Eighteen. I was a decent-looking USC college freshman with a badass Cutlass Supreme, my very own upright piano from childhood that I had shipped directly to my dorm, three new roommates, a full schedule of music classes, and a view of the Hollywood sign from my living room window. For a guy who’d never been to sleepaway camp (or to ANY camp for that matter, or allowed to sleep over at a nearby relative’s house, or a friend’s house . . . OK . . . maybe once, but . . .), this was the life!
The two-bedroom, one-bath dorm was on the seventh floor of an on-campus, fourteen-story building known as Webb Tower. This was the first place I was to form one of my many long-term relationships with a mailbox. This particular one had a satin-brass finish, and was built into a large conglomeration of similar mailboxes located in the lobby. I was the main proprietor of the box known to me as 711. Two of my roommates were from California, so they weren’t far enough away from home to warrant an abundance of mail. My other roommate was a tough guy from Boston who was not a member of any Let’s-Keep-in-Touch Club. So the doggone box was mine.
The first letter I received from my mother was this postcard:
September 27, 1981
Dear Adam—
Another view from San Francisco—If you go here—
make sure you bring your winter coat—you’ll need it.—
gets very cold—
Love,
Mom
A typical motherly warning, you say? Nothing off the deep end? Perhaps . . . but it would have been a wee bit embarrassing if one of my roommates were to have read it. I don’t remember my mother ever even going to San Francisco, but it would stand to reason that the only thing she’d have to tell me about it was its arctic weather and how I might avoid hospitalization from frostbite when visiting.
Then this came:
October 3, 1981
Dear Adam,
You never have time to talk on the phone. Are you
meeting any nice girls?
Make sure you dry your dishes before you put
them away.
Love,
Mom
What the . . . ? It was strange, but I let it go. For what it’s worth, I hung on to the letter. I never asked my mother what she meant by those words. Perhaps she’d just dropped a dish and had it on her mind when she put the pen to the pad. Maybe she was just kidding around (oh, sure). Or maybe she was convinced that somehow if she didn’t warn me, a wet serving tray would end up doing me in. Then, I received this. Believe me, I’m not leaving anything out. What you see is all there was:
Tues.
Adam—
Don’t have anything to do with your paternal grandmother—
Love,
Mom
And the gloves are off, ladies and gentlemen! While there is a backstory to her demand, to see it on paper like that always makes me shake my head in pure disbelief. You see, at my mother’s insistence, I had not spoken to anyone on my father’s side of the family since the day he died in 1971. I guess she sent me that little reminder letter in case I forgot Adam’s Mom’s RULE NUMBER ONE: Do not have ANYTHING to do with my evil relatives in New Jersey.
It all started in 1971, when my mother received a letter from her brother-in-law (my uncle) stating that now that his brother (my father) was dead, they (my evil relatives) wanted nothing to do with us (my mother) ever again. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’ve heard that in some (normal) families, when a person dies, the mother, brother, and sister-in-law of said person don’t write a letter cutting off the rest of their grieving family. Not so much with this gang.
To say my mother had a vile relationship with that side of the family is the understatement of all time-and-space continuums. They all passionately loathed each other, if for no other reason than the claim of ownership both sides felt they had over my father. I believe my mother felt my father was HERS, and this pissed my dad’s family off. And vice versa. In the tug-of-war between his family and his wife that he was forced to partake in, my father chose his wife. (Why does this sound so familiar to me?) Because of their rift, all of us first cousins never got to know each other. Oh, well. C’est la vie. Who needs family when you’re growing up? I knew that somewhere down the line, later in life, I’d have to fix the whole damn mess, but first things first. I knew the moment that particular warning letter from my mother arrived that it was my duty, my calling, my obligation, to become the first and only official curator of all things Adam’s Mom. (If for no other reason than to make people feel better about their own mothers.)
