“Oh yeah?”
“Ah,” I said.
“Oh,” he said.
“Something wrong?”
He kicked the door. “Just a little bellyache, but I’ll be okay.”
“Sure you won’t need a doctor?”
“Sure you won’t need a doctor?”
“Why? I wasn’t the one who complained of an ache.”
“Why? I wasn’t the one—”
“Forget it. You did, and my arguing is useless, so I’ll really have to be leaving for good now. See ya.”
“Forget it. You did, and my arguing is useless, so I’ll really have to be leaving for good now. See ya.”
“Fine. Where you leaving to — somewhere else in the cabin?” and I laughed.
“Fine,” he said laughing. “Where you leaving to — somewhere else in the cabin?”
“I didn’t start laughing till I finished my sentence.”
“I didn’t start laughing till I finished my sentence.”
“That’s a lie.”
“That’s a lie.”
“And it wasn’t your sentence originally but mine.”
“And it wasn’t your sentence originally but mine.”
“Just as that last sentence was.”
“Just as that last sentence was.”
“Anything you say.”
“Anything you say.”
“Ditto.”
“Ditto.”
“And ditto your ditto.”
“And ditto your ditto.”
“It’s obvious you’ll never make any sense to me, so goodbye.”
“It’s obvious you’ll never make any sense to me, so goodbye.”
“Okay — goodbye. Now where you going?”
“Okay — goodbye. Now where you going?”
“Well, I’m going through the woods again. Where are you?”
“I’m going through the woods again. Where are you?”
“You left out the ‘well.’”
“Well?”
“Well, I’m waiting for you to go through the woods again.”
“Well, I’m waiting for you to go through the woods again.”
“I am,” and I did.
“I am” were the last words I heard him say.
I went through the woods. I would have left that last letter
and now this one on his doorstep, but I didn’t think the postman
came by his cabin anymore. Since if this man ever did write a
letter, I’m sure it would be an exact copy of a letter someone had
sent him, including the sender’s name and address for his and
the same date the sender had put on top. That wouldn’t make for
a very interesting correspondence for the person writing him, so my guess is that people have given up sending him letters and he now has nothing to copy and mail. Though from you I wouldn’t mind getting a copy of this letter, I love getting mail and so far haven’t received a letter from you. It would also mean you got at least one of my letters and know I’m trying to get to Palo Alto. But since I don’t know where I’ll be in the next few days unless I get to Palo Alto by then, maybe you better hold off copying this letter and mailing it till I arrive.
Very best, Rudy
Dear Kevin: Soon after writing the last letter I thought that the one thing I haven’t run into yet in my travels west are pixies, when sure enough two of them were standing in my way. Now I don’t believe in pixies or fairies or any sprites or mythical beings like that, so I scooted around them as if they weren’t there. But one of them crouched behind me and the other pushed me over his fellow pixie’s back. “Oops. Must’ve stumbled over a stone,” I said, getting up. “Rockier terrain than I first thought. Gotto be extra careful where I walk,” and I continued on, still convinced pixies didn’t exist. Especially pixies like these two, with their large pointy ears and hairless square skulls and flopping feet as long and lean as their bodies were tall and thin. And a nose that was curled up like a watch spring, and every time one of them sneezed, the other’s nose spun out like a New Year’s Eve noisemaker and whistled as it unwound. Suddenly the first pixie tackled me to the ground from behind, and the second one ran back and forth over my body with his feet flattening my face. I pushed it off, got up and straightened my nose. “Must’ve been bowled over by a savage bull buffalo,” I said. “Then had the whole herd stampede over me, forget where they were stampeding to, and turn around and stampede back. Rougher territory than I expected, the West. Primitive and untamed.” “Hello. I’m Pete, she’s Pat, and we’re pixies,” one of them said. “No. I’m Pete, she’s Pat, and we’re pixies,” the second one said.
“Oh. We’re both Petes, we’re both Pats, and we’re both pixies,” they said, kicking me in the pants and sending me sprawling to the ground.
