Letters From Cicely

A book by El
Based on the Universal television series "Northern Exposure"

Created by Joshua Brand & John Falsey
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Weiner, Ellis.
from Cicely / by Ellis Weiner; based on the Universal television series

Letters
"Northern Exposure," created by Joshua Brand and John Falsey.
p. cm.
ISBN: 0-671-77735-1
I. Northern exposure (Television program) II. Title.
PS3573.E39323L4 1992
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Digitized by the Internet Archive
in 2015
https://archive.org/details/lettersfromcicelOOwein
2/28
Dear Mom,
Thanks for the pastrami. I know how inconvenient it is for
you to schlep all the way down to Katz's from midtown. I mean I
know you were in the City anyway for that matinee, but still. (If,
God forbid, you ever visit me here—AND DON'T. YOU'D HATE
IT. GUARANTEED. —
there's a guy you can discuss musicals with.
He's an ex-astronaut, which means he's the opposite of Jewish.
But you have Gigi in common.
Anyway, appreciate it. Although you could just as easily ask
I
them how they pack it for Federal Express and then do it yourself
with a couple pounds of lean from Ginsberg's. As for me, I'm
fine. It's not spring yet, but they tell me it will be soon, which
means the meadows around my house will be blooming with a

million wildflower blossoms and the sky will turn a deep vibrant
blue. Could you throw in a jar of Kosciusko mustard next time?
Thanks. Do they make a coarse grind, a country-style, anything
like that? Thanks. My best to Pop.
Oh yes, and thanks for the sweatshirt. I wear it all the time.
Loue,
Joey
3/1
Mr. Steven Cohen, Esq.
129 W. Sumner
Pittsburgh!, PA
Dear Steve,
Before we go any further: jump to the end of the letter and
look at my name, which I artfully omitted from the return
address. I'll wait here.
3
Yeah—Alaska. Surprised? How do you think / feel? But first: So
you're in Pittsburgh! They say, contrary to what they say, it's
nice. And you're a Legal Services attorney. I'm impressed. But

at least
not all that impressed, since I'm the medical equivalent,
for four years.
This is not exactly where I expected to end up after med

school. But I reject that. This is by no stretch of the imagination
"ending up." It is a stint of public service in return for value
received— ie, the state paid my med school tuition, and in return
I serve as in-house doc for four years in a sub-Arctic hellhole.
Okay, it's not that bad. A sub-Arctic heck-hole. It's like going
from ROTC into the Army, except the food is worse. Actually I've
plan to get used to any day

already been here two years, so I it
now.
my mother sent me an old, dead, moss-
I'm writing because
green Camp Head staff sweatshirt from our summer camp
Indian
on. Small? The sleeves
days. Because I'm a good son, tried it I
stop halfway down my forearms. look like one of those de- I
hillbillies you see on Appalachian

documentaries on
praved
God don't look like that." (Is
PBS, and you think, 'Thank I
"hillbillies" politically incorrect? I meant, "Lower-Class, Rural,
Gene-Pool Challenged Americans.")

made me think of you, so I thought I'd say
Anyway, the shirt
do things like that (i.e., "say hello")
hello. I don't usually
But 1 find myself
because I usually don't have the time or energy.
is very odd.
awake now at 4:18 AM and not a bit sleepy. Which
my mother (it's after 8:00 AM in NY-they're up) and
So I called
got your address, which she had on file from your mother. Yes,
like the old tv commerical used to say: "Without mothers, life
would be impossible."
itself
note. Please write back,
Let me stop on that thought-provoking
thus proving you got this. And if
you didn't get this, write back
4
and let me know, and I'll send it again. Meanwhile, it's almost
4:21, and I feel fine.
From Out of the Past,
Joel Fleischman
PS — I know. At camp we were seventeen. Now we're — ^well,
you're — thirty. (Me, not quite.) Sorry.

JF
MARCH 1
DearPhyl,
Okay, I know 1 wrote you three months ago,

just after you
moved and said let's stay in touch. You wrote

to Minneapolis,
back very promptly. And proceeded not to write. But you know
I
how it is. You get distracted and busy. (You especially, with the
baby. SHE'S SO CUTE! Can have another photo?) I
So, apologize for dropping the ball and hereby offer my new
I
idea: let's really stay in touch. I mean it. How many college
roommates does a person have in her lifetime? Okay, it's an
arbitrary connection. But what isn't? You don't get to choose
your parents, you don't get to choose your classmates, you don't
get to choose the people you fall in love with all connections —
are arbitrary, now that think of it. Does this make sense? The
1
weird thing is, it's about 3:00 on Sat. night/Sun. morning, and 1
feel like it's noon. I haven't slept all night, but I don't really feel
the need to. So I'm catching up on letters — ^yours is the first, I
swear —and feeling very . . . thoughtful.

So, here's an update. Work: fine. Winter is always slow, of
course, but coming to an end, and biz has been good. The
it's
plane has only minor problems that can fix for cheap, and I'm I
saving for a new one.

Men: disaster. No, I take that back. Not that I'm seeing
anybody. And not that I don't miss . . . well, you name it: love,
sex, a relationship. But also I sort of don't miss them. I have
5
friends. There'sa guy here, we're a little like quarreling siblings,
but with an undertone of something . . . . . .
Sound vague? It is vague. don't approve of him, but kind of

1 I
like him, but 1 don't actually "like" him, but I sort of care about
him in a detached, uncaring way. Clear?
Maybe it's the hour. Maybe it's the lack of sleep, although
frankly 1 don't feel tired. Anyway, I'll stop here. PLEASE write
back, and 1promise never to let it lapse again. And give the baby
a kiss for me. MORE PICTURES! And hello to Jonathan.
Love,
Maggie
3/1
Dear Tim —
You're breaking my heart. The traffic is "horrendous" in
White Plains? It's "next to impossible" to find a "really first-rate
pool man"? At least you can buy a bagel when you want to.
Anyway, thanks for the reprints. Although 1 don't know how
relevant "Intensive Cephalosporin Treatment Schedules
for
Staph-Bdised Forms of Acute pyelonephritis Infections" will be
up here, where most people's idea of medical intervention is to

knock back a double bourbon and then go out in the woods and
scream at some trees. It's mainly nuts and bolts medicine here
inAlaska, i.e., some nut walks in with a severed arm
and you
bolt back on.
it
Meanwhile, in answer to your question, do not "scope out" I
the "babes" up here, because we do not have

"babes" in our
community. The closest we'd get to a "babe" would be if a
giant
hasn't hap-
blue ox were to wander down Main Street, which
(We
pened yet but isn't entirely out of the realm of possibility.
time. And
do get a moose. Once a month. The same one, every
yet he never speaks! Maybe he's shy.)
Didn't mention this town has a population of about 860?
I
Tops, total, all-inclusive, the entire

populace, encompassing
6
every age, sex, race, and creed. So there are about as many
"babes" as there are Thai restaurants.
By the way, note that this is the frontier; they really do have
"creeds" up here. Weird ones, but they are definitely creeds.
One guy believes that dogs are reincarnated as cats. 'That's why
so many people have cats," he tells me as remove and bandage 1
an ingrown toenail. (This is what get in my "practice." Ingrown

1
toenails, wives stabbing their husbands with vegetable peelers,

a woman asking if can give her pet porcupine a facelift. Instead
I
of a lab coat should wear a barbecue apron with big letters

I
reading FOR THIS WENT TO MED SCHOOL?)

I
Anyway, the cat man. "The Egyptians worshiped the cat," the
guy tells me, thumbing over his shoulder as though it just
happened in the backyard. "So by now, all the dogs of the
previous era have come back in feline form."
Like an idiot, engage him in rational discourse. "Wait a
I
minute," say. "Where did all the cats come from that the
I
Egyptians worshiped? Whose dogs were they the reincarnations

of?"
Immediately he says, "The dogs of Atlantis."
This will be the title of my Alaskan memoirs, if I live to write
them. The Dogs of Atlantis. I find myself on the receiving end of
such theorizing all the time and am starting to believe some of
it.
Anyway, 860. I've seen more people in line at the fish counter
at Zabar's. So, out of 860, how many decent (eligible, attractive)
women do you suppose can be assembled?

There is one, but —never mind. It would take three pages to
fully explain my ludicrous relationship with her. In any case, I'll
see her tomorrow —^which is actually today, since I'm writing

this at 5:00 AM, having somehow not felt the need to sleep all
night. No no coffee, no all-night cramming for a histology
drugs,
final in the morning. Odd? You bet.
Anyway, she's an air taxi pilot, owns her own plane, etc. Sexy?
No, but admirable, right? And kind of sexy, in a way. Certainly
sexier than any of the other cabbies I've encountered in my life.
She's flying me 200 miles north, further into the taiga or tundra
7
or whatever it is, so that I can amputate an oil rigger's finger that
got crushed when he tried to open a can of Bud with an axe.

Don't asl^. I mean yeah, they have pop-tops on their beer cans
up here, but people get bored during the long winter. Real
bored.
Wasting His Precious God-Given Medical Talent,
Dr. Joel Fleischman, M.D.
1 MARCH
Editor
Stereo Age
350 Madison Ave.
New York, NY
Dear Sir:
It is not my normal practice to write to editors of maga-
zines, but as I seem to be unnaturally awake here at dawn on
March 1 , 1 have decided to take this opportunity to go on record
as objecting to the comment by your critic, Mr. Gene Fanelli,
when he says that "the most American of all musicals" is Guys
and Dolls. Isn't he aware that a key scene of Guys and Dolls
takes place (albeit offstage) in Cuba? Which, as I can attest from
having seen the island from high earth orbit, is not even a part
of Latin America. It is a Caribbean nation. So how "American"
is that? Although don't get me wrong, Mr. Frank Loesser's
musical is one of the greatest, and a particular favorite of mine.
Nonetheless, in terms of Americanism, other musicals clamor
to be cited. What about The Music Man? What about Fiorello!?
What about Hello, Dolly!?