I’m a positive kind of guy. I adapt well to new situations, love meeting new people, and had no issues with having moved so far away from my mother for a single second. (Duh.) Now, imagine my surprise when I received a last will and testament in the mail from her. Was she gravely ill and not telling me about it? Was she just being uncharacteristically responsible? I soon learned it was neither. No, no. Last wills were to become one of the main recurring themes in our correspondence. If it wasn’t the will itself, it would be a list of her various insurance policies, retirement funds, and possessions that made up the boatload I was to inherit, if and when anything ever happened to her. The odd thing is that the list rarely differed from letter to letter. It consisted of the same policies and the same benefit amounts, while offering my mother the same amount of relief (each time) to finally have it all in writing. Yet when that first one came . . . sure, I got a little nervous. I had never seen a will before. What’s wrong? Why the will? I guess every college student should have a copy to pull out from their school locker. Just in case.
Sunday
Adam—
Enclosed is a copy of my latest Will.
Love,
Mom
I decided to look around campus for other forms of life who were receiving wills in the mail. Remember: This was the era before the Internet, cell phones, and home computers. If you wanted to make a friend, you had to get off your feet. Perhaps there was someone else out there in the big bad world with a family (read: mother) like mine! I had been looking for a fraternity to pledge, even though I am NOT your typical frat boy. I hadn’t had my hair cut short since the fifth grade, I hated golf, and I didn’t own one pair of plaid shorts. That’s when I turned to the Sammy house—Sigma Alpha Mu. A like-minded group of fellas whom I immediately related to, with the help of a little upright piano located in their living room. I found my audience. I met a lot of terrific guys who I’m still friends with and a lot of very nice-looking sorority girls who loved to hear me and only me sit and play that piano for hours on end. (Hey, I can dream, can’t I?)
Of course, before you can become a member of any house, you have to go through a hazing or two of some form or another. I’m sure there were many fraternities who based their existence on the movie Animal House, but Sammy? They were pretty light on the crazy stuff. I didn’t mind that week of whacked-out events and activities, as I found the whole networking thing to be worth the short period of discomfort, lack of sleep, and embarrassment. (Hell, hadn’t I already been through seventeen years of that at home?)
Friday
Dear Adam,
I didn’t send you to college to brush toilets with a toothbrush.
You have to get out of that fraternity and concentrate
on your studies!
Love,
Mom
P.S. Toilets are receptacles for disease.
I don’t think I’d ever seen the word “receptacles” used in a sentence. Very interesting. You really do learn a lot in college, don’t you? And to clarify, a toothbrush never entered the picture. So what if a bunch of the Sammies asked me to reach into a urinal while blindfolded in order to pull out a rotten banana? Big deal. This was all part of life at a university. I just made the untimely mistake of sharing the news with my mother. I also realized that if any of my frat brothers were to have found that letter, I guarantee you the word “toothbrush” would have been my new name.
There were letters that contained far too much information for any eighteen-year-old kid to be told by a parent. Take this one, for example. Here are three things you’ll need to know to better understand it: Graham = someone my mother dated. Dundee = someone my mother never dated, but admired. Adam = me = my mother’s son = someone who’d have preferred never opening this.
Thursday
Adam—
This guy (Graham) really is a jerk! He’s no Dundee either! He’s not at all masculine. A wimp! I can’t stand weak men! That’s why he likes that German lady. She’s happy to take control and, Adam, I can’t go to bed with someone that turns me off! I don’t think you could either!
I don’t know if there’s anyone out there for me. If not, I’ll just do the best I can on my own. I’d rather be alone than put up with someone’s behavior that makes me want to throw up. If I weren’t so particular, I could have been remarried 10 times already!
Take care of you for me. You’re the most important man in my life. (Until another comes along.)
Love,
Mom
Yikes! I don’t care WHO my mother is sleeping with. For that matter, just WHO was this guy Graham, and why would he be sleeping with my mother? Scratch that. I don’t want to know. It’s getting far too Oedipal for me. All I know is that I didn’t want to be the most important man in my mother’s life. It sounded too weird. And back then, I didn’t have time to be the most important man in ANYONE’S life.
