Thank you, Harry

HanukkahLand III, Night 6: A meandering seance resulting in the return of hard scifi

Most of the thank you notes this week have been in fact written by me, but this one is an exception. This letter was found crumpled up in my hallway. I think an alien wrote it on his way to the doctor.

Aliens can have doctors, you know? Why are you so negative about aliens?

There’s an alien doctor shortage right now, that’s the truth of it. And we all should be concerned. You live in your dream world filled with dreams, but what happens when you wake up? What’s going to happen then? Are you then going to find your way back to bed? Or are you going to face REALITY?

Dear Harry,

I have waited too long to write to you this letter. If I’m honest, I have been completely terrified to send this to you. You seem like a reasonable guy. Honest and hardworking. But you never, ever say anything. This makes you seem mysterious.

But I have to come clean and this letter is the best way I know how. I have the task entered into my Google Cal over a month ago — “talk to harry about the thing” — and I had a reminder set on my phone for every day since then — “talk to Mario, you lazy old fool” — followed swiftly by another set of reminders to be nicer to myself.

There’s too much of a risk involved in talking to you. I shouldn’t even go into it here, but suffice it to say, even if it’s irrational, my fear is real, and the entire solution is to commit these words to paper where I can’t edit myself. Here I present myself to the fullest extent of my emotion.

I need you to remove my air conditioner from the window. I know, right? Seems like such a simple request, but the second I start thinking about it, I spiral out of control. I mean, you’re probably thinking, “Is it already that time of year?”

Well yes, Old Man Winter has snuck up on us once again, and we all know the heating in this building sucks a$$, and every AC letting in the cracks of cold air makes us all a few more degrees colder.

At this point, I’m sure you’re thinking, “Can this guy do anything for himself? What kind of a limp-dick-fatass is he? Does he know I’m, like, 60 years old?” And yeah, I know how old you are, or at least how old Janyce, the city lead inspector, thinks you are. (I didn’t believe her, by the way. I said you could be 40!) And to your second point, you got me. I do marketing for a limp-dick-fatass tech company where the only hard labor I do all day is pretend to know what an OKR is. The system is not fair, but I hope you can at least recognize that we’re both victims of the same crime: capitalism.

Yes, capitalism is what keeps you in hard labor for well below union rates and the very same force that keeps me enslaved to my salaried office job with OK benefits and a lenient work-from-home policy. It’s what pacifies the masses and strengthens the lives of the few. It’s also what made me think I could save a few bucks by moving the AC myself, and also what made me drop the AC on the hardwood floor, and also what made the window stick open so now it’s less a window and more a make-the-room-40-degrees-colder-hole.

When you have some time, I would really appreciate you stopping by. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. I’m confident we can complete the task in 15 minutes or so. (The floor and the window are another matter, but that is none of your concern!)

Feel free to drop me a letter in response when you have a spare moment. Or, if you prefer, you can text.

Sincerely,
[REDACTED AS COURTESY]