But what about Oklahoma!? ask this, not only be-
finally, I
cause am a native Oklahoman, and because that show's

1
intermelding of song and story set new standards for the form,
—
but because and I'm vulnerable, expertise-wise, on this next
assertion —
believe this Rogers and Hammerstein masterpiece
I
8
was the first show
an exclamation point in its title,
to include
which, as I'm sure Mr. Fanelli is aware, became something of a
sine qua non for musical titles for decades to follow, as is
evidenced in the titles above. (!)
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
MARCH 1
Dear Shanna,
Hey, many thanks for your provocative, intriguing, and I
guess 1 should say challenging letter. I'm extremely gratified that

you like the radio show. I'm also frankly incredulous that you're
able to receive it all the way out in Seward. And yes, it's great to
be thought of as a competent, even stimulating deejay, although
I'm afraidI'll have to put out the yellow warning flag when you
describe me as "the most important person in the universe." I
mean to say, yes, an improvisatory way about

I do like to talk in
certain philosophical and religious subjects, but then so do

most barroom drunks. (Maybe that's where get it; my Dad was I
chemically dependent on the sauce.) So while I'm glad you find

the chat interesting and even relevant, let's keep things in
perspective. I realize, too, that keeping things in perspective is
no way to have a peak experience. But unless there is perspec-

tive, every molehill looks like a peak.
Having said that, I should probably now address your main
point. While I'd like to say that, yes, do remember leaving my I
body on the night of last December 16th and encountering yours

on the Astral Plane, I, in fact, have no such memory. You say we
"embraced one another as kindred spirits," and "discussed the
mythic resonance and Tantric meaning of the Parcheesi board."
I wish could remember such a discussion it sounds interest-
I —
ing. Finally, you say your etheric double accompanied mine as
it returned to my body, which, you say, was "clad in red tartan-
plaid pajamas and was lying in bed beside a girl named Marcie,"
for which you "forgave" me and where, by way of proof, you
9
"initiated lovemaking" that "proceeded on both the Astral and
the physical planes" until our mutual delight and satiation.
Shanna, while I've always wanted to initiate lovemaking on a
plane, the sad and sobering truth is, I own any
don't tartan-plaid
pajamas. In addition, the last time I even knew a girl named
Marcie we were both seven years old, and if my etheric Astral
double is logging flight hours and discussing board game meta-
physics, it's news to me. Your first reaction will be, "that doesn't
mean it didn't happen," and I agree. It does mean, I'm afraid,
that I will be unable to take conscious, temporal-body, material-
world credit for fathering the child with which you say you are
three months pregnant. would suggest that you search yourI
heart, mind, soul, and random access memory for the identity
of —
someone who can and should. Not that it isn't flattering to
be asked.
So thanks for the kind words, and, if it's any consolation, I
will try to play more Blind Faith. As they only made one album,
repetition is a constant pitfall.
Best wishes,
Chris in the Morning
MARCH 1
Dear Woody,
I finally read a review in a magazine of that biography

about you by Eric Lax. It left me with a few questions. Do you
have to be Jewish to have anxiety? And what's the difference
between anxiety and worrying about things? We have a Jewish
doctor in our town, so maybe I should ask him. He usually
seems anxious about one thing or another. But is that because
he's Jewish, or a doctor? Doctors know more about what there
is to worry about than normal people.
Come to think of it, is that why so many doctors are Jewish?
They're anxious already, so they might as well go ahead and be
doctors, and learn all the things there really are to worry about?
10
I think this would make a good movie, but of course you know
best.
Your friend,
Ed Chigliak
MARCH 2
Dear Tawni,
Man, only March, and I'm climbing the walls. At least in
Saskatoon there was indoor stuff to do to get away from all the
snow. Cicely's okay, but there's not much here. Outside, the
plows shove the snow into piles at the sides of the road, so
whenever you go anywhere it's like you're a cow running through
this white chute with nothing on either side except walls of
snow. By the time you get to your destination you expect it to be

a branding pen or a slaughterhouse or something. On the other
hand, I'm so busy working don't have much time to go outside.
1
Holling says to find a hobby, like learn a foreign language.

Right! Plus, what for? The people know who speak French
I
speak English anyway. 1 mean, what am going to do, go to

1
France?
Meanwhile, 1 mentioned all this to Dr. Fleischman, that New
York guy who moved here like barely two years ago. And he said.
Learn to appreciate reading, and really get into it. But, 1 mean,
you know. 1 like reading, and so forth, but what about having
fun?
Holling says that's why so many Alaskans drink. So said, 1
"Well, suppose learn to drink?" He says, "You can try it, but it's
I
not all it's cracked up to be." So we decided on a compromise.
I'm going to learn to drink drinks with labels in foreign lan-

guages —sweet thick sippy drinks like Cointreau and Courvoi-
sier. So far they taste like medicine, but maybe I'll get used to
them. At least 1 can pursue this inside.
Gotta go.
Lav ya,
Shells
11
PS — I wrote this at 4 in the morning. Holling and I stayed up all
night, for the second night in a row. It is Monday night, and we

haven't slept since Sat. night! We do the deed, and then we sit
around. We write letters, we watch tv, Holling looks at photog-

raphy magazines, 1 read Mademoiselle Then we just get up
etc.
and open the Brick like normal! And everyone else seems to be
having the same experience. It's like the Twilight Zone. S.
3/3
Dear Diane,
It's me, Joel Fleischman, writing from Alaska, That's right:
Joel Fleischman. (That's right: Alaska.) Thank your lucky stars
we never got involved at Columbia. Because if you lived here,
you'd be home by now.

Instead, sensibly, you live in Baltimore, where people don't
brag if their homes feature electricity. I'm writing to you, not
only because we were lab partners in Chem 101 and dated an
unforgettable once (I'm still sorry about that soy sauce, by the
way) —but because you're the only Ph.D. in psych I know, and I
need some insight.

Note the date. Monday, March 2. It is actually 2:45 in the
It is
morning of March 3, and

Tues., have not slept since the I
previous Saturday night. NO ONE IN THIS TOWN HAS. And I
mean no one, since sooner or later everyone in Cicely, AK (pop.

850 plus or minus) shows up at the local bar/cafe and talks to
(or eavesdrops on) everyone else, and the results are in. NO
ONE IN CICELY CAN SLEEP Weirder still, NO ONE WANTS TO.
Which NO ONE IS TIRED, SLEEPY, IRRITABLE, OR IN
is to say,
ANY OR FORM MANIFESTING SYMPTOMS. People
WAY, SHAPE,
parade through my office like it's the customs office at Kennedy
Airport. They tell me they can't sleep and ask me for "some-
thing" (they mean: sedatives). But when I ask them if they're
suffering, they laugh! / laugh! We're all up all the time, laughin'
and scratchin' and doin' our Klondike "thing," and no one can
explain it.
12
But did I mention that I was almost killed yesterday? A
professional pilot named Maggie O'Connell flew me to a pipeline
maintenance station up north. And it was weird: she (who, like
everyone else, hasn't slept) looks alert and fine, as do I. We get
in the plane. We taxi, take off, and here let me note that I enjoy
these small-plane hops across untracked wilderness every bit as
much as I enjoy being mugged — ^we take off, and about a minute
later, O'Connell starts to look all droopy-eyed and starts swaying
around in her seat, and her hands
wheel." fall off the ''steering
She mutters, "Gee, Fleischman, I'm suddenly so sleepy," and

starts to doze off!
The plane dives, and O'Connell manages to snap out of it,

and we spend the whole trip struggling to remain conscious. We
arrive at the station and drink three cups of coffee-scented mud.
I do what I've gone there for (amputating a finger. Don't knock it
if you haven't tried it), and we take off again. The only way we
survived the return trip was by singing old Bee Gees songs.
C'Stayin' awake Stayin' awake .
.")
. . . .
But when we got back, we were alert and normal again. (!!!)
You could feel it as we landed. The sleepiness dissolved, just
lifted, like Judy Garland waking up in the field of poppies in the
Wizard of Oz. How can this be? How can an entire community
not require sleep? And not feel the effects of an already truly
humongous and steadily escalating sleep deficit? Medically, of
course, this is impossible, so I'm begging you for input. Is this a
psychological phenomenon, or what? Obviously, the incident
with the plane trip suggests that the effects of this are localized,
that when we leave the town our normal sleep requirements
reassert themselves.
Is this a kind of mass psychological folie state, a sort of
gigantic instance of group hypnosis?
Which, no, is not probable or persuasive. So you tell me. And
please answer fast. If this keeps up, there may be big career gold
to mine up here. And don't worry, I'll cut you in. (So, of course,
mum's the word.)
Stayin alive,
'
Joel
13
MARCH 4
Dear Mother,
Thanks for asking, but no, I will not be joining you for a
tour of Tuscany next month. Much as I would like to see Tuscany,
and even much as might want to see you. But not the two at
I
the same time. Because know what you have in mind. First it's,
1
'isn't Siena beautiful?" Then it's, "How can you go back to that
awful Alaska?" As though the one necessarily means the other.

Look, respect the big changes you've initiated in your life. (I
I
think you underestimate how hard it is for Jack and me to adjust

to it, maybe by definition that's not your problem. Fine.
but
Maybe.) And guess I'm even touched by your desire to try to
I
teach me not to make the same mistakes you (think you) made.
But was it really so bad, being Dad's wife and our mother? Or
does it only seem so now that you're free to discover the rest of
the world?
But you've always been free to do this. Who told you to go to
those awful Democratic Ladies Auxiliary teas and listen to Cissy

Reynolds decree (week after week) goes in BEFORE that the milk
the tea and the sugar? When âs —

you from the time was I told I
in seventh grade —
it's a matter of common sense, not to mention
basic chemistry, that if you put the tea in first, and then the
sugar, the sugar has a chance to dissolve in the hot tea before
the everything is cooled down by the milk.

"No, dear," you would smile at me. 'This is the way it's done."
Says who? Cissy Reynolds? Or is that the point, the whole
gross Grosse Pointe point? That you were free to bag the whole
thing and didn't know it, or ^worse —
did know it but didn't have —
the nerve?
In any case, please try to get used to the fact that I LIKE it
here. I LIKE flying my plane, I LIKE wearing jeans and a down

vest all the time, I LIKE all the wildness and strangeness of this
place. Not "have gotten used to" or "have learned to make the
best of" or "feel I should give it a chance." "Like."

Which is why, I suppose, I took it personally when you burned
14
down my house. Is that narrow of me? Okay, I'm sure it was an
accident. Although even you, in your newly liberated frame of
mind, must admit it looked . . . iffy. But fine. Iffiness between
mothers and daughters is okay. What kind of world would it be
if a mother can't iffily torch her own daughter's dwelling?
But that's my You didn't have to do that. I've already
point!
broken out of the you wish you had broken out of. HAVE
life I
had the nerve. That's why I'm here! So when you come and
"accidentally" reduce my home to ashes, wonder what the I
meaning is.
I'm writing this having just got back from flying Joel Fleisch-
man (famous doctor/non-boyfriend) to a logging camp, where
he amputated the crushed finger of a guy who tried to open a
can of Bud with a trimming axe. Did a nice job. (Fleischman,
not the logger.) asked the patient why he did it, why he didn't
I
just use a can opener. 'That would have been too obvious," he
said. That's why I like it here! Never mind.

