by Michael Kun
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
I’m going to assume that you didn’t think too much of the little story I wrote. That’s okay. I’ve reread it, and it’s a piece of garbage. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m not a writer, let alone a children’s writer. I’m a computer salesman, not a writer. Dreams can’t come true for everyone, can they? I mean, if they did, everyone would be a professional baseball player or a movie star or an astronaut. There would be no one left to pick up the garbage or deliver the mail. Which is not to say there’s anything wrong with those jobs, but just that no one dreams of doing them. At least not anyone I’ve ever met.
Sorry for wasting your time.
Eat Wheaties!
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. Spellman:
I received your note and was very sorry to hear about Mr. Callahan’s untimely death. I did not know him well, but he seemed like a good man. Please pass my sympathy along to his family and the members of your law firm.
Sincerely yours,
Sid Straw
P.S. I hate to trouble you at a time like this, but when you have a moment, can you check to see whether Mr. Callahan has forwarded my letters to Heather. She and I went to college together (UCLA). Thank you in advance for your assistance, especially during your time of grief.
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
I was very sorry to learn of the sudden death of your attorney, Henry Callahan. He seemed like a very kind man, and I certainly appreciate his efforts in passing my notes along to you.
I will be thinking of you during this sad and difficult time.
Fondly,
Sid Straw
Dear Mrs. Callahan,
I hope you and your family will be able to enjoy life
after your husband’s untimely death.
Best wishes,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. Spellman:
I am in receipt of your recent letter. Here is my response: YES, I AM AWARE THAT MR. RICEBOROUGH OBTAINED A RESTRAINING ORDER AGAINST ME! Seeing as I STILL live in Baltimore, and Mr. Riceborough presumably STILL lives in Los Angeles, he has nothing to worry about.
Now, will you kindly tell me whether Mr. Callahan forwarded my letters to Heather and whether you will do so in the future?
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mrs. Callahan:
I received your note in today’s mail regarding the floral arrangement I sent to your home. I apologize for the confusion. When Mr. Spellman wrote that, “Mr. Callahan is no longer with us,” I assumed he meant that your husband had passed away. I didn’t understand that your husband had merely left their firm to join another law firm.
I sincerely apologize for any anguish I may have inadvertently caused. I hope you and Mr. Callahan have many happy and healthy years together.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
• UCLA REUNION COMMITTEE •
Dear Sarah,
The reunion is only a few months away, and we still don’t have a place for the Sunday brunch. Moreover, you haven’t responded to any of my letters. Accordingly, I’ve taken it upon myself to try to find a place.
I am disappointed you didn’t take your responsibilities as co-chairperson more seriously.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
• UCLA REUNION COMMITTEE •
Dear [Insert Name],
I am co-chairperson for our UCLA class reunion, which will take place the third weekend in November. We are looking for a location for our class’s Sunday brunch. Would you be able to accommodate approximately 2,000 people?
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Co-Chairperson
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mrs. Callahan:
I most certainly was NOT threatening your husband’s life. I have no idea how you could have misconstrued my note. When I wrote that I hope you and Mr. Callahan have many happy and healthy years together, I was NOT being sarcastic, nor was I wishing that anything unpleasant would befall you or your husband.
Very truly yours,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Callahan:
NOT ANOTHER RESTRAINING ORDER!
You people are crazy! I live in BALTIMORE. Look at a map, for godssakes—it’s nowhere near Los Angeles! I’m closer to Cuba than I am to Los Angeles! It’d take me less time to reach Fidel Castro than to reach you!
I will be placing your restraining order where it belongs—wadded up in a ball in my garbage can!
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. Callahan:
You have misread my letter. When I wrote that I was closer to Cuba than to Los Angeles, I was speaking geographically, not politically. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a supporter of Cuba’s communist regime.
There was no need for you to forward my note to the Central Intelligence Agency, or to send them copies of the restraining orders you and Mr. Riceborough have obtained.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
• UCLA REUNION COMMITTEE •
Dear Classmates:
Our reunion is only three months away! Hopefully, life has been as kind to you as it has been to me since my last letter.
The alumni office has just informed me that it has received a tremendous number of responses from our class. It looks like our reunion will be even bigger than the one five years ago!
If you haven’t registered yet, I encourage you to do so as soon as possible. I’m enclosing information about the reunion weekend, along with a registration card. We have not yet chosen a location for the Sunday brunch. We will notify you as soon as we do.
