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IT’S TAX DEADLINE DAY; people are snaking out the post office door. I know I can’t stop to think or I’ll chicken out, and then the letter will end up under the seat of my car, where things like lost pieces of candy will stick to it. Unfortunately, I can’t just put a stamp on this letter, since I have no idea how much postage to Australia even costs. I shuffle ahead with the line, puffing out my cheeks as I glance at my watch. This is taking forever. Is it worth it? I look up and see my mother-in-law passing me on her way out. She glances in my direction then quickly looks away. I can tell that she’s seen me, but she’s trying to make like she didn’t. I kind of wish that I could dodge her, as well, but I’d have to leave the line to do that. I’ve already been here fifteen minutes, so I might as well wait it out.
Portia’s dressed in her standard Chanel-suit uniform with her three-strand Mikimoto pearls. I imagine her closet is a tribute to Coco, with miles of Chanel suits in every color, each pressed within an inch of its life. She steps toward me resignedly and looks me up and down with that searing look that says I married well above my station. I’ve seen that look before; in fact, I receive it every time I see Portia. Portia and I have never really seen eye to eye on anything. She absolutely tortured me while Tim and I were planning our wedding, so much so that I finally convinced Tim to elope to Vegas. It’s not like we would have even been able to have our wedding in Rhode Island anyway. We’d had three venues cancel on us; then I found out that Portia was behind those cancellations. Tim didn’t believe me until she actually admitted to paying the venues to cancel.
Tim is constantly torn between his mother and me, which I am sure is a major drag for him. Portia has interrupted more intimate moments between Tim and me than I can count. I know she’s lonely since Tim’s dad died and all, but she’s ridiculous. It’s almost as if she knows when we’re about to have sex, and then she calls. Our disjointed caller ID voice always mispronounces her name, “Call... from... Por Tee Ya Dunkirk.” And then Tim drops me and runs to answer her call every time. I used to delight in the caller ID robot mispronouncing her name. Now it just pisses me off when I hear it.
“Hi, Brenda!” Portia gushes. “Don’t tell me Timothy waited to the last minute to send your taxes in.” She glances at the envelope in my hand, trying to see what it is. I step ahead with the line. She follows, her eyes fixed on the letter.
“Nope, he sent ours in January, just as he always does. Our return is safely in our retirement fund.” I really wish I hadn’t just told her that. Why do I invite her to discuss our finances? What I should have said was that we’ve used our refund to buy a couch, so we wouldn’t have to sit on those starchy chaises she bought for Tim after insisting that she decorate the house.
“Good for him,” she says, smiling tightly. “You never know where the future will take you.” But what she actually meant was, “Your career as a publicist is flaky at best, and Tim should be saving every penny he can for when you leave him and bleed him dry.”
“Well, Tim and I are a great team.” I smile back at her. But what I wish I could actually say is “I am not a gold digger. I love your son, and I am not ever planning on leaving him.” At last, the woman behind the counter calls to me, and I can tell that the man behind me in line is growing impatient. “Oh look, it’s my turn. Gotta go! Lovely to see you, Portia.” I wave with the tips of my fingers as she makes her way to the exit. Glad that’s over with. I wish I could just tell that woman what I really think of her. But if I did, it would hurt Tim’s feelings. He and his mother are very close; more so since his dad passed away. Either I get in between them and look bad, or I can be her doormat and feel bad. Either way, I can’t win.
When I get to the counter, I place the envelope face down on the scale, still not wanting anyone to see who I am writing to. The woman working the counter, obviously exhausted from her long shift, huffs and turns the letter over. She punches the postal code into her computer. I hope she doesn’t notice that I am sending a letter to the attention of Mr. Keith Kutter, Hydraphonic Records, Sydney, Australia. Does anyone still know who he is? Back in the ‘80s and ‘90s, he’d been on the cover of every magazine. In the mall, you could hear their songs blasting from every single store. But today, I wince, bracing myself for her judgment. Yes, I am conscious of the fact that I am a thirty-five-year-old woman mailing a letter to an ‘80s rock star.
“Next!” the woman calls out to the next person in line without even giving me a second look.
I press the stamps on the envelope and slide it into the slot. This is by far the dorkiest thing I’ve done in a while. Sending a letter to Keith Kutter feels like I am just shy of parking myself on his front lawn like some deranged groupie. I will probably never tell another living soul about this act of dorkery I’ve just committed. Not even on my deathbed. Maybe Keith will see the letter, maybe he won’t. Either way, I just needed to reach out to him to let him know that I want to know more. Maybe his family will never forgive him, but to survive professionally, he has to get his fans to forgive him. I think he could pull it off if he really tried to show us that he’s changed.
When I get back to work, I see that I have a voicemail from Annie Wilkins, an editor at MTV News. Annie and I went to college together, and she’s still a very good friend.
“Hey, Bren,” she says in her usual cheerful voice. Annie is always so upbeat. I don't know how she does it, or how it's even possible, because she never drinks anything with caffeine. “So, you got any juicy news for me?”
"Let me check," I tell her, pulling up the newsfeed on my phone. Annie can rely on me for a story now and then, which I gladly provide, mostly because talking to her is just plain fun.
“Jamie Fire is doing a benefit in your neck of the woods tonight," Annie says. "Have you heard anything about any of her shenanigans?”
I swipe through the newsfeed, but it's all pretty boring. “No, nothing too interesting yet. It’s still just lunchtime, though. She has an entire afternoon to do something stupid."
Jamie Fire is the latest teenage-sensation pop tart. The entire world is on the edge of their seats, waiting for her public deflowering. Until then, she’s stringing them along with her virgin/whore drama. As a result, she’s selling like crazy, and her impossibly flat midriff is on the cover of every magazine and in every Pepsi ad all over the world.
"So far, she and her entourage have gone shopping," I say, reading from the newsfeed. "I think she’s going to Taylor Swift’s house on Ocean Drive for brunch tomorrow. Sounds like she’s behaving herself.” I laugh. We talk for a few minutes about how we need to get together soon, but we can never seem to get our schedules to line up.
After we hang up, it’s back to work for me. I have the Smile product launch in July that I need to get to work on. This project could be just the thing to propel me into management. First on the agenda is preparing for a team meeting that I’ll be leading this afternoon. Joy left the mockups for the magazine ads on my desk while I was out that still need client approval. Unfortunately, the color and the font are all wrong. And I need to get with Joy to see what kind of progress she’s made on the media buys. Joy is our receptionist but wants to move into a new role, so I kind of have to hold her hand while she’s learning. I have seventeen new emails in my inbox, all of which came in while I was at lunch. Amanda needs me to send her some sample press releases for the pitch she’s preparing for tomorrow, too.
My letter to Keith slips out of my mind just as fast as it slipped into the slot at the post office.