Love,
Mary
MINNIFIELD COMMUNICATIONS
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
DATE: 6 March
TO: Dr. Robert Barlow
NASA — Planetary Sciences
Houston, TX
FROM: MM
VIA FAX. NUMBER OF PAGES INCLUDING THIS COVER: 2
Dear Bob:
Thanks for the fast detective work. Let me see if I have this right,
and by the way, appreciate your eagerness
I to go public with
this, but just hang on a few more days.
15
You're saying this wliole phenomenon probably has some con-
nection with this recent crop of sunspots. The spots give rise to
which create ripples in the solar wind, which in turn
solar flares,
induce changes in the earth's magnetic field. This generates
current in rock formations with high concentrations of iron,
which could be inducing a secondary magnetic field, which
could be affecting the brain waves of every man, woman, and
child in the greater Cicely area.
Hell, I'll buy it. Beats anything I have to offer. All I know is,
nobody in this town sleeps any more. If you ask me, it's a mixed
blessing. It's nice to be able to do more, to use the night
productively. But if you stay alert and vigorous all night, you're
going to need one or two more meals per day. I'm starting to put
on weight!
I'll be in touch. Keep this under your hat until you hear from me.
And thanks, buddy.
Maurice
MARCH 5
Dear Cynd,
Sit down. You are not going to believe this. Remember
when you were And Wayne came to get you? How normal
here?
everything was? Things are SO WEIRD now. Nobody sleeps. I
have been totally awake, nonstop, since last Saturday night.

Everyone town has.
in
The Brick is now open all day and all night, but Holling and
Dave and me can't possibly run it by ourselves. The only reason
I'm able to write to you is Holling hired Ed Chigliak to help out,
so I'm on break. And it's not just that people sit around drinking
and eating peanuts from midnight til breakfast. mean, if you're I
16
up, you get hungry, right? So we need a night-shift cook now, I
mean, Dave is flipping burgers 24 hours a day, and the quality

suffers.
In my opinion, this is not natural. But I ask myself, "Shelly, do

you feel like a mutant or anything?" and my sincere answer is,
"No, 1 don't." Not that 1 have unlimited energy. It's like my brain
doesn't need to sleep, but my muscles do get tired. After you do
a day's work, you want to rest, but not necessarily sleep, ok?
That's what it is. So we sit.
I don't know how long this will go on, but if you feel like
visiting, definitely come on out. Just bring stuff to do. Or can

you do short-order cooking? Burgers, scrambled eggs, stuff like
that? Just kidding. (But really not!)

Loue,
Shelly
MARCH 5
Dear Steven,
Up here in Cicely, Alaska, people have stopped sleeping.

Everyone stays awake twenty-four hours day and night, and no
one seems tired. Our local doctor, Dr. Fleischman, says that if
we keep this up, and there are no bad side effects, it's "like
doubling people's life span."
Wouldn't this make a great movie? Maybe a documentary,
with interviews with everyone, asking them what it's like to be
awake. Or maybe a which a man and woman

fictional story, in
are in love, and somehow not sleeping comes into it. Or maybe
some evil threat menaces the community, only what it doesn't
know is, everyone can band together to defeat it because they
have so much extra time.
Just a suggestion.
Your fan,
Ed Chigliak
17
MARCH 6
Classified Department
Anchorage Times
PO Box 4489
Anchorage, AK
Gentlemen: >
Kindly run the following classified in your Help Wanted

column for a period of six days, not counting the Sunday edition.
I have enclosed a check for $35 as per your usual rate:
WANTED: SHORT-ORDER COOK. Must know basics-

burgers, chili, breakfasts, sandwiches, etc. For day
shift, 7 AM to 4 PM. $6/hr, meals free, plus unlimited
consciousness. Call H. Vincouer, The Brick, Cicely.
555-2910.
For your information, the phrase "unlimited consciousness"

was urged on me by several of my customers. Particularly a Mr.
Chris Stevens, who is a disk jockey and an artist, so I assume he
knows what he is talking about. I don't really understand it
myself, but Chris claims it is classified ad shorthand for the fact
that in our town, no one sleeps. So an employee who works the

day shift can still enjoy an evening and a night of normal
wakefulness, thus ensuring himself a full day's life. It's only two
words. If it attracts the attention of a good short-order cook, I
figured what the hell.
Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
Prop., The Brick
MARCH 8
Dear Jack,
Guess what. Mom wants me to tour Tuscany with her in
April. As though it's that easy, right? The ink on the divorce
18
—
papers isn't dry — it may not even be wet yet, for all I know!
and she's recruiting me to her side. 1 don't like it. It's not fair to
me —or to you, either. If anyone is going to Tuscany, it should

be all of us, like a family.
Wouldn't that be a nightmare. In Italian, too.
Am 1 nattering on? It's because that no-sleep thing that I told

you about on the phone week is still with us. Does it mean
last
that now have 24 hours a day in which to move passengers and

I
freight, log flight hours, and generally improve what Dad would
call my "financials"? As we used to say in Paris, au contraire: I
can't fly at all.
The second leave Cicely's airspace, practically pass out.

1 I
The missed sleep descends on me like an avalanche. It hap-

pened once, and only the hysterical screams of my terrified
passenger woke me up enough to finish the flight. So I'm taking
some time off, hanging out, and helping out around town. Maybe
this weird thing will pass soon, and I'll be back in business.
By the way, the terrified passenger was our very own Dr. Joel
Fleischman, the NY MD, for whom you'd think this period of full-
time wakefulness would be a godsend. More time in which to
feel superior to the entire state of Alaska! More time to bug his
parents to send him mail-order pastrami while he waits for his

"real" life to resume! More time to harrass and whine and carp
at yours truly about about more and more!
. . .
You'd be wrong. The hilarious irony—at least, find it hilari- I
ous; Fleischman, typically, does not— is that he's busier than

ever. Patients troop into and out of his office night and day. Poor
Marilyn (his assistant). At least I assume she's suffering, al-
though it's always hard to tell how she feels about things.
One reason Fleischman is so busy is the noticeable increase
in interpersonal conflictthroughout the town. People seem edgy.
Husbands and wives hit each other with hammers, or pour that
second cup of boiling coffee "accidentally" on each other's
hand instead of in the cup.
Apparently, without sleep, spouses get on each other's nerves
simply by being in each other's face for so many hours of the
day. Because think of it: when that ancient, adorable couple
19
stands up on "Donahue" or "Oprah" and announces that they've
been married 72 years and everyone applauds, does anyone ever
point outhow much of that time hubby was away at work? Does
anyone mention that during a third of that time (24 years), the
happy couple were unconscious, with their backs to each other?
Or do have a negative view of marriage because of the
I
example set by Mom and Dad? You make the call.

More later. Believe me, I'll write again.
Love,
Mags
3/9
Major Maurice Minnifield

do Minnifield Communications
124 Main Street
Cicely, AK
Dear Major Minnifield:

With reference to my service as state-appointed physician
for the town of Cicely, Alaska:
No doubt you are aware of the ongoing anomalous condition
in the town, in which all residents and visitors are able to survive
and, indeed, thrive without their normal nighttime sleep period.

However, what you may not be aware of is the fact that, coinci-
dent with this phenomenon, there has been a sharp, indeed, a
severe upturn in the number of patients seeking medical consul-
tation and service. The attributabiiity of this latter state of affairs
to the former is totally indisputable.

This being the case, I hereby request that the term required of
me to serve as Cicely's resident physician be reduced on a pro-
rata basis. Since now each day in Cicely equals, in duration of
awakeness and amount of work performed, two days, request 1
that my term be shortened accordingly. For example: should this

anomaly persist for an entire year, then, adding that year together
20
—
with the two I have already served, and adding to that total this
proposed "year's worth" of "nighttime" service, I would consider

my four-year obligation fulfilled.
Yours truly,
Joel Fleischman, M.D.
cc Rep. Peter Gilliam
10 MARCH
Dr. Joel Fleischman, M.D.
do O'Connell
RFD6
Cicely, AK
Now Hold On, Son —

1 appreciate your state of overwork, but look at it from our
point of view. If under normal circumstances you went through
a day here in which you had no patients, how would you feel if
we extended your tenure with us by an additional day? Sound

fair?
You catch my drift. This awake-all-the-time deal is simply the

luck of the geophysical draw, Joel. I have it on good authority
that this whole aberration
is caused by sunspots. You think the
good people of Alaska are going to feel they've got their money's
worth of investment in you if we grant you time off because of
solar flare-ups ninety-three million miles away? Ever hear of
force majeure? Ever hear of acts of God?
You've overworked. can appreciate that. Take a day off now
1
and then. Better yet, do what Holling and Shelly are doing: work
at "night" and pursue healthful recreation by day. Now that
nobody sleeps, it's all the same to us Cicelians. Hell's bells, son,
you're sitting smack dab in the middle of the most gorgeous
country God ever nailed together. Take up a sport or a hobby.
You name it — skiing, skating, ice boating, archery, hunting
21
must go on? We've got it all here in beautiful Cicely, on the
I
Alaskan Riviera. Get out of the office and breathe some air. Your
patients will understand.
Request denied.
Sincerely,
Maurice Minnifield
cc Rep. Peter Gilliam
MARCH 10
Dear Aunt Sylvia,
Hov^ are you? I have not slept in eleven days, but I feel fine.
The whole town is Nobody can explain it. But was

that way. I
wondering: maybe you would feel stronger if you came and

visited us. Ma and Pa say it's okay. They're awake all the time,
too, soyou three could have a lot of long talks. You'll have to get
someone to drive you into town, though. We can't come pick
you up. Whenever someone from Cicely leaves town, they fall
asleep.
Love,
Marilyn
10 MARCH
Dr. Bob Barlow
NASA— Planetary
Houston, TX
Dear Bob,
Now please, Bobby, don't rush me. If this anomalous
condition lasts, I guarantee you will be the first to be granted
unlimited research access to the whole town. If it stops, well, I'll
owe you one. But I want to manage the development and
22
exploitation of this thing carefully, and proclaiming the official
arrival of a NASA scientist of your stature would let the cat out
of the bag and the genie out of the bottle. Stick with me.
I can't tell you how odd it is. You talk about mankind being
creatures of habit: everyone goes through their usual daytime

