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Joe,

And though I’ve begun correspondence to you in the past with quotations from Carlo M. Cipolla’s “Economic History of World Population,” all I can do now is remind you of our directive. Your stay in the Hibernation Hive is neither coincidental nor frivolous. While your frustrations and delusions are unshared at this point, I will have a porch installed immediately. It may not meet your specific stipulations and be regarded as a back porch, but I hope something from the greater porch family will suffice.

And if you, by some chance, thought my station was roses and hot coffee, I’m sure the quick recollection of Teruel will quickly dispel that.

Forward,
Chad

Dear Chad,

Thank you for the reminders. It is my great pleasure to report my out-of-season stay in the Hibernation Hive is over, through, finished, finalized, and so on. As you may recall, training for future champions of The Mansion of Happiness commences this week in Sepulveda, California. I will be attending if Dr. Mark A. Teruel finds it in his heart to offer me a ride. It’s funny that you should mention him. Since our encounter at the Conference for Supremely Attentive Nephrologists, he has largely ignored me. Of course, our initial encounter was turbulent, to say the least. I can hardly blame him for being hesitant. I too am a bit reluctant. I may be hopping into a vehicle with a man who could leave me in an ice-filled tub sans kidneys without a second thought. And, perversely, that’s what makes it exciting.

Shall I quell my excitement with thoughts of your boredom in strange lands? Perhaps. I sincerely doubt that the humidity, which is likely the cause of your lethargy, has anything to do with the tedium in which you wallow. Though I do see your point.

Would you be so kind as to send me a bee keeper’s outfit in the next care package? I nearly forgot to ask. I’m hoping to make a bold fashion statement at next month’s dental appointment. Don’t worry, I’m not getting my teeth cleaned, I’ll just be prattling with the dental hygienists.

Sincerely,
Joe

Joe,

I am quite confused by your decision to attend the training sessions, especially having read your report on the discipline of training. Perhaps you went off-course in confusing our mutual acquaintance Dr. Turuel, for the Spanish town in which we met. Both proper nouns, to be sure, but so very different both conceptually and spatially.

Let me report on one thing and then leave you to the obvious retracing you must do. On October 29th at roughly 3:45pm EST I received a phone call from my current tailor informing me that my suit would not be ready the following week as scheduled due to the untimely death of his seamster. I wonder whether you have any knowledge of this incident.

Thank you,
Chad

Dear Chad,

My recollection of October 29 is vague at best. Possibly nonexistent. It is likely that I was handling and not eating Cameo apples. Also, Empire, Gala, Fuji, Jonagold, and Honeycrisp apples. But not Pinova apples. In response to your question, no, I have no knowledge of the incident involving your seamster, excepting what you’ve told me. I am saddened by the death, and I wonder how you have been coping with the late arrival of your suit. Proper fit, I trust?

Let us get back to the apples. In my aquaphobia research, which has been extensive, I’ve found that those who suffer from the aforementioned condition have invented a version of bobbing for apples that does not involve water. It’s completely ridiculous and ruins the traditional Halloween game, but hey, at least aquaphobes have a way to get their mouths on apples without getting their hands dirty.

Which brings us to Halloween. Two days after the death of your seamster. Is it then possible that his passing relates to the holiday, albeit in the future (now the past)? I’d say quite plausible. Please please please please please tell me you’re investigating. Some haunted bay somewhere, somehow holds clues. Clues just for you. It’s all very special and specific, I’m sure. Report your findings to me, as is our protocol.

Hey, let’s not forget bobbing for apples! Do forget the aquaphobe arrangement; it’s awful. Imagine you are about to go for a delightful Mutsu. The water should be extra cold, no? Are you able to get that apple in your jaws without getting your hair wet?

Sincerely,
Joe

Joe,

Foreword: I didn’t read your most recent letter, for lack of time. I’m at the office and working on a number of things. Fortunately, I found a box of correspondences from years ago that I had intended to send to you. What follows is a randomly selected one of those.

Whose forefathers do you channel to design such headdresses? Where do you keep your tanning supplies? When can I expect a full report on your “bypass” hydrogenation idea?

I open with these questions because I believe doing so to be the most efficient way of getting full responses from you. Now I shall simply make two comments. You may read them or ignore them, I believe the resulting consequence will be the same.

One. I took Jesper’s advice and fermented 20 kilos of cabbage for some storable winter sustenance.

Two. With two broken toes, my gait is altered in such a way that you may not recognize me as I approach you, dressed in black, at our predetermined place and time. Use your other skills to discern me from the swarming masses.

