Talking to Your Partner About Genital Herpes

Memorandum

To: File

From: Frank Flounder

Date: 12/14/10

Subject: Talking To Your Partner About Genital Herpes

This morning I met a client in a park across the street from the courthouse. We were killing time before a hearing, the purpose of which was to determine whether or not we could steal money with the court's blessing. We had a very good case.

My client told a joke. It was a joke I'd heard several times before, but I pretended to have never heard it. My client is particularly fond of this joke, and so had already started chuckling, like an engine trying to turn over. I stood on the tips of my toes in anticipation.

Not far from us, a skinny black woman was sitting on a park bench. I noticed her because she was talking to herself. Her bony arms were stretched across the back of the bench, and her head was thrust backward so that she was staring straight up at the sky. She was crying.

My client delivered his punch line, and we both laughed. Afterward, I said things that made the client feel that he was very funny and intelligent. Then, I checked my watch. It was time to head into the courthouse.

When I got back to my office I decided to step up my Random Object Sent to Random Person campaign, starting with a pamphlet that I sent to Paul entitled How To Talk To Your Partner About Genital Herpes. In the interest of thoroughness, I carefully flagged and highlighted sections that seemed important. I also enclosed an unsigned note that says: "Paul, you might want to take a look at this."

Harvey arrived just as I was sealing the envelope. I handed it to him but did not let go.

"Just a minute," I said. "You're my mailperson, right?"

Harvey studied the floor, his tiny eyes blinking furiously behind his coke-bottle glasses. I got up from my desk and moved closer to him. It was the closest I've been to anyone in three months, with the exception Judith, my paralegal, with whom I had sexual intercourse two weeks ago.

"Harvey," I said, reading his nametag, "what do you do when you're not doing this?"

Harvey didn't look up. His lips were dry and he smelled of sweat. Against my better judgment, I clasped my fingers around one of his hairy wrists.

"I paint," he said, finally.

I had never heard Harvey speak before. His voice was high, like a violin.

"What do you paint?" I said.

Harvey took a deep breath. I wondered whether this was the longest conversation he'd ever had.

"The mail, I guess."

My hand relaxed. Harvey was still looking at the ground. His skin was pale, the same color as the walls, and his clothes were dull calico. Strangely, as he backed into the hallway, he became nearly invisible, until all that I could see were his little eyes, fluttering madly, like the shutters of a movie camera. Then, even the eyes were gone. Harvey disappeared back into the labyrinth.

F.F.