routine, goes home, eats dinner or whatever, does their after-
dinner ritual, reading or watching tv or listening to music,

playing cards, visiting, drinking . . . waiting for bedtime . . . and
then nothing happens. You sit there like a fool, wondering what
to do next.
wander over to the
Invariably I local bar, and that place is
more jammed than on New Year's Eve. At 2 AM! When half the
people, hell, ninety percent of the people, there have to start

work the next day at six, seven, eight o'clock. Of course it's pitch
black out —daylight is at a premium this time of year anyway, I
mean night falls at 3:30 in the afternoon —but we all loiter
around, drink and talk and eat like it's Happy Hour and we're
revving up for some prime-time fun!
I've asked our local medic, a Jewish fellow from New York, so
he's up on things, about possible negative complications. He
tells me he has no idea. "We're in terra incognita here, Maurice,"
he says. "This whole phenomenon is so off the scale, so totally
abnormal and anomalous, that it's any man's guess." 1 can't
decide whether that's reassuring or not.
Tell you whose work has picked up, though: Ruth-Anne Miller.
Runs the local General Store —^which means the Post Office and
the library. It turns out that, with so much time on our hands,
everyone has taken to writing letters. She says the volume of
outgoing mail is four times normal, which can vouch for 1
personally, since I've been brainstorming and firing off proposals

to beat the band.
I know up with equipment and personnel.
you're eager to fly
As soon as things are under control, I'll give you the green light.
Maurice
23
3/10
National Science Foundation

1800 G. Street N.W
Washington, DC
Gentlemen:
Kindly forward to me all appropiate application forms for

scientific research grants, specifically those concerned with the
psychological and neurological bases of sleep disorder. Time is
of the essence.
Please excuse the xerographic nature of this query, but I am
presently engaged in field work in Alaska and my computer is
back in New York. Thank you.

Sincerely,
3/10
American Psychological Association

New York, NY
Gentlemen:

of the essence.
Please excuse the xerographic nature of this query, but 1am
Sincerely,
24
3/10
American Academy of Neurological Studies

874 E. 42nd St.
New York, NY
Gentlemen:

of the essence.

Sincerely,
3/10
Squibb Pharmaceuticals
P.O. Box 4000
Princeton, NJ
Gentlemen:

of the essence.

Sincerely,
25
3/10
Proctor and Gamble, Inc.
1 Proctor and Gamble Plaza
Cincinnati, OH
Gentlemen:

of the essence.
Please excuse the xerographic nature of the query, but Iam
Sincerely,
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
10 March
Mr. Steven Jobs

NeXT Corporation
Redwood City, CA
Dear Mr. Jobs:
First, my credentials: Maj. Maurice Minnifield, president and

CEO, Minnifield Communications. Also former A-level flight-
grade technician. National Aeronautics and Space Administra-
26
tion. In a word, astronaut, retired. Noteworthy mission: Project
Mercury, Earth orbit. Also decorated Air Force pilot, Korean War.
None of which ought to mean a thimbleful of 'diddly to you, sir,
but 1 include it just so you know I've had some technological as
well as real-world experience.
I would advance a business proposition. IVe chosen you,

like to
from all the other luminaries of the computer field, because 1
believe that you (like myself, if may say so) are a man of vision.
I
Besides, who else is there? Gates? A tough competitor, you'll

give him that, but in the end, a nasty boy, with a vindictive
streak. Scully? A slick suit with a hidden agenda, and 1 withdraw
the question. Wozniak? MIA. Canion? Out. The fellows over at
IBM are famous for their anonymity. And come to think of it,
whatever happened to what's his name Noland Bushnell? —

No, sir, there is only you. And
me. Pygmies, Mr. Jobs. there is
Even at NASA, and especially here, in Cicely, Alaska, was and I
am surrounded by visionary pygmies, if you take my meaning. A

man has a view of the horizon; he points to a thing an exciting —
thing, a thing of promise —and says, by God, there it is, let's go
get it; and those around him look down at the dirt and call it
"reality." know you agree with me, so I'll

I get to the heart of the
matter.
For years now

been gleaning from the general-interest press
I've
an impression of your vision concerning what the computer

could and should be in our society. If may say, it's a magnifi- I
cent conception. hope you won't be offended if add that

I I I
appreciate its vagueness. After all, it's at the blurry margin of the
familiar that the extraordinary takes shape. The unknown is, by
definition, ill-defined.
May I venture a leap into that undefined vagueness with the

following proposition? You expound on the idea of the computer
27
being THE integral appliance of the future household. 1 seem to
remember an interview somewhere in which you posit a day
when we will all use the computer with the casual unself-
consciousness that a six-year-old today displays toward the
telephone. To explore this concept, you could be and presum-
ably are experimenting with advanced models of computers in
simulated domestic settings.
My point is, why stop there? Put it this way! Of what use is the
telephone, if only one six-year-old has one? For your idea to
have its fullest expression and undergo most meaningful trial,
its
a neighborhood of "telephones" — i.e., —

computers must be es-
tablished, hooked up, and running interdependently. A neigh-
borhood — or a town.
That's where
can help.I I represent the town of Cicely, Alaska,
on the so-called Alaskan Riviera. Population a small, controlla-
ble 850 plus or minus. Number of households: call it around
500 —a number, Mr. Jobs, smaller than the freshman class at
many high schools. And yet here is a fully operational commu-
nity, with its local economy, its social ebb and flow, etc. In a
word, we are talking about a COMPLETE SOCIAL ENVIRONMENT.
You see where I'm leading. I'm about to suggest that you equip
every household in Cicely with a unit of your most experimental
machine, link them up not only to the national and international
phone system but to each other, then stand back and take notes.
I will not say our town is hermetically sealed from the rest of the
world —indeed, I predict the opposite. Some day. But for now, a
hard-wired Cicely, humming with NeXT computers, could be of
significant mutual benefit. You get a living, breathing Petri dish
in which to study the life of your cybernetic vision. I get some
killer publicity for my town. Nobody loses. Everybody wins.
Let me anticipate your objections. Red tape? It doesn't exist. The

(defacto) mayor is a friend of mine, and there is almost no other
28
government. Reluctance of the local populace? There may be
some, but while Cicelians can be ornery, they're also massag-
able. Inaccessibility to you and your people? A slight problem,
but soluble, and remember that our remoteness is the beauty
part. Adequate power sources? In place. Unsophistication of the
residents, where you've got to teach them how to use the
product? Our biggest asset —otherwise you're preaching to the
choir.
Look, son, anyone can shove some IBM PS/2s into a develop-
ment Ken and Barbie ranch homes, boot up Windows, and
of
call it "friendly." Or throw a couple dozen Macs at a bunch of
ice-cube tray condominiums and claim it's an experiment in

cybernetic futurology. Balls, excuse my French. Envi-
if you'll
sion, instead, our one-traffic-light town with each quaint Mom

and Pop store, each hand-built house, each wood-stove-heated
cabin and clapboard Victorian containing at its throbbing nerve
center one of your sleek black gleaming cubes. Isn't that beauti-
ful? With HDTV on the display, Joy of Cooking on CD-ROM in
the kitchen, with modems and mouses for all. You'll have
magazines lined up for a mile and "60 Minutes" begging on their
knees.
There is another aspect of Cicelian life that I am not at liberty to

disclose at this time. Suffice to say, Mr. Jobs, if it pans out, your
machines will get more of a workout than you have ever dreamed
possible. I hope I've whetted your appetite for more details. I
will be able to provide same when the whole situation is

confirmed.
Attached is my card. know you're a busy man. Hell, I'm a busy

I
man. Let's be busy together and make us a future. Call me.
Sincerely,
Maurice Minnifield
CEO
29
MARCH 11
Mr. Tony Petri llo

Ads Infinitum
lOOOSaguaro, Suite 514
Santa Fe, NM
Dear Tony,
Man, am glad we stayed in touch. I'm appealing to you,

I
in your triple capacity as 1) a poet of the Southwest desert whose

work genuinely admire, 2) the guy who introduced me to The
I
Hero With a Thousand Faces back in '86, when I staggered into

Taos from the San Jemez mountains and offered in barter
carpentry work for your Creative Writing Workshop, and 3) a
Real World adept who started his own ad agency and still finds
time to write. I am largely as I was when last we wrote, in Cicely,
doing the radio show, making the sculptures, evolving according

to some master scheme not revealed to me as of yet.
But dig it, brother: my whole town has stopped sleeping.
We all and day, and have done so since the
just stay up, night
first of the month. No exhaustion, no irrationality, no bleary

eyes. Maybe a touch of peevishness, interpersonal ly, but other-
wise, our waking day is now 24 hours. Which is why appeal
I to
you. You're versed in the literature, a man of the world and a
man of the word. So: is there any precedent for this, in myth,
legend, or Bazooka comics? And can we get away with it?
As re the former, I frankly dunno. As re the latter, I have big

misgivings. The cause of it all seems to be sunspots; Sol, our
stellar adolescent, suffers an outbreak of acne, and we mortal
fools down here lose sleep over it. So the (as we have learned to
refer to it) "anomaly" is, if only technically, "natural." But so is
leprosy. amusing and amazing to play all-night

And while it's
hands of bridge or actually to start and finish a game of

Monopoly without getting up from the table, still: what about
dreams? Can we really survive without them?
On the assumption that we can't, and that now is the time for
30
all good dj's to come
community, have to the aid of their 1
commenced playing lullabies over the radio. Lalso read bedtime

stories —
not Where the Wild Things Are, as do during Meltdown I
Mania, no, this time it's beddy-bye classics like Goodnight Moon.
Duly revamped Alaskan adult audiences, it is now called
for
"Goodnight Moose" and includes the line, "Goodnight deer and

goodnight beer Goodnight pipeline and goodnight 'Night-
. . .
."
line' . .
I do this, not because anyone is complaining that they want

to sleep, but because I can't help feeling that we're flirting with
disaster by denying this primal need. It's a public service that
lacks a public. keep trying. Any thoughts? Write or call
Still, I'll
any time. Don't be afraid of waking me up. Regards to your wife

and kids, too.
Supremely conscious,
Chris Stevens
MARCH 12
Dear Jeff,
So you found me, eh? assume my mother told you on the I
phone what she tells everyone else (and me) when she refers to
my current situation. Just remember to read this to yourself in
her patented adenoidal Jewish/Queens drone: "Jo-el is giving
checkups Eskimos at the North Po-el." This is a gross distor-
to
which is already horrible enough. They are not
tion of the truth,
Eskimos. They are Inuit Indians. And we are hundreds of miles
from the North Pole.
But it is Alaska.
Remember those tv ads? The sleep cruise ship plying the
crystal waters ... a gigantic dazzling white glacier looms up
ahead and suddenly, a Glen Campbell-type guy sings, in a
. . .
big majestic echo chamber, "A-lass-KUUUHHHHHHH ." Well, . .
when it comes time to picture my setup, don't picture that.

