Dear Sir:
I am thirty-seven years old.
I start my letter with this fact because I do not wish to waste your time. Your appeal seemed, to me, an honest one — and so I am being completely honest in return. I am thirty-seven. This is the fact of the matter. If you are now tearing up this letter and throwing it into the waste basket, so be it.
You asked for an understanding woman. I ask for an understanding man. It is not easy to write this letter. I can imagine how difficult it was for you to place your ad, and I can understand what led you to do so. I can only ask for the same understanding on your part.
I felt almost as if I were applying for a position somewhere. I don’t want to feel that way, but I can see no other way of letting you know what I am like and I wish (if you decide to answer my letter) that you will follow the same pattern. I am going to tell you what I am, and who I am.
Physically, I am five-feet-four inches tall. I am one hundred and ten pounds without dieting. I mention that because I’m not one of these women who have to watch everything they eat. I always stay slim. I’ve been the same weight, give or take a few pounds, for the longest time. I can still wear skirts I bought when I was twenty-one.
My hair is brown, and my eyes are brown. I wear glasses. I had to start wearing them when I was twelve because I ruined my eyes reading so much. I don’t read very much anymore. I’ve become disillusioned with fiction, and the non-fiction is either inspirational stuff or stuff about mountain climbing, and I neither want to be inspired nor do I desire to climb Everest. I thought for a while that foreign novels might offer me something American novels didn’t — but everyone is selling the same thing these days, and the product usually suffers in translation. Perhaps you’ve run across some reading which I haven’t discovered yet, and which could offer me the deep pleasure I got from books when I was a little girl. If so, I’d appreciate knowing about it.
I dress quietly. The brightest dress I own is a yellow taffeta, and I haven’t worn that for ages. I usually prefer suits. I work in an office, you see, and it’s a somewhat staid place. I have a lot of clothes, incidentally, which I’ve accumulated over the years. I wouldn’t call myself exactly penniless, either. I’m a secretary, and I’ve been earning close to ninety dollars a week for a long time. Twenty of that I send to my parents, but the remaining seventy or so is more than enough to keep me going. This may sound ridiculously businesslike, but I do have almost five thousand dollars in the bank, and I’d honestly like to know what your financial setup is, too.
My tastes are simple. I like good music. I don’t mean Rock and Roll. I’ve sort of outgrown the candy stick and dungaree set. I like Brahms and I like Wagner-Wagner especially. There is something wild in his music, and I find it exciting. I like pop music on the sentimental side. I don’t mean the current hit parade rages. I mean old standards done up in albums. Stuff like Smoke Gets In Your Eyes and Stardust and This Love Of Mine, you get the idea. I think my favorite record album is Sinatra’s In The Wee Small Hours. I’ve always liked him, and whatever his trouble with Ava Gardner, it’s none of my business. I listen to records a lot. Living alone can be too quiet. I play my albums at night, and they help to pass the time.
I generally sew while I’m listening. I’m a good seamstress and I’ve made many of my own clothes. I hate darning socks. I feel I should tell you that right now. I feel I should also tell you that my indoor activities are not confined to playing records alone.
(She stopped here, wondering if she had said too much, wondering if she sounded too bold. Would he understand what she meant? A widower couldn’t possibly want a girl with absolutely no experience! Still...)
I do a lot of other things indoors. Like cooking. And other things. I’m a good cook. I can make potatoes forty-two different ways. I’m not exaggerating, and my specialty is Southern fried chicken, though I have never been down South. My ambition is to travel around the United States someday. I half think that’s why I’ve been saving my money so religiously.
Oh... religion.
I’m Protestant.
I hope you’re Protestant, too, but it really doesn’t matter that much. I hope you’re white, too, because I am and that would matter to me — not that I’m prejudiced or anything. Honestly, I’m not. But I’m too mature to be defiant, and I don’t feel like battling the good fight for democracy, not at this late stage of the game. I hope you understand this isn’t bigotry. It’s caution, it’s fear, it’s wanting to belong, it’s whatever you choose to call it. But it’s not bigotry.
I ride a little, usually in the Spring and in the Fall. I like the outdoors, though I’m not a very good athlete. I swim pretty well. I have a fast crawl. I was once a swimming counselor at a children’s camp, and I learned to dislike children that Summer. Of course, I’ve never had any of my own so I wouldn’t know. I imagine it’s different with your own. You said you are a widower. Do you have any children?
So far, you are just a post office box number, and here I’ve told you almost everything I could think of about myself. I like movies. John Wayne is my favorite. He’s not very good-looking, but there is a manliness about him, and I think that’s very important.
Well, I suppose that’s it.
I hope you’ll answer this letter. I’ll send you a picture if you like after I hear from you again. I say “again,” because I feel by reading your ad I’ve already heard from you once. And I honestly feel I did “hear” you, if you know what I mean.
Sincerely,
PRISCILLA AMES
41 La Mesa Street
Phoenix, Arizona
Priscilla Ames read her letter over. It seemed honest and sincere to her. She had no desire to make herself sound more attractive than she really was. Why start out with a bunch of lies and then get tangled up in them later? No, this was the best way.
Priscilla Ames folded the letter — which ran to some six pages — and then put it into the envelope. She copied the address from the magazine onto the face of the envelope, sealed the envelope, and then went out to mail it.
Priscilla Ames didn’t know what she was asking for.
Seven
It’s the little things in life that get you down.
The big problems are the easy ones to solve. There’s a lot at stake with the big problems. It’s the little ones that are the tough bastards. Should I shave tonight for the big date with Buxom Blonde, or should I wait until tomorrow morning for the big conference with Amalgamated Aluminum? God, a man can go nuts!
The 87th’s big problem was the floater. It’s not often you get a floater.
The 87th’s little problem was the con man.
It was the con man who was driving Detective Arthur Brown nuts. Brown didn’t like to be conned, and he didn’t like other people to be conned, either. The man — or men, more accurately — who were fleecing honest citizens of Brown’s fair city rankled him. They invaded his sleep. They dulled his appetite. They were even ruining his sex life. He was surly and out of sorts, more impatient than ever, scowling, snapping, a very difficult man to work with. The men who worked with him, being kindly, considerate, thoughtful bulls, did everything in their power to make his working day even more difficult. A moment did not go by but what one or another of the 87th’s bulls would make some passing crack to Brown about the difficulties he was experiencing with the con man.
“Catch him yet, Artie?” they would ask.
“Hey, some guy conned my grandmother out of her false teeth yesterday,” they would say. “Think it’s your buzzard, Brown?”