Thanks,
Chad

Dear Chad,

As it turns out, I did not recognize you or anyone else at the predetermined place and time. Has every single person on the planet suffered a gait-altering toe injury? Perhaps a less crowded meeting place is appropriate? I’m beginning to suspect that you don’t want to see me. I want to say that your master of disguise routine has gotten old, but it’s still fooling me. Even your weeks-old milk mustache disguise had me guessing. Was that actually a disguise? And was it really you? I’m still a little perplexed.

I didn’t understand your questions. Mostly because I thought the answers obvious. I have decided that my “bypass” hydrogenation findings will remain secret, especially from myself. Don’t ask again.

Shall I regale you with tales of my most recent endeavors? Will we fall asleep in beds made of juniper and lavender and lacinato kale? You may wait in Mawsynram with your umbrella overhead and galoshes underfoot, counting the hours until I arrive. It won’t be long. I’ll bring a guitar made of one thousand astronaut helmets, if as many exist. I’ll carry a briefcase filled with every taxable insectoid candy. I’ll wear shoes crafted by Myrna Loy’s ex-lovers. I will be the thin man. And when I smile, you will remember that my right front tooth was chipped in the fourth grade, again in the tenth, and repaired imperfectly, causing me a small amount of anxiety almost daily.

But what of the unseen night battles between nimbostratus and cumulonimbus? Is this not your ambition? To see the unseen? You can start by purchasing night-vision technology in some form. A house with a second story wrap-around porch may help your cause. These are ideas. I hope you won’t take offense. I hope you’re warm and adequately fed. Also.

Best intentions,
Joe

Joe,

I do imagine you to have the best intentions, although I have nothing but words to confirm this.

Yes, we really need to sort out this whole business of meeting and recognizing one another, it’s beginning to consume far too much of our correspondence. I’m paying premium prices per character and I imagine your information contract isn’t quota-less, either. Let’s plan to meet one last time and develop a more efficient protocol in person.

My ambitions, detrimental colleague, are to unsee the unseen. If you can understand that bankrupt and bloated statement, then you are ready to pilot my latest drone technology, to cold-press the dandelions after having gathered them from my yard, and as such to be a guest in my house on the 20th of the following month.

Daily,
Chad

Chad,

I’m not certain what your last letter contained. I had an Armenian friend translate it to Yezidi, which I could not read. Also, he supposedly did not know how to translate it back to English, the only language I am able to read and speak. I’m not certain why I did any of this or why yogurt companies make the lids so very delicate. Do they not know that if dropped from even the most innocent of heights yogurt will cascade upon the blouses and blue jeans of everyone within a five foot proximity?

I lied. I read your letter before I had it translated. I’ll meet you on the 20th. Please paint your house Baker-Miller pink. Carmine red will also work. Or Cerise, in a pinch. One of those three in descending order. Best to least best. I guess.

Guessing is something I was doing in June or July of last summer. Whenever Elgin and I tried to climb a small mountain. I guessed that it would be easy. Perhaps it was for the elderly tourists, but not for us young working folk. It’s embarrassing not tragic that we never reached the top. A thunderstorm was rolling in, that’s one excuse. But it had been rolling in when we started climbing, so think about that. I saw a man wearing a shirt with “NO EXCUSES” emblazoned on the front. Not on the mountain, but I should take that message to heart. Or at least keep it in mind for occasions when I desire to appear tough, masculine, confident, and of strong character. Whatever those words mean. Please let me know if you find out.

Elgin and I found out that water and food are imperatives for hiking. Two donuts and a soda in the morning aren’t enough. Bring water next time, I said to myself. Bring a sandwich. Be intelligent. A moose, then two moose were drinking from a mountain lake. They were intelligent beings not lacking in rapturous, cold water. Those stupid mountain lakes over that monstrous cliff taunted us. They insulted us. We weren’t born in the mountains. How are we to know what a mountain climb requires, I nearly shouted at them. I didn’t, fearing the wrath of the hoary wayfarers. We could see the top, and the closer and closer and closer it was, the harder it was to walk. Feet in sand? Feet in molasses? Syrupy feet in pancakes slathered in butter? It was like one of those. Every ten feet taking a break. We were pathetic creatures.

People were descending from the summit like Moses from Mount Sinai, their faces aglow as if God had been drinking iced tea up there. We turned away from them, much like the Israelites must have turned from Moses when he was rubbing his glowing face all over them. Stop rubbing that disgusting glowing face over our sweaty, dull, not glowing bodies, Moses, they said. Bolts of lightning struck the top of the mountain. People told us to be careful. They said we’d feel tingles in our feet. Like a thousand tiny pins in the soles of your hooves, said one man. Why did he call our feet hooves? Weirdo. We never felt the pins or tingles or anything except hard, annoying ground. We were less than a few hundred feet from the peak. We turned around and walked back to the car. I needed to be home for dinner. What did you have for dinner?

Joe