My mother decided to sublet an apartment in New York. She felt like she had lived in Miami Beach long enough, and was ready to move. I was happy for her. Happier for me because I knew New York was no closer to California than Miami. I was ready to take on the world. Solo. I decided to audition for a campus production of the musical Fame. If you remember the original movie, it featured a character named Bruno who was the piano-playing god; the voice and composer of the show’s musical extravaganzas. It was a big role, and I felt like it was made for me. Although I hadn’t memorized lines since starring in a fourth-grade production of My Fair Lady, this was Hollywood, baby, and I believed I was ready to act. Luckily, after a good audition, I landed the role! Unluckily, the people running the show didn’t clear the rights for us to perform Fame in its entirety on stage, so the cast could only perform the music from the show. Since that would have taken only about twenty minutes, we were asked to choose any other song not from Fame that we wanted to sing. Without a second thought, I chose my favorite Elton John masterpiece, “Funeral for a Friend.” I remember telling my mom, who insisted on flying to LA to see me perform that spring. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she said. But it was never about the joy of her coming to visit . . .
Wednesday
Adam—
Enclosed find this insurance document in case my plane
crashes. Looking forward to seeing you in the show.
Love,
Mom
Yes. The warmth of a mother’s love, and the threat of air disaster. And all in two sentences. Like a slice of haiku.
It was more about the possibility of the doom she had to face by visiting me. And to document her bravery on paper, before stepping onto any airplane, she would spend a few minutes and a few dollars purchasing flight insurance to mail me directly from the airport. This would pretty much guarantee me some major money if (and when) her plane didn’t safely land. Of course, she not only made it safely to the show, but she ended up being a huge hit on campus with practically everyone. They all thought she was the best mom EVER for flying out to my show and hanging with all my new friends (wherever we went). But I knew she had an agenda. She was merely tagging along to make sure I was “safe” or to be there in case I, I don’t know, needed a sweater? You name it, she was checking it all out. Yet I felt like Chief Inspector Dreyfus from the Pink Panther movies in that I was the ONLY person who recognized what was REALLY going on here. To everyone else, she was Supermom. To me, she was casing the joint.
She met my classmates, some of the parents who were around at the time, and a few of my teachers, including my music theory/composition teacher, Dr. “Skip” Lauridsen. I consider him one of the finest teachers I ever had and one of the most talented classical composers I’ve ever known. Skip gave me the hardest time because he loved to push his students. No one had really pushed me before Skip. “You can do better than that!” “Try not to be so predictable in that song!” Whatever it was he said, I realized I wasn’t the “Anything-I-do-is-simply-splendid” guy that I had been (and still am) to my mother. What a wake-up call that was for me. Skip didn’t always give me the best grades, but that only made me work harder. He also irritated the hell out of my mother.
Tuesday
Adam—
I don’t understand why your music professor is giving you a hard time. Do you want me to talk to him?
Love,
Mom
Oh, sure. Dr. Lauridsen? You remember my mother. She just wanted a few minutes of your time to discuss changing that C you gave me to an A. Do you mind? Great.
It was during my sophomore year at school when personal freedom and I took a little vacation from each other. I was riding in the front passenger seat of a friend’s Pinto (remember those?) long before seat belts were the in thing (or required by law) when his car was struck head-on by another vehicle. The driver of the other car was heavily intoxicated and arrested on the spot. Everyone was fine except for me. I was knocked unconscious and had to be pried out of the Pinto (after going half-way through the windshield) and taken directly to a local hospital with a fractured hip, an injured eye, and various bloody cuts and bruises. My mother was contacted, and she immediately flew out from New York (with no insurance policy, by the way) to be with me. After the surgery to remove a few little bone fragments from my right hip, I soon returned to my dorm on crutches. Now get this: My mother decided to tag along with me and take up residence IN the dorm—you know, to make sure I fully recovered. Four college dudes and my mother. You couldn’t make up this kind of shit. Was it a sitcom? A shitcom? No wait . . . I’ve just invented a word . . . it was a sitmom! (Sitmom © 2011 Adam Chester.)