Looking forward to seeing everyone this fall.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Co-Chairperson, Reunion Committee
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Dean Warren:
I am in receipt of your letter regarding Henry Callahan. I am sorry that he chose to contact you. Please rest assured that I was not aware that Mr. Callahan was a graduate of UCLA or that he was one of your fraternity brothers. Presumably, he was not aware that I, too, am a Bruin. Perhaps had we each known that, our relationship would have been more cordial.
In any event, you have my word that there will be no shenanigans at homecoming weekend.
Very truly yours,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
Is Henry Callahan still representing you? If so, could you possibly arrange for me to speak with him by phone? It seems that there have been a number of miscommunications, which have resulted in his obtaining a temporary restraining order against me. What makes this more troubling is that he is a UCLA alumnus, and he apparently has made several sizable donations to the school. My status on the reunion committee is in jeopardy.
I appreciate your assistance.
Your friend,
Sid Straw
P.S. I have two mo
re job interviews this week. Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Mr. Callahan:
This whole thing has been a terrible, terrible misunderstanding. As Dean Warren hopefully has informed you, I, like you, am a graduate of UCLA. In the Bruin spirit, I hope we can put this behind us and move on with our lives.
Best wishes to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear [Insert Name]:
It was a pleasure meeting with you on [insert date] to discuss the [insert title] position. It sounds like a wonderful opportunity, and I think it may well be a perfect fit for me.
I look forward to hearing from you soon.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Sir or Madam:
I would appreciate it if you would send me information about how to apply for unemployment compensation. I have never been unemployed before and haven’t the faintest idea how to proceed.
Thank you for your assistance.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Dean Warren:
At your request, and with a very heavy heart, I hereby resign as Co-Chairperson of the reunion committee.
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
To Whom It May Concern:
While I appreciate that you have sent your latest newsletter to me in a plain brown envelope, the fact that the words Spanking Times appear on the address label, along with your logo, defeats the very purpose of the plain brown envelope, doesn’t it?
Sincerely,
Sid Straw
Sid Straw
2748 Palmeyer Street Apt. 230
Baltimore, Maryland 21201
Dear Heather,
After finishing painting my home and refinishing my furniture, I started working on a novel last week, and I’m really excited about it. (I know I said in an earlier letter that I was giving up on my dream of being a writer after sending you that appalling children’s story, but then I thought about it a bit more. My dream wasn’t to be a children’s writer; it was to be a novelist. So I thought I should at least try writing a novel before I threw my hands up and quit.)
The novel’s about a guy named Sam Bolander, who is either a world-famous baseball player/astronaut/doctor/poet, or he’s just some normal guy in a coma who’s imagining that he’s a world-famous baseball player/astronaut/doctor/poet. Ultimately, he has to choose whether he wants to come out of the coma and resume his normal life, or whether he wants to stay in the coma and live his dream life. I’d tell you which one he chooses if I’d decided already, but I haven’t. Anyway, I’m enclosing the first chapter. I hope you’ll enjoy it, and I hope you’ll let me know what you think of it. (Please keep in mind that it’s a first draft. Other than that terrible little story I sent you, I haven’t done much writing since The Daily Bruin. Unless you count interoffice memos, which you shouldn’t.)
Hope all is well with you.
Eat Wheaties!
Sid Straw
P.S. I may not be going to the reunion after all. In fact, I’ve resigned as co-chairperson of the reunion committee. It’s a long, long, long, long, LONG story, I’m afraid.
INVISIBLE SAM
a novel
by Sid Straw
CHAPTER ONE
June 16 — New York City, New York
The weight of being Sam Bolander could snap your bones. I’ve heard that said a hundred times, a thousand times, but I don’t believe there’s any truth to it. Seeing as I’m Sam Bolander, and I have been since I popped out of my mama’s womb thirty-some-odd years ago, I should know. I should know better than anyone. I should know, I should know.
During a good part of the year—April to October—I’m employed by the Baltimore Orioles baseball squad as their centerfielder. “Batting third for your Baltimore Orioles,” the public address announcer will say in a voice as deep as the ocean where it’s blue and smells of fish, “batting third, Sam Bolander,” and the faithful will applaud and hoot and some will even shout my nickname, “Boo,” in an attempt to inspire me to do something spectacular, to send the ball speeding toward some distant spot in the ballpark, to remind them that in this world there are moments of pure joy and glory and wicked pleasure. My mind is sometimes elsewhere though, thinking, planning, computing, conjuring, speculating, twisting, wandering, cursing, eating, drinking, lusting, falling, swooping, rising, predicting, sleeping, waking, hating, loving. Last evening, at the plate against Tommy Heathrow, the Twins ace lefthander, when I should have been concentrating, when I should have been squeezing the bat handle like a cow’s teat, I found myself deep in thought about cancer research.
