Write me a Letter

medication on tattoo for first 3 days. Spray with alcohol frequently.” That bit was easy, just breathe heavily. ”Light amounts of neosporin or dermassage is recommended. Your tattoo should form a light dry scab that will fall off in about 7 to 10 days. Do not pick it off.” No way, José, I thought. Maybe I’d try a little mental suffering instead.
    Uncle Theo and I finished up with store-bought apple pie, the kind with too much cinnamon in it, à la mode, then I settled up, asked for and was given a receipt by the matronly waitress, then we departed without seeing any more of the feisty little cook. My dollar bill was still stuck to the ceiling, I couldn’t help noticing on the way out. What a racket.
    I stuck pretty close to Uncle Theo the rest of the day. If I’d stuck any closer we’d have been sharing the same BVDs. If he sighted whoever it was he was purportedly there to sight, he didn’t bother letting me in on it. We didn’t do much, we took another stroll around town after lunch, then read for a while in the hotel lobby, me a top-notch Len Deighton called Yesterday’s Spy, him a who-knows-what and in what language. The hotel business in Locke wasn’t exactly booming. I snuck a look at the register when no one else was around and noted that apart from me, Theo, and a Henry C. Clam, alias Nature Boy, there was only one other guest, a lady doctor, and she remained invisible, as did, thankfully, Nature Boy. Then, as I recall, we both took naps, then went for a spin out of town, along one of the levees. Then we returned to the hotel to sit around some more and attempt to communicate by means of our phrase books, not all that easy a task as most of the phrases therein were thing like, ”Tovarich predaviets! Chto koupit dlya malienkaya dyevoushka?”
    Which means, roughly, ”Comrade salesperson, what would you recommend for a little boy?”
    ”A little girl,” Uncle Theo pointed out, which wasn’t bad for an uncle. Or any one else, either, come to think of it. Then I betook myself back to Yuen Chong’s General Store, where I made a couple of purchases. Once back at the hotel I dropped my purchases off in my room, trying to see if I could walk down the hall without making the floor creak. I found I could if I kept to the edges. I checked out the second floor briefly; the stairwell to the floors above was firmly blocked by a screwed-in sheet of heavy plywood. I checked out the fire escape, too, briefly; it looked solid enough to take a person’s weight. It had a barrier as well separating the second story from those above but it was only waist high.
    We had supper in the town’s other restaurant, Sam Li’s, which was down behind the museum, hot egg rolls, Chinese spareribs, noodles, wonton soup, the usual stuff. Uncle Theo made no attempt to hide the admiration he felt at my dexterous use of the chopsticks. I noticed he blew on the soup in his spoon to cool it, a habit my mom particularly disliked. Which reminded me.
    I called her up after supper, using the old-fashioned wall pay phone in the hotel lobby. Uncle Theo planted himself in front of the TV
    ”Is Mrs. Daniel available, please? It’s her little boy.”
    ”Hang on, I’ll check,” a woman’s voice said.
    I hung on. While I was hanging on, Nature Boy came bustling in, holding a large bunch of what looked like weeds to me. He disappeared up the stairs; maybe he was going to mash them up for his supper.
    After a lengthy while, the voice said she was sorry but my mother didn’t seem to know who I was. I said I was sorry, too, and hung up. Then, what the hell, it was marginally more diverting than watching ” Dallas ” with Uncle, I shoveled some more change in and dialed the twerp’s number. Her mom answered.
    ”Is your charming daughter available to come to the phone, Mrs. Silvetti? V. Daniel here, calling from the wilds of upstate California .”
    ”I think she’s in her room, mooning. Hang on, I’ll see.” I hung on. After a minute or so, the twerp said, ”Yeah? What do you want?”
    ”I don’t want anything but the pleasure of hearing your sweet and soothing tones,” I said. ”So how are you doing, anyway?”
    ”Shitty,” she said.
    ”Willing Boy back?” I said.
    ”No,” she said. ”Not that it’s any of your business.”
    ”Thanks for your message at the airport, by the way,” I said.
    ”You owe me for the phone call,” she said.
    ”In the mail,” I said.
    ”Also for my time,” she said. ”Do you know