A couple of my roommates actually got a kick out of my mother’s awkward interactions with all things Adam. This was the round-the-clock version of my junor high locker room event. My mother was in our apartment for our breakfasts, our lunches, and our dinners, and she invaded our space with an energy that no dorm should ever be forced to know. There were plenty of motels, YMCAs, and bus benches she could have slept on, but my dorm apartment was perfect. It was free of charge, and I lived in it. I recently took a moment to speak with one of my roommates from this particular era who we’ll call “Michael” because that’s his name. In our phone conversation, he revealed the following:
“It was surreal. All of a sudden, this woman was there, asserting her role into all of our lives. Mrs. Chester wanted to be everyone’s mother. My strongest memory was when she purchased a new outfit. I can still picture it. It was a butterscotch-colored pantsuit. Very rich looking. She was going out on a date.” “A date?” I asked him. “A date,” he replied. “But I was just out of the hospital. You know, recovering. Who was she going out on dates with?” I asked.
My old roommate continued, “Oh, she went out on several dates and told me EVERYTHING about them. She asked me how she looked in that outfit and modeled it for me.” I began to slither down my office chair as I listened to him tell me this. According to Michael, on several occasions she told him the guy she was going out with that particular night was “the guy” she would end up marrying. How weird that must have been for poor ol’ Mike, who didn’t know her from . . . well, Adam. The thing was, there was NOTHING HE OR ANY OF MY ROOMMATES COULD DO. They just found themselves in the circumstance of her living with us. Michael went on, “It was bizarre, loud, and all consuming—her existence in our apartment revolved solely around you and her. Then, there were YOUR issues of having your mother living with us at college.” And that’s exactly what she was doing. Could this have been her plan all along?
You might ask where I was during all of this. Painkillers. Lots of them. After a couple of weeks of those, I arose from the Dating Game going on outside my bedroom door and headed back to my classes. I was moving to and fro comfortably on crutches, going out on weekends, and hanging out at night with my friends. Only problem was, when I’d come back to my apartment, there SHE was. My mother. And whenever she felt as though everyone was getting tired of having her around, she would go out food shopping for us and/or make us dinner to get back in our good graces. Michael finished our recent phone conversation by telling me that they were all somehow enchanted by her, as she was totally different from any other mother figure they had ever known. “Your mother had some endearing qualities that made her sticking her nose in everyone’s business somehow more bearable . . . Mrs. Chester was everybody’s friend.” Great. Nice talking to you, Michael. Next time you see me, do me a favor? Kill me.
When December vacation finally rolled around that year, my “roomie” and I flew to Miami. I told her she would never again be allowed west of the Mississippi. For a while, that actually worked and she remained back east.
My mother has this ability to strike up a conversation with anyone, anywhere, anytime just to work the word “Adam” into the topic. “Excuse me, sir, but what’s that book you’re reading? Oh, that’s terrific. You know my son reads?!” Though even when the dialogue truly concerns my affairs, her judgment isn’t always sound, and sometimes the dumb-blonde routine kicks in and she just checks out. All gone. No patience or discipline to get involved with specifics.
Take for example the time she arranged to have my Cutlass driven back to me for my junior year at USC. (Heaven forbid I should be without my own wheels and suffer the consequences of another car accident.) She found a company by the name of Dependable Car Travel. Of course she checked them out and did everything to make me feel comfortable about having my beloved car driven back to me across the country by total strangers. Right?