Instead picture a small town in the mountains, lots of woods
and meadows, deer in your backyard, bear in your back door, a
31
native population of Indians, a non-native population of eccen-
tricsand loners and visionaries and wackos, and about ten feet
of snow each winter. Which starts around Columbus Day and
lasts until further notice.
(FYI: The state of AK paid for my med school tuition, so I owe

them four years of service as a doc in a remote area. Sort of like
indentured socialism.)
Which means, alas, that 1 will not be able to attend your
thirtieth birthday party, since circumstances prohibit, etc. Oh
God, the thought of returning to NY, of walking into Posner's
House of Seven Bagels on 133rd, of standing there in that
horrible flourescent lighting, with the fresh ryes and pumps
sitting in those plastic bins and the air so thick it must weigh
fifty-six pounds per cubic foot — sorry. I'll try to control myself.
Of course, now you live in the City, and can buy and sell bagel
shops at will. How is the investment banking biz? Is there any
money the world? Will there be some available when
left in I
and commence living in a manner to which hope

return to N.Y., I
some day to become accustomed?

(1 was just staring out the window, thinking about that Ad-
vanced Chem seminar we took the summer after 11th grade.

Remember? When we introduced ourselves as brothers to those
girls? Told them our names were Florenz and Ehrlenmeyer Flask?
Somehow, even as they laughed in our faces and told us to get

lost, knew would go to med school, and you knew you would
I I
go to Wharton. And now look! You're living a dream come true!

And I'm living a waking nightmare!)
So I'm sorry can't make it. Happy birthday in advance. And
I
in case you start experiencing an end-of-youth life assessment,

take comfort in the fact that you're still not old enough to be
President, you have your health, and you're not examining

beaver teeth in Alaska.
Putting the Alas Back in Alaska,
JoelR
32
MARCH 12
DOCTOR Jennifer Kelly

Department of Sociology
University of Michigan
Ann Arbor, MI
Dear Jen, or rather, Dear DOCTOR,

Congratulations on getting your Ph.D., which 1 happen to
know about thanks to a highly placed source who shall remain
nameless but is my mother. What's next? Tenure, right? I'm sure
you'll get it. If you need a letter of recommendation, feel free to
xerox the following:
Jennifer Kelly (aka "Jen," "Jens," "Kennifer Jelly")

has been a sterling individual and a dear friend of
mine ever since ninth grade at St. Anne's Upper
School, where she majored in helping me not get in
trouble with the sisters, field hockey, Harrison Ford
worship, and advanced makeup application. She is
eminently qualified to get tenure at any university, is
probably a great teacher, and was excellent as my

mother when I played the bratty, murderous title role
in our production of The Bad Seed.
Bear in mind that while rejoice at the news of your success,

1
secretly it makes me miserable. All my friends are either getting

married, Ph.D.'s, or pregnant! Is life passing me by? Normally I
don't think so, but life these days isn't normal. I can't fly— I'll tell
you why some other time; it's weird — so I feel useless and at a
loss.
Which isn't my usual emotional state, assure you. Like I I
wrote you three years ago (!!), fly an air taxi. In my plane, I
soaring above the Alaskan landscape, I feel privileged and

exhilerated. THAT'S my idea of normal: cruising along, ten
33
thousand feet above everybody else, able to swoop in over this
staggering landscape —mountains,
—and take lakes, glaciers!
care of myself no matter what happens. Even macho creep
passengers — common than you'd expect,
less —don't really
bother me with their "clever" jokes about their joy sticks. But if
I'm grounded . . .
Well, I'm trying to take it easy, but you know me: busy,
bustling Margaret. So it's hard. Oh hell, this mood will disappear
once I back in the air. Meanwhile, write back! And congrat-
get
ulations. Send me your thesis! promise to read it. (This promise
I
does not extend to understanding it, however.)

But I'm forgetting something. Namely: are you still seeing
what was his name? Kevin? Or am hopelessly behind the times? I
Answer fully, be specific, and show your work. Then I'll tell you
my story. Such as it is. Which, now that think of it, is sort of I
hair-raising.
Intrigued? Good.
Love,
Maggie
MARCH 12
Dear Francis,
I finally saw that documentary about you which your wife
shot while you were making Apocalypse Now. My favorite part
was when Marlon Brando gave some lines I couldn't understand

and then gulped and said, "I swallowed a bug." That was great!
Did you write it? Or did Brando improvise? Probably the two of
you kind of worked it out on the set. Too bad you had to cut it
from the final version.
I had no idea making that movie was so hard. No wonder

when you shot your next movie. One From the Heart, you didn't
even come out of the editing trailer to the set. don't blame you. I
Keep up the great work.

Your fan,
Ed Chigliak
34
KBHR
"THE VOICE OF THE LAST FRONTIER"
March 13
Inmate Earl David Bentine

#28449006
Lompoc State Prison
Lompoc, CA 93436
Dear Earl,
Yo, glad to hear you're getting by. It seems to me one thing holds
true in the Big House that applies also to life on the Outside:
you do it one day at a time.
I want to congratulate you on the program of self-education you

say you are pursuing in the joint and to wave off any credit you
want to bestow on me. I'm no example to anybody, man. I'm
just a soul trying to reconcile the demands of mind and body on
this travel through time. Still, I'm glad our correspondence has
sparked some nascent curiosity in you.
As for your conundrum, it is familiar to me and has brought

many a perplexed evening's discussion at the local cafe. The
question is, "If God can do anything, can He make a stone so
heavy He can't lift it?" You say, "It can't be answered, it's a
Paradox." I agree — for a minute. The next minute I find attractive
an alternate answer, one more grounded in time. Namely, yes:
He creates it, and He can't lift it. "Shit, man," he says. "That
sucker's heavy."
But then a moment passes, and a new situation presents itself.
I'm not here invoking the so-called Copenhagen Interpretation
35
of quantum reality, which suggests —and I'll get into this in a
different letter, it's highly arcane, mind-bending stuff — ^that an
infinite number of universes is constantly being generated every
moment by the decay of subatomic particles throughout the
universe. mean that, a minute later, God reconsiders. He says
1
"Hey, hold on. I'm God, God damn it." And He goes on to lift the
stone with one Hand. The left one. Because, as my Catholic
friendsused to joke, "Jesus was crucified and went to Heaven,
where he sits on the right hand of God." Ouch!
Does that resolve the paradox? You tell me. I look forward to
your next letter. Meanwhile, take it easy. Perseverence furthers.
Yours,
Chris Stevens
MARCH 13
Internal Revenue Service

Anchorage, AK
Gentlemen:
I am in receipt of your letter to me of February 25, in which

you request information with regard to what I've paid my em-
ployees in salary and benefits over the past twenty-three years. I
would love to give you this information, but simply do not I
know. People who've worked here have come and gone, and
some have come back again and then gone again. suppose I've I
paid these various individuals four or five dollars an hour, but

probably in the early days it was much less, considering that a
dollar lot more back then.
bought a
employ three people. One is Dave, the cook, who
Currently I I
pay seven dollars an hour. As for benefits, he can have all his
meals free. have also hired Ed Chigliak at that same rate with
I
36
those same benefits. have a classified ad out
I for another cook,
as we are now open twenty-four hours a day..
My other employee is Shelly Tambo, but as she and are I
cohabiting on a personal basis, I don't really pay her. just give

I
her money.
I hope this answers your question.
Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
Prop., The Brick
14 March
Mr. Chuck Williams

% Williams-Sonoma
P.O.Box 7456
San Francisco, CA 94120
Dear Mr. Williams:
I have been a satisfied customer of your catalogue cookware

operation since 1 moved out here to Alaska in 1972. It didn't take
a genius to perceive that the availability of quality cookery items
and ingredients in a state with a total population smaller than
that of San Francisco was less than nil, and many is the time I
have thanked whatever deity is out there for your excellent wares
and crackerjack service. say all this, quite frankly, by way of
I
buttering you up —
use the term advisedly in preparation for
I —
what concede is an audacious request.
1
1 am about to ask you to send me an appreciable amount of

cookware and ingredients for free.
Before you scoff or consign this to the circular file, hear me out.
Due to circumstances that quite frankly you would not believe, I
37
find myself with a surplus of time on my hands. Nov/, as an
amateur chef, have always fantasized, as am sure many have,
I I
of conducting a cooking class. Nothing fancy, nothing elabo-

rate — just some basic lessons to instill in others an appreciation
for the fundamentals of real cooking. Blame
it on an innate
tribal desire to pass on and expertise to others, blame it
skills
on ego — hell, blame it on the bossa nova: all know is, it's I
something I've wanted to do for a long time.
I now
find have the opportunity. have what assume will prove
I I I
tobe a willing customer base, consisting of a handful of curious

people whose time weighs heavily on their hands. But need the I
equipment: pots, pans, utensils, and so on, as specified on the

attached list.
I am asking you to donate these items, not because this is a

nonprofit operation or a benefit for charity — it's neither —but
because it's good business. These people, once they learn that
it takes exactly as much effort to put a real chicken in the oven
as it takes to put a godawful frozen dinner in the microwave, will
be ready to cook. And they'll need equipment for their homes.
And they will be unable to buy the stuff in stores out here.
Which means that they will be sitting ducks for endorsement of

your products. Send me a carton of catalogues and I'll hand
them out like Halloween candy. With every class that graduates
from my course, you willbe gaining six, eight, ten customers for
life. Hell, the first class alone should buy enough Grande Cuisine
starter sets and Silverstone muffin tins and Barbier Dauphin
Tomato Paste to pay back your initial investment. The rest if —
you'll pardon the expression — is gravy.
1 know arrangements must be made with regard to delivery and

shipping and so forth. Please call or write me at the attached
address. Meanwhile, if you should ever desire to see what real
38
natural beauty would be my honor to have you as my guest
is, it
up here in beautiful Cicely, on the breathtakijig Alaskan Riviera.

