Belated Response

In the late winter afternoon chill of February 6th, 1982, the 37-year-old man quickly skimmed through the incoming mail as he hurriedly walked back to his bungalow from the street-side mailbox. Only one piece passed his cursory inspection, instantly commandeering his interest away from the morass of bills and circulars and slick newspaper promo sheets filled with fast food coupons and tire store discounts. The sender of the hand-addressed envelope was unknown but from an address over on White Bridge Road, less than a mile away.

Back inside the toasty cabin, the man freed the letter from its confines. With mild disappointment, he noted the opening salutation: “Gentlemen.” A handwritten form note? But the envelope had his often-misspelled name correctly written in full. It only further piqued his curiosity.

I’m sure you’ve been swamped with would-be jingle writers since the recent newspaper article naming you one of the best. However, if you have just a minute I would appreciate so much you grading the enclosed efforts and forwarding to me in the enclosed self-addressed, stamped envelope.

I sincerely appreciate your evaluation, even if it is negative.

Eliza Mosley

The man lifted his eyes, a quizzical exclamation escaping his lips. Ah, the wonder and power of the press, he thought. Along with the note, the woman had enclosed three separate “Odes”: the first penned about “Gale,” the second to “A Frolicking Fisherman,” and the last to “A Pipe Smoking President,” which began:

                There’s a progressive young man named Carter,
                To ACC he’s proved to be a great “starter.”
                However, in figuring budgets, his pipe he does stoke,
                It’s great for our stockholders but alas, his poor plants
                     he did choke.

The remaining two stanzas told of the search to find “a plant capable of holding its head up with pride” against the onslaught of the presidential pipe’s relentless refuse, unfortunately closing with no indication of just what kind of horticultural presence might indeed withstand the ravages of the oxygen-depriving smoke.

Below the woman’s signature on the opening page, four categories of worthiness awaited selection, should the man elect to reply with his opinion of her work, each category followed by a handwritten line on which to impart his check mark of choice:

• Good or promising. Please call my secretary for an appointment ______
• Fair. We’re not interested ______
• Terrible. Never contact me again ______
• You seem to be a nice person but please try another career change ______

Below the grading area, one last piece of business remained:

                Signed: ________________________________

The man smiled a bit incredulously, not just at the woman’s closing demand for authentication but for the whole crazy solicitation. He was a “jingle man,” as they labeled such people in the advertising business. He had done well, won awards and contributed, with his catchy little phrases and hummable tunes, to the commercial titillation of the American public, repetitiously enticing them—in 60 seconds or less—to run out and purchase products from cars to eye glasses to smoked sausage. Yes, he had been fully integrated into the great mass media marketing mix that prided itself on its ceaseless bombardment of the innocent consumer; it was he, among others, who trumpeted the urgent call to action that helped turn the massive wheel driving the country’s economy.

Now—should he take the time to review the enclosed work—he was additionally being asked to bear his official witness to this woman’s heartfelt but meter-less quatrains and taxing, inconsistent rhyme schemes. It made him think of how clueless many people are with their own absurdly inaccurate self-assessments of their artistic worth. He’d seen it back in his earlier days as a casting apprentice in New York City, recollecting a young singer auditioning for a TV show, eyeing the ceiling the entire time she sang, as if silently invoking some kind of saving celestial inspiration, which never came; recalling so many people blinded by a quest for recognition, hopelessly incapable of seeing how they really were coming across, the honesty of their expression notwithstanding. How can they not see it! Certainly, he could not envision her taking a commercial product in tow and massaging it for the masses. She and jingles did not appear to be an imminent union.

He looked at the rotting fencepost just up the path outside his front window. Hmmph. Maybe he was just fooling himself, too. His work may have influenced the movement of product out there but hardly would win him space in the pantheon of art credibility. That truth loved to nibble on him. With a half-smile, he laid the letter aside. It would make for good conversation later that night with friends.

§   §   §

He had intended to reply to Eliza Mosley’s letter later that week. Her letter, so hoping for immediate validation, slowly slid down his growing pile of things to do. From time to time he’d come across it, moving one pile of things that required his attention to another place of unattended things, which later got moved into boxes, which ultimately wound up in storage.

It was January 14, 2017, and the 72-year-old man decided to move along many of the artifacts and knick-knacks he’d acquired throughout his long life. Delving through one box he came across an old letter. The return address in the upper left-hand corner didn’t ring with any familiarity. He wiped off some grit and opened its stiff envelope. Inside lay Eliza Mosley’s letter and her three odes. He smiled. My God, there’s the self-addressed envelope—with a 20-cent stamp on it!

Some sense of unfinished business, long developed over the gap of time since he had initially read her inquiry 35 years ago, went to work in him with an urgency that did not falter. He slowly took a seat and reached for a pen. Taking her cover letter, with its varying grades of acceptance/unacceptance still waiting to be checked or unchecked, he flipped it over and began to handwrite on the clean backside:

Dear Ms. Mosley,

Thank you for your letter and selected odes. I can see they were wonderful expressions of your favorite focuses. You may wonder why I decided to reply to you now, after 35 years. And maybe you haven’t even any recollection of having written me this letter enclosed along with your poetry. I’m not sure I quite knew how to respond to you then.

Back then, I saw in your work a young writer anxiously tackling her subjects, possibly a tad too earnest in assuring a too-easy line-ending rhyme. But something wonderful comes with the passage of 35 years. People, all people, get better at what they do. Time not only heals all; “all” grows too, it gets better. It evolves and develops. It furthers itself. Simply said, I happily imagine you to be quite the accomplished writer these days, Ms. Mosley!

So, in that spirit, I feel inclined to say that I would indeed cheerily check that first box on your letter, the one that says “please call my secretary for an appointment.” That is, if I had a secretary. In fact, I’ve never had one.

But I do have this idea for a jingle I could use some help with…

The old man then signed his name on the bottom of her letter in the space she had provided. Later he eased himself out to the street and placed the self-addressed envelope with the 20-cent stamp on it in the mailbox, before lifting the flag on the side.

It is not known if Eliza Mosley ever received his belated response.