In the letter she sent me to confirm everything, she begins with the words “Dependable,” “UCLA prospects,” and “phone contacts.” Great job, Mom. All good. But then . . . wait . . . what? What about my tapes in the trunk? Fingerprinted? Who? Not from the United States? What does that have to do with . . . ? I don’t understand. Who are these . . . ? Mom?
Mooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!!!!?!
September 9, 1983
Dear Adam,
Your car is leaving today for California. Two guys in their late 20s are going out to look into UCLA for themselves. They’re supposed to be in California Saturday the 17th.
Dependable Car Travel has an office in California—number is XXX-XXXX.
Just get the car from them—(the guys). I gave them your telephone number out there. Don’t get involved with those guys. They’re not citizens of the U.S. They only have resident cards. They were being fingerprinted by the agency when I called as they do with anyone who takes a car.
I hope there were no tapes in the trunk that have not been copywritten [sic].
There’s no reason to call the office—but they told me to give you the number anyhow.
I’ll be happy when you finally get your car!
Love,
Mom
I got my car. I got my cassettes. I also got a bicycle, a set of large power tools, some very cool trading cards, and a new color TV.
And luckily, I (and I alone) would have a place to put all that stuff once I inherited the family fortune, as my mother clarified for me in this addendum to her last will and testament.
Saturday
September 24, 1983
Dear Adam—
You know my will that you had in your drawer in your apartment last year—Where did you put it when you packed up to come here for the summer? It’s very important that you don’t lose it—When you find it, make sure the age in it for you is 18 not over. Because I’m sure I wrote that after you’re 18 yrs. of age, everything I own goes to you.—You need to have that will if anything, God forbid, happens to me. So no one can take anything from you. Please find it and keep it in a good place.
My life insurance policy with Mutual of Omaha for $20,000 and $10,000 with the State of Florida names you the beneficiary in all I have but I want to make sure no one else gets it. And of course, the car which, when I get the title, I’ll turn over to you.
Keep this letter too and don’t throw it out ’cause it also proves my intent. I don’t want any good-wishing relatives to say they will handle the money for you! You’re old enough to handle it yourself and anyhow, insurance is not considered part of an estate. So the insurance, in any event, goes right to you! I don’t want Nan or Pop or Michael or Bonnie to get their hands on it! You’re my son and the only one to have it!
Keep this letter in a good place and find the will!
Love,
Mom
Hmm . . . how about I include a picture of your letter in a book I’ll write one day? I digress . . . though I think I finally understand her point. I’ll inherit $30,000 and some car she didn’t quite own yet. Check. Got it. Nan, Pop, Michael, and Bonnie didn’t deserve to be a part of that gravy train.
I felt as though I had been deprived my entire life. I was innocent, naïve, and pretty much a blank canvas prepared to soak up everything around me in and out of class. Yet it was the plethora of information I found in my mother’s letters that ended up enlightening me to the things that truly mattered. Knowledge any proud son would pass on to future generations. In just a few short words, I learned about . . .
Home Ec and self-esteem:
Wednesday
Dear Adam—
Just a note to remind you that if you have to pay anyone for anything, write a check from your checking account. Do not pay any other way. If you don’t have enough in your checking account, wait until you do before you pay any bills. I have a busy day tomorrow so I’ll try to get to bed early.
Love,
Mom
P.S. You have a beautiful nose! Don’t let anyone touch it!
Hope:
Adam—
Encl. find article I found in local paper—I guess there’s
hope for me yet!
Love,
Mom
I WISH TO MEET A NICE JEWISH MAN
About 85 to 100 Years Old. For Steady Company and Maybe It Will Lead To Marriage.
I am Alone and Very Lonesome.
I am a Nice Little Lady, Very Pleasant And Unhappy
Because I Hate to be Alone.
Hopefully Yours
Pauline
My Phone Number is 
in Miami Beach.
Chinese people:
Friday
Dear Adam,
Please take care of the car because even when we trade it in, it should be in good condition. Take it over to Marian’s mechanic and tell him who sent you. He’s Chinese and he won’t rip you off. Get an estimate.
