The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Read Online Free
Author: Geoff Herbach
you.
That's not it. I wasn't afraid the cops were coming for me because of getting naked at work. I didn't do that. I wanted to be a hero, maybe . . . but I made it up. Thought about it, but I didn't.
The letter was a lie. I didn't even go into my office that morning.
I drove to work sort of buzzed. I sat in the parking lot, sweating. Then I drove home.
No, I did not have sex with a salesgirl.
No, I didn't send the letter to my boss.
I didn't go back to work ever.
Letter 5
August 23, 2004
----
Dear Dee Anne,
You can't fire me. I'm not going to show up, which means I quit. I'm gone. Good riddance.
Hope your meatloaf Sundays continue to be as satisfying as you always professed (though I doubt they were satisfying). Quick point of advice: stop telling everybody every morning what you had for dinner the night before. Oh shit GOD did I hate Mondays—having to nod and smile and laugh at the appropriate laugh pauses in your stories about your daughters eating meatloaf, while all I wanted to do was put a stapler to my temple and slap it hard enough to end the misery. You are so boring. You lack any quality I would call interesting (except your hairstyle—
très
Glam Rock). Okay, you are great at your job (whatever that means). And I suppose you're a decent person. You're probably a good enough mother even, given your serious limitations, what you understand of the human condition (nothing). But, you're replicating yourself with these daughters. Three more little Dee Annes will eventually populate the cubicles of some financial services company in the Twin Cities. They will bring their husbands to your house each Sunday night and eat meatloaf. And they will head to the office every Monday with no story to tell, but they will tell it anyway, because they are soulless and totally boring. And there will be more suicides in the world. More and more. Jesus, Dee Anne. Listening to you killed me, Dee Anne . . . You're a good person, I guess . . . but is this what a decent life has to offer? Meatloaf dinners and fluorescent lighting? Is this really it?
What a fucking nightmare. Your poor kids. Your poor, poor kids.
Of course this is a suicide letter, Dee Anne. Of course it is. You kill me.
Take care!
T. Rimberg
Letter 6
August 23, 2004
----
Charlie, my son,
What do you love best as an eleven-year-old? How can you do it forever? How can you make it the focus of your life? Do you think you'll major in theater in college? I'm sorry I didn't take you to auditions at the Children's Theater. I ran out of time. I ran out of gas. Don't ever focus on making a living. Make the life you want. Maybe you'll be a painter. (I'm looking at your fifth-grade self-portrait now—beautiful.) Be artistic. Don't worry about money. Don't have fear. Or if you do fear, make sure you disregard it and do what you need to do. Please, Charlie, go do what you love no matter what.
Save the money you're going to get from me. Let that money protect you, so you don't worry. Go make a real life.
I love you. I love you so much. I miss you. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.
Your Dad
Day Two:
Transcript 4
----
Authenticity is what I wanted. I wanted to live for something. (Of course I had no idea for what, after a failed attempt at a true love affair, my big heroic act, which was actually an illicit adulterous affair, which ended my sad marriage.) I mean . . .That's what I want for my kids. Authenticity. I lived forever to be alive . . . just to stay living, but not for anything . . . ate food just to . . . eat.
Yes, I did just get dizzy.
Pale?
I'm not a big fan of . . . and talking about it . . . That was a terrible accident, you know? My arm hurts in this stupid cast.
I'm tired, Barry. I'd like to stop.
Day Three:
Transcript 1
----
Yes, good morning.
Chipper? I am feeling better today—not so achy.
Only until ten. Shit . . . shoot. That's disappointing. I enjoy your company.
I really do.
I'm not normally such a sad schlump. Sorry
That's not it. I wasn't afraid the cops were coming for me because of getting naked at work. I didn't do that. I wanted to be a hero, maybe . . . but I made it up. Thought about it, but I didn't.
The letter was a lie. I didn't even go into my office that morning.
I drove to work sort of buzzed. I sat in the parking lot, sweating. Then I drove home.
No, I did not have sex with a salesgirl.
No, I didn't send the letter to my boss.
I didn't go back to work ever.
Letter 5
August 23, 2004
----
Dear Dee Anne,
You can't fire me. I'm not going to show up, which means I quit. I'm gone. Good riddance.
Hope your meatloaf Sundays continue to be as satisfying as you always professed (though I doubt they were satisfying). Quick point of advice: stop telling everybody every morning what you had for dinner the night before. Oh shit GOD did I hate Mondays—having to nod and smile and laugh at the appropriate laugh pauses in your stories about your daughters eating meatloaf, while all I wanted to do was put a stapler to my temple and slap it hard enough to end the misery. You are so boring. You lack any quality I would call interesting (except your hairstyle—
très
Glam Rock). Okay, you are great at your job (whatever that means). And I suppose you're a decent person. You're probably a good enough mother even, given your serious limitations, what you understand of the human condition (nothing). But, you're replicating yourself with these daughters. Three more little Dee Annes will eventually populate the cubicles of some financial services company in the Twin Cities. They will bring their husbands to your house each Sunday night and eat meatloaf. And they will head to the office every Monday with no story to tell, but they will tell it anyway, because they are soulless and totally boring. And there will be more suicides in the world. More and more. Jesus, Dee Anne. Listening to you killed me, Dee Anne . . . You're a good person, I guess . . . but is this what a decent life has to offer? Meatloaf dinners and fluorescent lighting? Is this really it?
What a fucking nightmare. Your poor kids. Your poor, poor kids.
Of course this is a suicide letter, Dee Anne. Of course it is. You kill me.
Take care!
T. Rimberg
Letter 6
August 23, 2004
----
Charlie, my son,
What do you love best as an eleven-year-old? How can you do it forever? How can you make it the focus of your life? Do you think you'll major in theater in college? I'm sorry I didn't take you to auditions at the Children's Theater. I ran out of time. I ran out of gas. Don't ever focus on making a living. Make the life you want. Maybe you'll be a painter. (I'm looking at your fifth-grade self-portrait now—beautiful.) Be artistic. Don't worry about money. Don't have fear. Or if you do fear, make sure you disregard it and do what you need to do. Please, Charlie, go do what you love no matter what.
Save the money you're going to get from me. Let that money protect you, so you don't worry. Go make a real life.
I love you. I love you so much. I miss you. I am so sorry. I am so sorry.
Your Dad
Day Two:
Transcript 4
----
Authenticity is what I wanted. I wanted to live for something. (Of course I had no idea for what, after a failed attempt at a true love affair, my big heroic act, which was actually an illicit adulterous affair, which ended my sad marriage.) I mean . . .That's what I want for my kids. Authenticity. I lived forever to be alive . . . just to stay living, but not for anything . . . ate food just to . . . eat.
Yes, I did just get dizzy.
Pale?
I'm not a big fan of . . . and talking about it . . . That was a terrible accident, you know? My arm hurts in this stupid cast.
I'm tired, Barry. I'd like to stop.
Day Three:
Transcript 1
----
Yes, good morning.
Chipper? I am feeling better today—not so achy.
Only until ten. Shit . . . shoot. That's disappointing. I enjoy your company.
I really do.
I'm not normally such a sad schlump. Sorry
Readers choose
Zoran Zivkovic, Mary Popović
Christine Brae
Kevin Battleson
Cheyenne Meadows
Scarlet Hyacinth
Marion Zimmer Bradley
Meli Raine
Lynn Raye Harris
Lorraine Kennedy
Patricia McLinn