Out of the Office

E-mail

To: marla.jenkins@dch.com
From: Frank Furlong
Date: January 2, 2011
Subject: Out of the office


Dear Marla:

I will be out of the office for a few days. Please tell all clients, colleagues, doctors, bankers, accountants, dog-walker(s), massage therapists, stylists, that woman who sometimes calls for me and does not leave her name, as well as all other interested parties, that I had a "family emergency."

You and I both know that there is no family emergency. This is just something we say. It sounds better than "none of your fucking business." Please note that this line will not work on my wife. I shall handle her separately.

Since you have been my secretary for eight years, and since I can fire you at will, I feel that I should give you some additional information, partly because you deserve to know, but mostly because I am reasonably certain you will not tell anyone. We have many secrets between us, you and I.

In short, I am having a nervous breakdown.

I do not know when it began, exactly.

Perhaps it was yesterday in the cafeteria. I had just finished ordering a ham sandwich when I started to think about God. Specifically, I wondered: why doesn't God show up more often? You are undoubtedly familiar with the Virgin of Guadalupe, who has appeared on earth on various occasions, and it was Jesus Himself who appeared before Paul on the road to Damascus. The Prophet Mohammed spent a great deal of time with God, and Joseph Smith conferred at length with one of His angels.

And yet God has never seen fit to see me. Granted, I've never really sought an audience, but then I've always been a bit disturbed by the thought that we live, perhaps, in one of the most horrific worlds imaginable (apologies to Leibniz).

I will not parade the horrors in front of you now, you know what they are. Is it not fair to expect an explanation?

My apologies, Marla. I know that you're a Jehovah's Witness (I also know it is you that keeps slipping those religious pamphlets into my inbox–I've been meaning to talk to you about that). It is just that my doubts have gotten the better of me, such that I am no longer able to maintain my well-learned politesse. I have become mired in the darkest of meditations.

I thought about all of these things while I was waiting for my ham sandwich. Shortly thereafter, it occurred to me that the woman who prepared my sandwich was not wearing gloves—a fact that I had not previously digested, so concerned was I about the existence of God. Nevertheless, I have since become convinced that, as a result of her inattention to hygiene, I have contracted a terrific disease. I do not know when or how it will strike, but I know that the die has been cast. I need only wait for my doctor to deliver the news—this is the same doctor who, let the record reflect, has long warned me about my "high-risk lifestyle" (his words, not mine), all of which turns out to be bullshit: in the end, I have been done in by a ham sandwich. These are dark days indeed.

Marla: if I am going to die, I will not do it behind my desk. I don't know where I'll go—picking a good place to die is not as easy as it sounds (most people choose Florida, but I've never been a fan). I might head upstate. I hear it's pretty this time of year.

Marla, what is God going to do when the last star burns out? What does Ozymandias do when there is no one left to praise him? Think about that the next time you slip another one of those pamphlets into my inbox.

F.F.

Sent from my Blackberry wireless