Feel free to call at any time.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
3/14
Steven Cohen, Attorney

Pittsburgh, USA
Dear Steve,
Nice letter, but are you kidding? "Who do I like for Presi-
dent"? I like Seve Ballesteros. He's handsome, he's suave, he

has a sense of humor, he's Spanish, and he's a great golfer. Who
I'll get is another matter.
Is that "immature"? Sue me. Up here, in wacky Alaska, I'm
discovering parts of myself forgot even existed. Remember back
I
in 7th grade, when you "decided" what your "personality" would

be? The chickens come home to roost up here only they've —
turned into eagles and owls.
You realize there are aspects of yourself you had forgotten
about or decided were less important than being cool, or hip, or
attractive, or,you know, acceptable to your peer group. And they
start to reassert themselves. Because why stifle them? Up here
it's very hard for anyone to find a convincing, credible peer
group. Everyone's too focused on being themselves to be anyone

else's peer. Is this agood thing? Yeah, think it's probably a I
good thing. Unless the self you're busy being is totally insane.
Which brings me to what happened last month, when went I
shopping in Anchorage.
1 decide to take a few days off. It's early February, when life
was still normal. And it's prime time winter; the only thing I can
39
compare it to is summer on Pluto. So for a change of pace I
decide to go into Anchorage — pig out at a real restaurant, get

some clothes and some books and CDs. Because I'm pampering
myself. That's what you want to do in Alaska during the winter,
when you feel like you're really doing very well if you just get
out of bed.
Plus, in this dark and gloom and general foggy cruddy murk,
you start to feel . . . sad. Depressed. Sorry for yourself, and sick
of life. Because askWhere did human life begin?
yourself:
AFRICA! Where it's warm and humid and green, and people
don't eat mooses. So on the very evolutionary level we're way off
course up here.
Being Jewish, of course, I'm going to pamper myself with a
nice dinner (i.e., food), and then buy some entertainment to
bring back home (culture). You have to fly to Anchorage to
maximize your time. The local air taxi pilot (I told you about
her. Maggie O'Connell? From Grosse Pointe? Cute, touchy, neu-
rotic —don't get me started) says she can't fly me to the city
itself, but she can drop me off at the airstrip in a town called
Good Mule. say okay. She does, and
I I do indeed fly into
Anchorage on one of the few intrastate airlines. (Of course,
since the state is as big as one-fifth of the entire continental US,
"intrastate" can mean flights longer than from NY to Chicago.)
I cab into the city, grab some new clothes, nice pamper-y
lunch, some paperbacks, and the piece de resistence, a spree

in a record store. Not that "records" exist any more, but you
know what mean. Now, on my I limited income, a single CD is a
major purchase, but I've given myself permission to buy three.
Which comes to, —
you know ^with tax, forty bucks. browse, I I
dither, Ipick up and put down, beg for permission to buy four I
or five and sternly refuse. Finally have my three, and go to

I I I
the cash register.
The guy there looks like he was dragged from a medieval

dungeon and told to work the register. Totally emaciated, gaunt,
stringy hair, dirty gray sweatshirt and he's muttering. To him- —
self. "Goddamn Elliot. Tell me how to do it Goddamn son of . . .
a bitch . .
." And so on. I, naturally, am unfazed. I get this in
40
New York on a daily basis. Men in business suits walk down
Park Avenue talking like this to themselves. J plunk the disks on
the counter and pull out my wallet.
"Goddamn Elliot," the guy says to me. "Look, man, just take
thegoddamn things, okay, just split, man, don't care."
I
"Who's Elliot?" 1 ask, trying to strike the sympathetic note.

"Your boss?"
"Yeah, my boss, man, okay? Just take 'em."
Tempting? You bet. But Fm feeling solid, I've given myself
permission to spend the money. 1 need the full social nourish-
ment of a culturally validated commercial exchange. I WANT to
pay.
"Come on," I say. "If Elliot finds out, you'll get fired."
He yells, with maximum insanity: "I DON'T GIVE A DAMN,

MAN. JUST TAKE 'EM, OKAY?"
I look around. The place is deserted, so there's nobody to
take over for Mr. Nutbar here, nobody to slap him on the back
and say, "Hey, Tim, how's about you take your medication and
I'll wrap this one up." No, just me and the skinny guy still
muttering about Elliot, who suddenly pulls out from under the
counter A SEMI-AUTOMATIC HANDGUN, and I see the whole
scenario unfolding in grisly slo-mo: he shouts, points, I hold up
my hands in feeble protest, and BLAM BLAM BLAM, little Joel is
blasted into picturesque smithereens. What would you do? I
grabbed the disks and ran.

Five blocks later I pull up, panting, and take stock. Well, I've
got the CDs. Maybe I should have left them, but it serves Elliot
right, employing psychopaths so he won't have
to give them a
And I'm forty bucks to the good. (I TOLD YOU YOU
health plan.
SHOULD HAVE BOUGHT MORE, my greedy self says.) I'm stand-
ing in front of a bar; for the hell of it, I go in and talk to the
bartender.
"That music store up the street," I say. "What's the owner's
name? Elliot something?"
"Susan Hampton," the guy says.
"Who's Elliot? Like a husband, or the manager — ?"
41
"Damn if I know. Never heard of any Elliot. Susan's owned it
for years."
This is a perfect Alaskan story— the gun, the lunatic, the fact
that "Elliot" was probably the name of a beaver the guy saw last
year —except for one thing. The story isn't over yet. Not by a
long shot. Look for the thrilling conclusion in my next letter.
Not pampered nearly enough,

J.
MARCH 15
Dear Aunt Martha,
Happy birthday.
Love,
Marilyn
16 MARCH
Dear Tyler,
I am in receipt of your letter and want to thank you for

asking me to give you my thoughts on what happens to astro-
nauts after their flight missions cease. It's a good question, and
I've had a lot of time to ruminate on it, since my last mission
was in 1971.
Since that time I have been involved in numerous commercial
enterprises, some in the communications field. In 1974 pur- I
chased the license for an AM radio station, currently broadcast-

ing on a daily basis. In 1975 began a daily newspaper, currently
I
in weekly publication. have also invested in several satellite

I
telecommunications ventures, with mixed results. In addition I
invested in a rather sizeable parcel of undeveloped virgin wilder-

ness comprising approximately fifteen thousand acres. It is my
belief that this land will one day undergo extensive development
for industrial, recreational, and residential or tourist-entertain-
ment uses.
42
I was attracted to these ventures by virtue of my experience as
an astronaut. While orbiting the Earth had,âs many astronauts I
do, something of an epiphany. was moved almost to tears by

I
the great beauty of our planet. But while many astronauts report
an impression, upon gazing at planet Earth, of its fragility, I
looked down on that radiant blue-white opaline globe and had

no sensation of fragility at all. thought that world looked healthy
I
and thriving and able to take whatever Man could dish out.
People who have never seen Earth from space believe that it
looks and endangered, and overdeveloped. Well hell, if

frail,
you'll excuse the expression, I've been there, and thought it I
looked not developed enough.

There was something in that glimpse of Earth's scale and
splendor that shook me to my core. had found my medium 1
and my calling, which was bigness. And knew that when I I
resigned my post at NASA, could no more settle for a desk job

I
working some governmental agency, or a glad-handing so-

for
cializing greeter job for some big corporation, than a lion tamer
could settle for selling stuffed toys. came out of that Mercury I
capsule determined to do big things in a big way in a big place.

And so moved to Alaska, because knew that this was one
I I
place 1 could find a landscape and potential commensurate with

my goals and desires. 1 have been here twenty years now, and I
have no reason to amend or alter that conception.

In closing, want to thank you once again for asking about
1
this, and I hope that you and your fellow second-graders in Mrs.
Flimner's class will find it useful.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
MARCH 17
Dear Tony,
Many thanks for your letter of the 14th. And you're right, of
course: whatever the neurological function of sleep is, we appre-
43
hend it via dreams. Physical rest aside, what we get from it is
immersion in the unconscious.
So I've altered my strategy. Rather than trying to lull the town
asleep —a notable — have decided bore
failure I submis- to it into
sion. Over the radio —^which now commandeer almost day
I all
and night, stopping only for meals and an occasional beer or

two — I read the most excruciatingly tedious documents
can get I
my hands opaque sociological texts, brain-numbing maga-

on:
zine articles, the Congressional Record. To keep myself sane I
also chant, for minutes at a time, the sacred monosyllable OM,

alternating with the "Preliminary Trance Formula" ("You are
increasingly relaxed . . . your eyelids are like lead . . from a
really stupid book on hypnotizing people for fun and profit.
Then, just when I clam up

sense the onset of laryngitis, I
completely, and subject the town to a marathon festival of New

