The Things That Stay

Letter 5: Simon - February 13th, 1965

I don’t have time to write a polite and suitable opening sentence because now that I have properly read and comprehended your place of residency, I am absolutely floored with excitement. You are aware that you live in the same town as The Beatles, aren’t you? You have to be. And I must say that I am giddy. I am a legal adult and I am actually giddy, and I have now used the word giddy in a literal fashion and I’m not even ashamed of it.

Do you realize how thrilling this information is? I have practically worshipped them for the last two years—I’ve got their records and I don’t even have a record player for God’s sake, and here you are living in their very birthplace. You must run into one of them someday and acquire an autograph for me, and then my life can be complete.

Now that’s out of the way, I will answer to your heartening concern about my health: believe it or not, I’ve actually been on a bit of an up-tick recently. I am now allowed to walk about sometimes and, as a result, I no longer have to piss in a tube. (Huzzah!) And I’m sorry to hear about your bill predicament—I’d be happy to take on your payments if you’d be willing to switch genes with me, namely the difficult one that’s been wreaking havoc upon my poor airways. Just say the word and I’ll make the transaction happen, for I am a man of my word. By the way, Old Faithful sends both a “hello” and a hearty “fuck you, you goddamn little bastard slut” in your direction—her words verbatim. I would have left that bit out, but I think doing so would tarnish the integrity of her greeting.

Well, Sahdri sounds lovely, I’m sure. I can hardly blame her for falling in love with me. You know, it truly does get exhausting being lusted over by so many beautiful women. After all, there is something positively irresistible about oxygen cannula, respirators and narcissism, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, if I’m ever well enough, I will insist upon trespassing in Liverpool and taking you two wonderful ladies to dinner (as well as casually stalking John Lennon). I’m not quite sure how I’d get down there, since I’m sure the tube would be a bit dubious about letting in a guy with a portable oxygen tank and respirator, though I can assure you that I will somehow manage it.

Anyway, I hope to drop you a telephone call within the week, and if you don’t pick up I promise to leave a long, suggestive message upon your answering machine. Since you’ve been experimenting with my considerably brilliant sense of humour, I’m quite sure that you will appreciate that.

Now, we have arrived at the most important part of this letter. Given that tomorrow is, in fact, the most romantic day of the year, I thought that I would write you, Holly Halliburton, an amorous and sensual poem. I do hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

           

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I am not dead,

Which I’m sure that you knew.

Your words in my heart,

In my head you will stay:

You are so very smart

You take my breath right away—

Oh goddamn, never mind,

It is not your sharp tongue

That puts my breath in a bind

No, it’s just my bad lungs.

A bit rocky in the beginning but I think it really picked up speed and took on a life of its own towards the end. Anyway, I do hope you have a romantic Valentines Day (if you indeed have a boyfriend), and if not, you can be comforted in the knowledge that I myself will be spending said day eating chocolate pudding and weeping as I watch various soap operas in the hospital waiting room.

 Sincerely yours,

Simon (Cupid) Dalaigh