I cupped my hand behind my ear and said “What’s that I hear but the late summer sounds of chittering crickets in the fields. And do I not also feel the strong western winter winds blowing hard at my rear?” They helped me up, with their scarves swatted the clods of dirt off my clothes, then each began polishing one of my suede shoes. They continued polishing up the front of my body and down the back of it, giving special attention to my elbows, knuckles and knees. Then while one was putting a shine on my typewriter case trim, the other stuck a twig between my shoe and lit it. I stamped around from the flame in my shoe and thought I must have stepped on some dried leaves which this much stronger wind out West had ignited and that much stronger western wind had fanned into a fire. That was the only way I could explain how the fire started, as I plunged my burning foot into a pond. “Wouldn’t you think he’d want to take his shoe off first before he put his foot in the pond?” the one called Pete or Pat said. “You mean wouldn’t you think he’d want to take his foot off first before he put his shoe in the pond?” the other called Pete or Pat said. They dragged me out of the pond. Then each grabbed one of my feet and tugged at it as if to pull off my foot with the shoe. I kicked them away and tried standing on only the foot that hadn’t been burned. “It’s wilder out West than anyone could have imagined,” I said, falling over. “With the fish in the ponds more ferocious than the buffalo, and about as large.” I got my typewriter and limped away. The two of them got on either side of me and limped along. “You think he’s thinking he doesn’t think we’re real?” one said. “I think he’s thinking if he thought out loud we were real, he’d think inside he wasn’t,” the other said. “What do you think of what we think you’re now thinking?” both said.
I took off my shoe and sock, emptied the watery shoe and squeezed the soaked sock over him or her. Then I removed the scarf from around his or her neck, wrapped my burnt foot in it and put my sock and shoe on. “That’s my brand new scarf,” he or she said. “Made special for us by elves in the woods,” the other said. “There are no such things as elves,” the first one said. And to me: “Aren’t you even going to say why you stole my scarf?” “Maybe the cat’s got his tongue,” the second one said. “Then all we have to do is catch the cat to get his tongue back and he can tell us why he stole my scarf.” “Here kitty, kitty,” they both said, humped over and circling me in opposite directions. They bumped heads and fell down, where each grabbed one of my legs and dumped me on the ground next to them. Then one sat on my knees, removed my shoes and socks, put the scarf back on its neck and my shoes and socks back on my feet, but with the shoes on first and the socks over them. “While at the same time the second one sat on my chest and tickled my neck till my mouth stayed open and then caught hold of my tongue. “Here’s the thieving cat,” this one said, pinching my tongue. “Yyybbb mmnnn llwww,” I said. “Must mean ‘meow’ in whatever land it comes from,” one of them said, still holding my tongue. “And ‘meow’ could mean ‘I’m sorry for stealing your scarf, kind lady or sir,’ in whatever land it comes from, so give back his tongue.” They got off me and stood up. “Birds out West are even more vicious than the fish and buffalo,” I said. “Fly right by your face, pitch you over with their wings and think your tongue is a worm in the ground for them to pull out. I’ll be glad when I find my way out of these wild woods.” vines and down a winding path and you’ll find a stream and docked canoe.” Now I knew that they knew that I knew that what they said was an out-and-out lie. And what they really wanted me to do was take the opposite direction from the one they told me to go. To avoid whatever trap they had waiting for me in that opposite direction, I took the opposite direction of the opposite direction they wanted me to go, sure that that was where the stream and canoe were. While walking in the direction they never expected me to go, my foot got caught in the noose of a snare and I was hurled into the air and wound up being hung upside down by a rope attached to a branch. From way up there I could see the stream and canoe, which were in the opposite direction of the opposite direction I thought they would be. “Hey,” I said, “I really like it up here, hanging upside down. With the noose biting my ankle and cutting my skin. And the blood rushing to my head and giving me a fantastic nosebleed and about to knock me out cold and maybe finish me for good.” I said this so they would believe the opposite of the opposite of what I said and think I did like it up there and then cut me loose and hoist me down. But one of them said “If he really likes it up there so much, I think we should cut him loose and bring him down, don’t you?” “I absolutely do,” the other said, and they ran into the woods. Instead of doing all the things I would normally do to try and get free, such as bouncing up and down to break the branch. Or swinging back and forth to catch hold of another branch. Or flipping myself up to grab the rope and untie the noose. I did the opposite of all those, which was nothing, and in an hour the branch had drooped to the ground from my weight and I undid the noose and crawled away. I got my typewriter out of the pond they had sunk it in. While the typewriter was drying in the sun, I untangled the typewriter ribbon they had strung across the treetops, and rolled it back on its spool. Then I screwed the typewriter case handleback on, located my papers, envelopes and stamps in the nests of attacking hornets and snakes they had put them in, and walked between those vines and down a winding path to the stream and got in the canoe. As the current carried me downstream, I began and am now finishing this letter about the two pixies I met who didn’t exist.