Old-Fashioned Letters

By Dalia Grigorescu

March 1st

Dear Jenna,

I’m deeply saddened that you’ve blocked me on every messaging app, so I’m writing you an old-fashioned letter. Speaking of which, I think old-fashioned is a good thing. It carries traditional values and all that stuff. Don’t be upset because I called you old-fashioned. Let’s go on a second date. Call me! I’m gonna give this to the postman and wait by the phone.

Love,

Otto 

March 3rd

Dear Jenna,

The postman is a new guy and obviously confused. He brought the letter back with writing all over the envelope saying the address is wrong and there is no such number. The address is not wrong. It’s where I dropped you off, and I double-checked the house number in person tonight. I also waited for a while on the front lawn, but I don’t think you noticed. Maybe you were asleep. Your dog noticed and barked furiously for three hours. One of your neighbors put the light on, opened the window, and yelled, “Shut up, stupid dog!” That was uncalled for. Your dog is smart and was just doing his duty. Speaking of duty—in case you were not upset about the old-fashioned comment, but rather the cops on duty comment—I think cops are wonderful people. The story I told you about seeing a cop car in front of a donut shop, then swerving and hitting a pole when I tried to take a picture of it—that is a painful memory and explains why I cursed the cops. I meant no disrespect. But since that incident, cops make me so nervous that I pee my pants every time I see them. (Just a little. Don’t imagine the worst!) Also, the “oink-oink” sound I made was not meant to be rude. I’m saying all this because I’m still not sure why you got upset, so I’m trying to cover all the bases. If you are too shy to call, just send me a message.

Love,

Otto (sensitiveguy007)

March 5th

Dear Jenna,

What’s wrong with this postman? Now my letter came back saying there is no such person at that address. You are a person. Is he out of his little postman’s mind? I swear some people become dumb when they put a uniform on. Anyway, I spent all night going over our first date, trying to figure out what I might have said that got you mad. A misunderstanding, for sure, because I never say anything offensive. Were you angry because I asked about your friend’s heritage and said that she was hairy like an Italian and drank like an Irishman? I meant nothing bad by that. I love Italians. I eat pizza all the time. I love the Irish, too. I went to a U2 concert once. Look, I am a smart and sensitive guy. Please give me another chance. Since I can’t rely on the confused postman, I’m going to take this letter to your house later this evening and deliver it myself. I’ll wait patiently for you to read it and come outside so we can clear this up and go on another date.

Love,

Otto

I lick the top of the envelope and seal it. No need to write the address. I’m taking it there myself. I grab the first two letters, since she didn’t get to read them, and head out.

I don’t have to wait long after I ring the bell. The door opens and I look up at a mountain of a man. Must be her dad.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I clear my throat. “Good evening, Sir. My name is Otto. I went out with Jenna a few days ago, and…” I hand him the three letters. “Could you please give these to her to read?”

“Oh, that’s you! Listen…”

“No, no, no,” I interrupt. “I insist. Please take the letters. They explain everything. Just a quick read. I’ll wait right here.”

His eyebrows rise, but he takes the letters and disappears inside. The door closes with a thud. Fifteen minutes later, it reopens to reveal a policeman in full uniform. The air is suddenly hot and my shirt sticks to my flushed skin. It takes me a second to realize this is the same man.

“Listen, Otto. I’m on the night shift and I’ve got to go to work, so I’ll keep it short.” His back is toward me as he locks the door. I’m tingly all over as if ants are running up and down my body, but I don’t dare move.

“First of all, the girl you’re looking for—her name is not Jenna. It’s Gianna. She was named after me. I am Gianni O’Brien…” He turns and his eyes drill into me. “Yeeeap. She’s my goddaughter. I tell her to come back here after her blind dates just to be safe. You never know when you’ll run into a stalker. Know what I mean?”

I swallow hard.

“Trespassing and stalking are illegal. You know that, right? The other stuff…” He puts the letters in my numb hands. “That’s just dumb.”

He walks past me to his car. “So…” He pauses just before he gets in. “You really wet your pants just now?”

Can you guess which song from the 1960's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dalia Grigorescu lives in New Jersey and enjoys writing whatever comes to mind: fiction, poetry, memoir segments, short humorous pieces and everything in between. Inspiration tends to strike after the dog, husband and kids (usually in that order) have fallen asleep. She was born in Romania, so it is only fitting that her first Havok story had to do with vampires.

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