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A Letter From The Future
Dear Ed,
I know you’re probably wondering why life
is so hard and chaotic right now, and believe me,
it took time to figure out. If this brief letter
can reach back and find you in the summer of
1966, then pull yourself together and take a
moment to read it. Listen critically, you might
learn something.
When the state of Indiana cuts you loose
the day of your graduation, instead of just
putting your small suitcase of clothes together,
all that you own, and walk out the door of the
Marion County Children’s Guardians Home onto
the streets of eastside Indianapolis, say goodbye
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to the others and wish them well. This includes
Steve Blackmon, the kid who stabbed you, and
Gloria, who you called “Cricket,” that beautiful
dark haired girl who loved you so much, and you
were too dumb to know it. Tell her you have to go.
She’ll be O.K. She doesn’t know yet, but she’s going
to do all right for herself. She’ll be happy.
Thank Jerry Miller, who hired you at the
carpet store so you could rent a room. Forget Don,
his son. Mr. Flat Top didn’t like you, and made
things as hard for you as he could, but you have
more than a few hard edges. Boxing for PAL Club
gave you the mental and physical toughness you
need to find your own way.
Ed, I know the whole idea of having a real
family was always just a television fantasy, and
at this point, it’s an adventure to be free and
alone, but start thinking about it. It’ll happen.
Next, when you take that hitchhiking trip
through the Deep South, make sure you don’t answer
that midnight knock on the door of your five
dollar a night hotel room in Memphis. Get out of
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there, nothing good will come of it, no matter
how heartbreaking pretty she is. You exchanged
pleasantries in the lobby earlier. She’s desperate
to get away from Mr. Muttonchops, her abusive boy
friend. He’s armed and drunk.
Oh. When you finally reach the Beaux Arts
Coffee House and Muse Gallery in St. Petersburg,
stay in the hostel an extra week and meet the
Lovin’ Spoonful and Jim Morrison and Jack Kerouac
doing open mic.
That way, you’ll miss that blonde girl outside
Cross City who picks you up hitchhiking down
that two lane blacktop through the swamps. She’ll
offer you a place to stay and her heart, which
you break. She’ll talk her daddy into offering
you a job at the sawmill, but you have to decline.
You tell her, “I have to move on.”
Yeah, Ed, you moved on and did all right
for yourself, in spite. This is just a reminder
and some helpful hints from the future. I can’t
tell you what to do, you’re hardheaded, with no
support base, but in spite of that I know you are
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open and searching.
Take it easy, and tomorrow I’ll write to
you about Viet Nam.
Sincerely,
You/Me
P.S. Tell Donnie Branham his dad’s car
wash is going to burn down in the fall, and to
make sure he’s ready. He’ll just brush you off,
laugh at you with that big horse laugh he has, but
at least he’ll be warned, and maybe he’ll be able
to save his little brother.
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© East Hell Productions
www.edcoonce.com
2015