Love,
Mom
November 8, 1983
Dear Adam,
Just a note to tell you not to jaywalk. A young girl walked across the street at night, not at the corner where a light was, and was hit by a car. Don’t jaywalk!!
Love,
Mom
P.S. I know you think I’m crazy, but I don’t care!!
The need to do good in life:
I’m so proud of your grades. You really don’t have to get all A’s!! I don’t know what you’re trying to prove! You’re a better man than I, Charlie Brown.
(Golly. Maybe she’s not so bad, after all. Except . . .)
Forgiveness:
November 14, 1983
Dear Adam,
I found out the other day that Dr. Weil, when you were going with Ida, had spoke to Ida’s father ’cause they’re friends and told him he didn’t think it was a good idea for you and Ida to get serious. That’s why Ida’s father called you in his office! So Leonard was the villain there! Not that it matters now, but you see how all things eventually come out in the wash. Don’t bother doing anything now. God is punishing him. They think he has cancer of the throat. Maybe he shouldn’t talk so much! In the future when you see him, you could tell him you know.
Love,
Mom
Whoa! I just read that letter for the very first time! I’ve never heard my mother be so angry at someone who did absolutely nothing to her! Ida was my high school sweetheart in Miami. My first sexual partner. And like most people and their first encounters, you believe you’re going to end up together forever and ever and ever.
Dr. Leonard Weil was a friend of our family for decades! I’m pretty sure he never would have said anything to Ida’s father about our relationship. Even if he did, I wish I could thank him now for having kept me from doing something stupid at a very young age. Unfortunately, Dr. Weil stopped talking for good many years ago.
Don’t get my mother wrong. She doesn’t mean anyone any harm, as long as you leave the kiboshing of my love life to her. She can be quite sentimental too! Observe this Valentine’s Day card she sent me. So sweet. So normal. Until you hit the word “over” and the true ADAM’S MOM EXPERIENCE begins. This also began the era of “Adam’s pet names,” or as I liked to call it, “ONE MORE WAY FOR ADAM TO GET THE SHIT KICKED OUT OF HIM IF THIS LETTER WAS TO HAVE BEEN DISCOVERED BY ANYONE AT THE TIME IT WAS RECEIVED.” Is it ever OK to be called “Poppy-seed” after the age of five?
Adam,
I couldn’t love anyone or anything as much as I love you.
You are my constant inspiration.
Love
Mom
(over)
Don’t go skiing yet—Give your hip a chance to rest—Don’t trust that guy—Gene—that I’ve been dating and no longer are—Keep drying the dishes—I’ll keep you informed of current events—I love my Poppy-seed—
Again, with the dishes. And who are these MEN she keeps dating? Obviously there’s something wrong with them if she’s worried about what they’ll do (TO ME!) after she stops dating them.
And the pet names didn’t stop with “Poppy-seed” either. Here are just a few of the other choice nicknames she has for me:
“Picklehead,” “Pussy Cat,” “Bone Man,” and my personal fave, “Dolly-Poo-Poo.” That one made ME feel like kicking the shit out of me. But she always did her best to fill me with the confidence any young college student should have when trying new things . . .
Sunday
Adam—
Enclosed find $20. Have lunch on me.
Love
Mom
P.S. You don’t know how to ski! So, if you go to Colorado skiing, you have to go where beginners are. You don’t want to wear crutches.
Yeah, thanks. You guys have fun. I wouldn’t want to get hurt again so I’ll just hang out here in the cabin and watch The Other Side of the Mountain.