Age trance-music: meandering piano noodles, fairy-tale harp
recitals, muted quasi-jazz suitable for dentists' offices. (After
twenty minutes of it, like Graham Greene, you ask to have your
teeth pulled, just to feel alive again.)
Not that any of this works, of course. Not that people don't
revile me in public and demand more uplifting musical selec-
tions. Not that my boss, a can-do ex-astronaut, doesn't glare at
me and administer the occasional tonguelashing. I won't be

able to do this much longer.
Meanwhile, thanks for the interest in "Goodnight Moose," a
copy of which is attached. Keep those insights coming, 1 need
all the help can get.
I
Best,
Chris
GOODNIGHT MOOSE
A BEDTIME POEM FOR INSOMNIAC ALASKANS
In the great big state
There was a little town
44
And a wild white goose
And a big brown moose.
And there were three grizzly bears giving out scares
And two little beavers
And short-wave receivers
And beautiful lakes
And caribou steaks.
And eagles and fishes
And satellite dishes.
And a deejay starting to play "Nighttime's the Right Time"
And the Alyeska Pipeline
And a quiet old lady who was tuning in "Nightline."
Goodnight goose.
Goodnight moose.
Goodnight whites, Indians, Aleuts.
Goodnight Aurora
And Fauna and Flora.
Goodnight deer
And goodnight beer.
45
Goodnight huskies
And immigrant Russkies.
Goodnight stars
And goodnight bars.
Goodnight deejay
And "Nighttime's the Right Time."
Goodnight nobody
And goodnight pipeline.
And goodnight to the old lady
Turning off "Nightline."
Goodnight permafrost, taiga, tundra
Goodnight biscuits of Gold Medal Wondra.
Goodnight mountains
Goodnight air
Goodnight Alaskans everywhere.
Goodnight oil
Goodnight sea
Goodnight, sleep tight. Cicely.
MARCH 17
Dear Jack,
Our letters crossed in the mail, so here I am to answer
yours:
46
I know rn have to come down to G.R soon so we can talk
about (sigh) dividing up all the stuff once Mom and Dad sell the
house. But can it wait? This whole divorce thing is still too new
to me. I'm not yet ready to talk about the assets. Surely the
house won't sell that quickly. If it does, call me and I'll come
down.
If it's any time soon, you'll have to scrape me out of the plane.
I'd conk out for days (I think) if left Cicely. So that's another
I
—
reason to delay until get my normal sleep life back.
I
Meanwhile, nobody even takes a nap around here. It is ex-

tremely bizarre, because you go from one thing to the next
without that sense of pacing and rhythm you normally get from
ending one day and beginning another.
Here's another bizarre turn of events: I'm tending bar! needed I
a job. And since can't fly, and the whole town now hangs out
I
at the local cafe all night as well as all day ^which means they —
—
need help ^your sister is now serving up Moosehead and Prinz
Brau and the occasional boilermaker. like it, actually. Although 1
it has its share of annoyances. Like last night, when Dr. Joel
Fleischman (I may have mentioned him. From New York? Comes
equipped with a natural superiority and unbelievable arro-
gance?) came in and proceeded to rag me in his "witty" (read:
half-witty) way. Sample dialogue:
JF: So, O'Connell . . . expanding your repertoire of

professional skills, I'm impressed.
ME: What'll it be, Fleischman.
JF:So curt, so short, so brusque! may have to I
inform Mr. Vincoeur that his help is a quart low on

customer relational finesse.
ME: Fleischman, you don't have to bother to im-
press me with your vocabulary. I already know you
got a 714 on your verbal SATs.
JF: Hey, how did you know that? Who told you? Did
Elaine you?
tell
ME: You did, Fleischman. It was one of the first

things you said after we met. And you want to know
what my sincere reaction was?
47
JF: What . . .
ME: How refreshing. To see such a good vocabulary

in the possession of such a And you'll be happy
jerk.
to know that in the two years youVe been here, have 1
seen no reason to revise that assessment. You do have

a good vocabulary. And you are a jerk.
JF:Oh yeah? And what did you get, O'Connell?

ME: 632.
JF: 1 rest my case.
ME: So do I. What'll it be.
JF: Beer.
And so on. Of course this is all very amusing, for now. But if
it persists, and
really can't fly,
I don't know what the hell I'm I
going to do. One answer would be, move out of Cicely to where
things are normal. Which guess is what's called for if want to
I 1
keep flying. If choose to stay, I'd have to take up some indoor

I
profession. The good news is, I'll have twice the normal workday
to get up to speed in it, right? For now, I'm using that time
writing letters. It's supposed to be therapeutic.
Don't tell the folks. That's all I need.
Love,
Mags
March 17
Dr. Michael Robertson

Wilson Institute of Neurological Studies
Philadelphia, PA
Dear Dr. Robertson:
I obtained your Howard Bateman, a classmate of

name from Dr.
mine from Columbia Medical whose father, apparently, is your
48
uncle's golf buddy. So far it sounds like a conspiracy theory, but
from such labyrinthine connections is history forged. By the
way, when, during our phone conversation, Howard told me that
you were one of the most eminent neuropsychologists around, I
was in a position to personally confirm that assessment, having

read several of your papers mJAMA.
By now Howard will have briefed you on the situation out here,
so I won't recapitulate the background. Suffice to say, it's still
going on. Cicely's epic all-nighter is now seventeen days long

and counting. During this time a steady stream, at times resem-
bling the mighty Mississippi, of patients has flowed through
what we all laughingly call my "office," evincing all kinds of
—
problems especially stabbing. Stabbing is big here but not —
much pathology. Unless you call cabin fever, exacerbated by
nonstop awakeness, a disease. Stress, yes. But where's the
fatigue? Where's the exhaustion?
This phenomenon must be studied. And am in the perfect 1
position to Howard told you of my credentials, so let me

do so.
only add that have been privileged to be Cicely's resident
1
physician for two years and have an excellent working relation-

ship with the patient population. All lack is a control; no one I
in town seems unaffected, but then, have not made a careful 1
search. (Did mention, by the way, that this has affected me,
1
too?)
I am prepared to launch a systematic study of this unusual

phenomenon. But I require two things. One is a grant or fellow-
ship to pay for materials and personnel. at present one
(1 have
assistant, who is rapidly becoming overwhelmed by the work
load. 1 have contemplated hiring another, but lack the funds to
do so.) The other is the explicit sponsorship of an established
authority, whose imprimatur would lend credibility to a situation
that is, let me assure you, utterly incredible.
49
That's why I'm writing to you, Dr. Robertson. The implications
of what is happening in Cicely are staggering. This situation
demands the fullest possible scientific scrutiny. But that in turn
requires money and support.
May I look to you for either or both? In either case, you would
have my undying gratitude.
Yours truly,
KNOWLEDGE IS POWER AND

BOOKS ARE ITS CURRENCY
Dear Friend,
This Letter has been around the world nine

times. It is not about Money or Religious Subjects. It
is about Knowledge, which is the only way to Peace
and Self-Knowing. This Letter was started by Prof.

Fleynn Stodterflygnniak of Finland in 1985. Since then
it has been in many countries, and all who have taken
part in it have benefitted.
To promote Knowledge and increase Understand-
ing both of oneself and the World, send a book of any
kind to the first name on the list. Do not send porno-
graphic material. Then strike the first name and add
your name and address to the bottom of the list. Then
send a copy of the Letter to seven friends.
THE LETTER WORKS. DO WHAT THE LETTER SAYS.
YOU WILL RECEIVE MANY BOOKS IN A FEW WEEKS.
DO NOT BREAK THE CHAIN.
Please note that Pedro Arganaraz in Uruguay broke
50
the chain, and several days later he died. Mirelle
Chandon in Marseilles threw the Lettec away and had
terrible luck. Then she retrieved it. She sent it out as
instructed and three weeks later received many fasci-
nating and worthwhile volumes.
OTHERS ARE DEPENDING ON YOU. DO NOT
BREAK THE CHAIN.
MARCH 18
Dear Tawni,
I got this today. —
Cyndy sent it she's married to Wayne,
who moves his lips when he reads hockey scores, so the books
are definitely for her. 1 know these things are silly, but my cousin
once did one, sent out ten dollars, and got forty dollars back a
few weeks later. I think it's illegal, but what the heck.
Anyway, this one is for books, which I think is legal. And it's
funny, because now that 1 have all this free time, 1 decided to
read more. But the only local library we have is Ruth-Anne's
general store. When I asked Ruth-Anne for something to read,
she looked very sad, shook her head, and said, "Shelly, all 1
have left is this copy of Henry Kissinger's memoirs. Either that

or the World Almanac from 1977." took the almanac, big 1
surprise.
It turns out that this no-sleep thing has made a lot of people
want to read, so all her stock is gone. (She's out of light bulbs,
too!)
So I'm stuck with this almanac. Which would send, but I I
want to finish it. told Holling wanted to enter this chain letter,
I I
but didn't have anything to send. He dug around in the back

room and came up with something. know the letter says, send I
any book you want as long as it isn't pornographic, but do you

think it'll be okay if we send the "Instructions for Use" booklet
from one of the blenders?
Anyway, here's the letter. I'll understand if you toss it. I showed
this to our local doctor and he totally laughed in my face!!
51
"Come on, Shelly," he said. "You don't actually believe those
things work, do you?" When told him about my cousin, he
1
said, "What happened to him was a fluke. The secret of these

things is that they depend on a constant, geometric expansion
of the base population. This has what, seven names?" He started
scribbling some numbers on a napkin. "Seven to the twelfth, . . .
thirteenth ." Then he laughed and waved the napkin at me.

. .
Like I'm supposed to be able to read math! "Shelly, if everyone

did this, and sent a book, and sent out seven copies to friends,
if would only take twelve or thirteen rounds of this to exhaust
the entire population."

"Of Alaska?" 1 said.
"Alaska? Of the world! Of planet Earth!"
I felt my eyes open wide. "Wouldn't that be great!?"
"Great shmate! would be impossible! You're sending out an
It
item of value with very little chance of getting anything in return!

It's a sucker bet!"
Well, that's his opinion. Plus it's easy for him to talk. He has
allthese medical textbooks to read. What about the rest of us?
So hey, send someone a book (it can be one you've read already)
and who knows? Maybe you'll get something nice back.
Loue,
Shelly
MARCH 18
Mr. Benton T. Culpepper, Esq.

