . take this kid and keep him safe. This poor kid.

  Yeah. Great trick for a suicidal—to protect someone else?

  I feel fatherly toward him.

  Journal Entry,

  August 30, 2004

  * * *

  Document, the signing of which creates an hombre-to-hombre relationship between T. Rimberg and H. Cranberry Schmidt based on trust and the following duties:

  1) Within the house H. Cranberry Schmidt is to:

  a) Use the Internet to research suicide machines.

  b) Wash his own dishes.

  c) Make his own meals (unless invited to join in a meal).

  d) Wash his own clothes.

  e) Act as assistant to T. Rimberg in any scheme created by T. Rimberg, regardless of the possible consequences to T. Rimberg.

  2) Outside the house H. Cranberry Schmidt is to:

  a) Drive T. around, for T. is tired of driving.

  b) Help T. shop for groceries.

  c) Mow the lawn.

  d) Act as assistant to T. Rimberg in any scheme created by T. Rimberg, regardless of the possible consequences to T. Rimberg.

  3) H. Cranberry Schmidt is never to claim to authorities or to Oprah or to Montel that T. Rimberg is in any way interested in him in a physical way, because that is not true and the thought thereof is enough to make T. desire to kick H. Cranberry Schmidt back out onto the mean streets immediately, where Cranberry, without his CDs and sweet, fat girlfriend, will likely die.

  4) In return, T. will provide Cranberry housing, food, etc., pay all the bills and take Cranberry wherever he may go, and he won't, under any circumstances, refer to Cranberry as his Butler, which angers Cranberry greatly, although being called Cranberry does not anger Cranberry, which boggles T.'s mind, because Cranberry is a ridiculous name.

  This agreement is binding until the time of T. Rimberg's death or whenever Cranberry wants to leave, which is fine by T., but T. won't kick him out unless Cranberry breaks with the binding rules set out herein. Amen.

  Signed

  T. Rimberg H. Cranberry Schmidt

  ________________ ________________

  On this date: August 30, 2004

  Day Four:

  Transcript 3

  * * *

  The news? Nope. Haven't watched any television at all.

  I am getting the letters and cards. I've read a couple.

  No, I haven't read the newspaper. I'm reading a cookbook I found in the common room. It's a cookbook for . . . good Buddhist living, I suppose. Light eating . . . I want to be satisfied by not stuffing my face. For instance, as much as I love pancakes soaked in Mrs. Butterworth, eating all that makes me . . .

  No, no television. How could I have seen CNN?

  They're covering the accident? Do you mean my accident?

  Patterns of light?

  On the highway?

  I don't know . . .

  No.

  Okay. Let's go. Let's get through this.

  I'm not nervous. I'm fine.

  Letter 11

  September 1, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Caroline,

  You were a helluva Prom Queen, did you know that? I mean, you were not only pretty, but you were just wonderful, too. So kind to everyone.

  I am living now with a boy. He just graduated from high school, and he said that the Prom Queen at his school wasn't wonderful, but was just pretty, if you like Barbie dolls, which he doesn't. He calls Barbie plastic. That's no metaphor, Caroline. Barbie is literally made from plastic.

  Do you like Barbie dolls?

  I don't. I like real people, Caroline. You have a pointy nose and your eyes are sort of close set and your hair is mousy. This was in high school. I imagine you're even more like a real person, now, Caroline. Aging is hard on pretty people, I think. We're thirty-five. You know what will save you, even when you're ancient and your skin is saggy and your breasts hang down to your knees and your ass has gone flat and you can no longer hold your pee? You have the smile of a very good person. You have a big, pretty, glowing smile that makes you wonderful.

  I've been thinking a lot about high school today. I'm stoned. I'm going to kill myself.

  Best of luck.

  T. Rimberg

  Day Four:

  Transcript 4

  * * *

  Cranberry opened up my worldview. At first he got me thinking about being a kid, in school. I'd been so obsessed with my dad and family, you know? I was almost done writing, I think, but then Cranberry reintroduced the outside world.

  Kids are so vulnerable to the bullshit . . . bull crap adults spew at them . . . they believe a lot of it—but should they? Maybe they should believe it. I don't.

  Right. I'm not that high functioning. Ha.

  Kids are sensitive, though, and they feel happy and bad and evil and dirty and right and wrong from their hearts, which seems right. Really authentic. Like the Prom Queen . . . Cranberry was so offended by his Prom Queen. He pounded the table with his fist. “Why she gotta be so cold?” He cried about the Prom Queen (as if Prom Queens have a responsibility to be good to all the people at their schools—maybe they do).

  Yeah, funny.

  I played football, so I wrote the jerk coach. And then . . . I thought of everybody and Molly Fitzpatrick, who was my first love.

  Yes, that Molly. Molly from the letter. Irish Catholic like you.

  My intent was to write to everybody who affected me or I affected, to maybe lessen the damage to me and them. I really wanted to get to everybody.

  Nasty? Most of the letters aren't, are they? I don't think so. I wanted to apologize.

  Letter 12

  September 2, 2004

  * * *

  Kurt O'Bannion, Football Coach.

  You're really a fucking moron. Do you think it matters who wins a high school football game? Oh, that will change the world, you moron. Oh yes. And barking at us like a pro wrestler? “Get the lead out, you pussies!” You fucking jerk! Know what? While you were coaching the defen
se, all us running backs were planning to smoke weed after the game. We did smoke weed. Maybe a hundred pounds of weed, we got sooo high all the time. Might have something to do with how often we forgot the plays. Maybe if you hadn't been such a fuckface pro wrestler, we would've cared more. Maybe we would've won a few games here and there. Maybe I wouldn't be so depressed now, if I'd skipped out on all that weed smoking to be a stand-up, golden boy football player in high school (doesn't dope fuck up your brain structure?). (I'm totally high right now.) This is a suicide letter, you ass. Go have another Lite Beer. Moron.

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 13

  September 2, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Sherri Staltz (if that's your name now—I assume you're married and whoever you're married to is very lucky),

  I'm sorry I repeatedly touched your knees and legs backstage during the high school production of Our Town. As I was a football player and an egomaniac, I assumed you were as into me as I was into your knees and legs. Plus, your dress, the costume, was very pretty and you seemed perfect, and the truth is I wanted to sweep you away to some hot Florida beach and make love to you while Jan Hammer played beautiful synthesizer music in the background. Of course, I had a girlfriend and you were considered a geek by most of my friends, and thus I would never have had anything to do with you except in a clandestine, backstage kind of fashion. I was an idiot. And when you sobbed, “Stop it,” I was really shocked, actually angered. And I called you a terrible name even though I knew you to be a really sweet person. Fuck me, huh? Seriously. Fuck me. I'm an ass. Don't worry, I'm going to fix this mess.