As I was putting everything together for this book, I realized it wasn’t always what my mother was writing about, but what she wasn’t writing about. For example, let’s talk 1984 for a moment. This was the year when two talented USC film schoolmates, Howard and Scott, and I wrote a script to go along with one of my original pop songs appropriately called “Think I’m Goin’ Crazy.” We were able to solicit the help of everyone in and around USC and proceeded to shoot a music video for a mere $3,500. That included locations, crew, equipment, and editing. After it was finished, I flew to New York and approached MTV, still in its virgin years, with the possibility of having them feature it on their original program Basement Tapes. Basement Tapes was a video competition show where viewers at home would watch six videos by unknown artists, and then, for fifty cents per call, phone in and vote for their favorite. The artist who received the most calls would ultimately receive a recording contract from a major record company.
Within two weeks after I dropped off the video at their offices, MTV phoned me at my dorm at USC and told me that I was chosen to be one of the six bands featured on a particular episode! That was more than an exciting school day for me; this was the chance of a lifetime.
When the show aired, my video immediately jumped ahead in the polls and stayed that way for most of the broadcast. Then I remember when the host came back on, good ol’ VJ Martha Quinn, and announced the winner. “It was very close,” she exclaimed, “but the winner by one percent of the vote is . . .” I took a deep breath. “The Triplets!” Ouch. Our video had lost to this group known as the Triplets by one percent of the vote. ONE! I still believe that our video was the most entertaining of the lot, and to this day it makes me laugh as the extraordinary time capsule of the 1980s it has become. (What was I thinking wearing that sleeveless T-shirt?) Anyway, in retrospect, it’s not the one percent loss or my sleeveless tee that’s so odd. What seems peculiar is this letter I received from my mother just one week or so after my video debut aired on national television:
Tuesday
Adam—
Just a note to say if you buy U.S. Savings Bonds, you have to keep them in a safe deposit box at the bank so no one can steal them.
Love,
Mom
Fine. I’ll give credit where credit is due. She was right about the bonds . . .
But when it came to just plain weirdness, my mother was on par with the master of the macabre, Stephen King. Did you ever read Misery? The movie version starred Kathy Bates as the character Annie Wilkes. I swear if you can read this letter that I received early in my senior year in the voice of Annie Wilkes, you’d think it was actually written by her. Do it. I’ll wait here.
Tuesday
Dear Adam—
Did you ever get the signal lights fixed on the car? Also, did you ever get the contact lenses cleaned to your liking? Otherwise, I have to call the office where I bought them.
Did you ever call MasterCard to find out about the $6.00? I paid them for the car and the additional air money.
I have to go now.
Love,
Mom
See? Spooky, huh?
How about a letter on a long piece of blank paper that only says “Hello—”?
And she obviously had access to some personal details about my life, including my bank account information, and was somehow able to juxtapose those facts with completely unrelated prose.
Adam—
I don’t know if you’ve been deducting all checks from your bank account! After you put in $1,000, you took out $200 cash. That left $800. $80 for beauty parlor, $150 medical insurance for B’nai B’rith, $150 airline ticket from $800 leaves a balance of $420.
You have a virus. Drink lots of liquids and get plenty of rest and take your medicine. Make sure your bowels are functioning. You get rid of infection by moving your bowels everyday. If you drink enough liquids, they will move.
It’s hard to be away when I know you don’t feel well. I feel responsible because I probably gave you the germ. I feel helpless since I can’t do anything to help from here. Don’t worry about William Morris. They only handle well-known people. You’ll get someone from a record company to handle you.
Love,
Mom
“I probably gave you the germ”? Just how does one do that from across the country? And notice how she seamlessly weaves between the William Morris Agency and bowel movements. As karma would have it, twenty-seven years after that letter arrived, I signed a contract with William Morris, who helped me secure this book deal. And then the next day, I pooped.
In the spring of 1985, I graduated from USC with a degree in music. It was during that summer when I plunged into therapy and meditation in order to help me blossom into the independent man I knew I needed to become. HAD to become. Of course my friends back east thought that was a very “California” way of going about it, but I was now officially a Californian. Within days of my first session, I learned how to mantra myself into the next era of my life.