The cure for cancer, I believe, is hidden somewhere in the oxygen molecule. Oxygen, of course, is the most important element to man’s existence, and I believe that somehow it provides the answer to this dread disease, as if the Lord has given us a riddle wherein the answer is found in the question itself. Deprive a man of oxygen, and he’ll die as surely as if he’d taken a bullet in the temple; deprive a cancer cell of oxygen and…we shall see.
Tomorrow we play the Yankees.
June 17 — New York City, New York
Cancer research, of course, is a little outside my bailiwick. I’m a gynecologist, for godssakes, not a researcher. A gynecologist and a jazz guitarist and a playwright and an astronaut and a private detective and, as I’ve said, a ballplayer, but I am not a researcher, no matter how much I might dream I were, no matter how much I might wish and pray, no matter how much I might try to will it to be so.
I’m not the only physician in the major leagues, God knows. The Tigers have one at shortstop—Jim Kleinman, an ear-nose-and-throat man. A heck of a fielder, too. Mack Calvin of the Giants is a rheumatologist. And Bob Desormeau was a pediatrician until he got drilled in the ear with a fastball in the playoffs a few years back. They had to carry him off the field on a stretcher, his eye swollen to the size of a potato and purple like a summer plum. That was a sad story. I don’t believe he practices medicine anymore; last I heard, he was playing somewhere in the Mexican Leagues, trying to find his confidence with the earnestness of a heartsick man trying to locate a long-gone lover. Bob Desormeau’s search had taken him to Juarez.
Which is where I might end up myself if I don’t start paying more attention at the plate. If I don’t start concentrating. If I don’t start concentrating, concentrating, concentrating. The team needs my bat if we’re going to catch the Yanks. The team needs my bat, not a cure for cancer. At least not this season.
We’re in a doozy of a pennant race with the Yankees right now. The Yankees and the Blue Jays. The Red Sox looked like they might make a run—they were in first place for the first month of the season—but their pitching collapsed. In one game in May, their pitchers gave up 22 runs. Twenty-two! They’ve fallen 10 games out of first place. Put pennies on their eyes; they’re dead. It’s just us, the Yankees and the Blue Jays duking it out for first place.
Before today’s game, I bumped into Frosty Jenkins while he was running sprints in the outfield. Frosty is a reserve outfielder for the Yanks these days; he was my roommate one season in the minors when we were playing for the Tulsa Eskimos. I have some wonderful memories of those times. Wonderful, wonderful. Memories that linger like chocolate melting on your tongue.
“Boo!” he shouted when he spotted me, and I couldn’t help but yell out “Frosty!” myself. Frosty hugged me to him in a way that might embarrass most m
en, but did not embarrass me. He slapped me on the shoulder. He patted my cheek. There was a thin coat of new sweat on his face.
“Hey, Boo,” he smiled.
“Hey, Frosty.”
It was a pleasure to see him, a joy. We were very close in the minors—I even introduced him to his wife, Delores, whom I’d met at a lecture at the hospital where I was doing my residency—but I’m afraid we’ve lost touch over the years, as old friends are wont to do when their lives become complicated by their jobs and their families and the space program.
“Hey, I saw you on the moon,” he said. He pointed to the sky as if to show me the way. “It was on television.”
“Yes.”
“How was it up there?”
“Very dry. Very lonely.” And, it is very lonely there. But the solitude gives a man plenty of time to think and dream. It was there, in a moment of solitude and longing that could not be matched on this planet, that I first came upon the idea about oxygen, about how it could be used in curing cancer.
“Things aren’t going too well,” Frosty confided in me after a while. “I don’t know if you’ve been reading the papers, but I’m not even hitting my weight these days.” In fact, I had seen it in The New York Times that morning. His batting average was .184; he weighed about 210 pounds. It seemed he was having a harder time concentrating than I was.
“Are you afraid they’re going to release you?”
“That or send me down to the minors. I’m not sure I can survive down there again, Boo. The buses, the cheap motels, the greasy food.”