1455 Ninth Ave. Suite 3A
Anchorage, AK
Dear Mr. Culpepper, Esq.:
I have received your letter to me dated March 14 of this

year, but frankly I do not know what to make You say you
of it.
represent Mr. Arthur B. Marone, who was in my The

restaurant
Brick on or about February 27. And apparently Mr. Marone was
52
poorly treated by my staff, resulting in "grievous physical and
psychological/emotional harm to Mr. Marone with the upshot
that he is unable to perform his customary professional duties,
resulting in a severe abridgment of his being able to earn a
living." Then you say Mr. Marone is suing me for damages.
I have to tell you, Mr. Culpepper, that 1 have no memory of
who Mr. Marone is or what if anything happened to him. We get
lots of customers at the Brick, and many of them leave in a
condition in which they are unable to perform their customary
professional duties or earn a living. But the next day they sober
up, and that's that.
If you can provide anything to jog my memory, that might help
me to recollect this incident. Otherwise, and Mr. I think you
Marone may be suing the wrong establishment.
Thank you very much.
Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
18 March
Panhandle Provisions
2399 Gastineau Ave.
Juneau, AK
Gentlemen:
Attached please find a preliminary list of items would like 1
shipped Federal Express to the address below. The idea is that 1
am inaugurating a cooking class for which have thus far I
enrolled twenty-seven people. If you knew the nature of my
customer base here Cicely— mean in terms of its limited

in I
size as well as its even-more-limited sophistication

be as thunderstruck as
^you would —
am. mention this because if this
I I
53
gratifying enthusiasm keeps up, I will want to discuss with you
the possibility of quantity discounts. Several specific notes:
1) The olive oil should not be Extra Virgin, but should be Italian
and not Spanish. My goal is to help these people form good

habits without becoming unnecessarily obsessive.
2) If you can't provide the shallots in the quantity called for, for
God's sake tell me. Don't string me along.
3) Parsley should be broadleaf Italian. Curly is most decidedly

a fallback option.
4) Corn starch may be freely substituted for arrowroot.
5) Stale cinnamon, rancid almonds, dried-up garlic, soft pota-

toes, slimy onions, and droopy celery will be returned immedi-
ately for credit. may not be the chef of the Baranof Hotel, but
I I
assure you I know the difference between a springform pan and

a Maidenform bra.
Thank you, and I know you join me in looking forward to a

mutually profitable long-term relationship.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
MARCH 18
Dear Peggy,
CONGRATULATIONS! It's about time. Everyone knew you
and Phil were 2-gether 4-ever, so how come it took you guys six
54
years to set a date? But never mind, I withdraw the question.
(With my track record, I have no right to ask such a thing.)
Instead it might be better to say, at this late date, why bother?
But wait. Don't tell me. 1 forgot—you want k.i.d.s. (FYI: So do I,
but no, there isn't anyone at the moment.) So great, I'm really
happy for you.
Although I hate you, too — ^you're moving on in life, reaching

major plateaus (plateaux?), and I'm spinning my wheels. But
don't listen to me. I just feel bad because I haven't flown in more
than two weeks. It's like swimming: do it regularly, and when
you cut it off cold turkey you feel creaky and cranky. As to why I
haven't flown, call it atmospheric anomalies.

So to make ends meet I've taken on a series of part-time jobs.
Sometimes tend bar. Sometimes
I work in a general store. 1
Sometimes TALK ON A RADIO SHOW AND PLAY MUSIC. None

I
of which feels right in that work-related way, but it's a stopgap,

so what the hell. Actually 1 feel unanchored and brittle. I MISS
MY PLANE!
I'vemarked the wedding day on my calendar and can't wait I
to see you both. Give my best to Phil. And the hell with six years
of cohabitation—WEAR WHITE!
Love,
Maggie
PS —Of course, since you two HAVE been living together for that
long, instead of shacking up with your boring old new husband

on your wedding night, let's have a slumber party like we used
to! We can do it all: have pillow fights, scarf Mallomars, play
CS&N (&Y!!) records, play What Is Your Wish?, and generally
stay up all night. (I'm getting very good at that.) Okay, I'll tell
you what: Phil can join us. Deal? M.
55
—
3/18
Steven Cohen, Atty. at Esq.
Pitt., PA
Dear Steve —
Man, it's cold. 1 mean knowI that it can get cold in NY, and
I know how the buildings in Manhattan can channel the wind
into gale-force tempests that increase the chill factor by whatever
it is —but this is Alaska, pal, and it is FRIGID. It almost makes
me wish smoked. I
I remember going to Jets games with my father on freezing

Sundays, and we'd be sitting there —not running around playing
football, remember, just sitting there, which is the coldest thing
—
you can do and Dad would light up one of his El Productos.
I'd stare at the flame from the lighter and the glowing tip and
ask him, "Dad, does smoking make you warmer?" Because it

had to, right? You're wielding naked fire, you're taking into your
body the product of this blatant act of combustion and he'd —
say, "No." Every time. I never really believed him.
Anyway, back to my shopping story. Which I am delighted to
recount, not the least reason for which being I have some time
on my hands these days, and you know me: I love to hear myself
write. So: Remember the maniac, the grumbling about "Elliot,"
the hand gun, the me running for my life with three new CDs?
With their Estimated Cash Value of forty bucks?
I'm in Anchorage, and it's time to fly back to Good Mule,
where O'Connell is supposed to pick me up. But one of the
things about the Alaskan winter is, snow isn't the only story.
There's ice fog, which descends like a gigantic wad of (freezing)

sterile cotton. So when board the plane and hear some passen-
I
gers and crew muttering about "the fog," start to suspect the I
worst. Said suspicions are promptly confirmed when we are told

that Good Mule is fogged in, and there's no way to land.
Remember, too, that these intrastate flights are like IRT locals
they stop everywhere, half the flight time is spent landing and
56
— —— — —
taxiing and taking off. So what can we do? We have to go on to

the next destination.
A drag, but not a fatal drag, I assume. I'll have to call
O'Connell, tell her to skip this flight, and Til call her from the
next town when I know when my return flight can get through.
Naive? Check it out:
Next stop, Yakutat. Small town with an air strip that is utterly
fogged in, forget it, no can do. We keep flying to
Haines. Medium-sized town. Principle attractions: Indian arts
and crafts, bald eagle preserve. Plus the name makes you think
of underwear. All this, except for the thinking about underwear,
will be denied me, because the fog is impenetrable, worse than
ever. We keep flying to
Juneau, the capital. Big area, the second largest city in the
get this world. Not, of course, that I could tell —the airport is
closed, the town is closed, the world is closed. What can we do?
You got it: we can fly out of the state altogether and seek
sanctuary in fabulous
SEATTLE. Which is a very nice city, actually. True, Joel did not
intend to on this trip and did not have even his
visit Seattle
shaving kit with which to provide the most basic forms of

personal hygiene and grooming ... but fine. I'll do Seattle, stay
in a hotel overnight, live it up. Hey, I'll spend the extra $40 and
—
yes I'll pamper myself! In a city where the burgers are beef and
not caribou! Will this be luxurious or what?
Sadly, the answer is, "what," since Seattle is entirely, com-
pletely fogged in. Nobody comes in or goes out. We're still
flying, and by now the question of fuel becomes, if only pass-

ingly, of theoretical interest. Or so assume. What are we going I
to do, refuel in midair like a B-52?

"Got a little bit of ground condition downstairs," the captain
says in that I'm-so-competent-I'm-bored way they have. "Let's
see if we can't set her down in Portland."
Oregon, at least; not Maine. Or at least not yet. We fly on.
Everything in the kitchen and the bar has been consumed; the
guy next to me has set up his six little empty Smirnoff bottles
like bowling pins. Everybody greets every new failed attempt to
57
land with hearty good-natured laughter ... I want to say to these
people, "Anybody ever hear of gravity?" We cannot keep doing
this indefinitely.
Twenty minutes later we're over Portland. Did you know that it
rains a million days out of the year there? The rep on Portland is
very lush, you can grow anything, but of course, the rain, the
humidity, you see . . . Anyway, what with the present combina-
tion of cold, humidity, winter —Portland is closed.
We finally landed, three hours after taking off, in Las Vegas,
Nevada.
So, savor the flavor: I morning to go shopping for
set out that
a day in Anchorage, I'm assuming be back in Cicely in time
I'll
to have a nightcap at the Brick which closes at midnight, and

I'm in the Nevada desert. And all my fellow passengers, and the
crew, chuckle warmly at this, as though it's just another amus-
ing, lovable quirk of the wacky, bracing Alaskan lifestyle! So I've
got my soft travel bag, stuffed with my new clothes, my new

books, my new CDs; I'm wearing layers up the wazoo, Thinsulate
this and Goretex that, wool sweater and flannel shirt, PLUS my
L.L. Bean Arctic Hell-style goose-down/seal-skin/moose-hide/fur-
lined Ice Station Zebra autograph model parka and I'm going . . .
to do Vegas?
I go to the general info desk and discover that the next flight
— —
back to Juneau is tomorrow morning. Well, okay, it has to be
a long time anyway, so the fog can lift. Am I going to grab a cab
into town? I do it. What for? To wander
can't bring myself to
through Circus-Circus like a zombie and watch grandmothers in
Day-Glo jumpsuits shove coins into slot machines? mean, yeah, I
I've been known to put down a few sports bets, play a few hands
of poker ... but not tonight. I'm not in the mood. And in Las
Vegas, you'd better be there either for a convention or to gamble.
So I decide to sit it out. I'll read. I'll eat dinner. I'll make a few
phone calls, even. And do I that and look up, and it's only 10:20
PM. Now what?
In the lobby of the airport there are slot machines. So, strictly
for recreational purposes, I break a ten into quarters and put

one in. One. The wheels turn around, I get two cherries — four
58
quarters back! I'm hot! So I put another one in and lose. But the
feeling of winning is still fresh, I'm still vibratiHg from it, so I put
another quarter in, pull the handle. And lose. So now it's a
challenge, right? I have to prove to the gods that not everything
about this return trip is destined to be bad.
I forgot that you can't "prove" anything to the gods. They're
the gods. You're the putz.
I stood at that slot machine and systematically gave it money,
quarter after quarter, like I was hand-feeding a sick animal. And
of course in the midst of this I look to my left and see, yes, a
grandmother in a Day-Glo jumpsuit with a plastic cup from
Burger King full of coins feeding her machine and pulling the
handle and saying, "Oh darn" every time she lost. Which was
every time.
This went on, of course, until had not only lost my entire
I
forty dollar savings from the record store oh darn but ten — —
—
more as well. Fifty bucks for what? Frustration, tedium, and
that dirty feeling you get when you hang around public places
too long? GODDAMN ELLIOT! finally gave up at about 1:30 in
I
the morning. took a nap on the seats, which would have been
I
a prescription for disaster and an invitation to a mugging, except

that all the other passengers from my flight were there, and
believe me, nobody from Las Vegas was going to mess with our
group of deadpan, weather-worn Alaskans, all of whom were
tired by now and had long ago established a secondary support
beachhead in the cocktail lounge, and who generally looked

like Night of the Living Dead costumed by L. L. Bean.
The next morning we flew back. O'Connell met me at Good

Mule, exuding her customary charm ("My god, Fleischman, you
look awful"). Still, it wasn't entirely unpleasant to see her. She
flewme back to Cicely and we landed without incident.
Get it? On one end, free CDs. On the other, weather so bad
you have to fly to Las Vegas and lose all your money before you
can come back. Alaska giveth with one hand and taketh with the
other and slappeth you around with the other.
But forget all that. What's with the Knicks?
Joel
59
MARCH 18

Anchorage, AK
Thank you for your letter of March 20. It was useful in

reminding me and my associate. Miss Shelly Tambo, about your
client, Mr. Arthur Marone, and the so-called incident in which
he suffered physical and psychological damage. As recall it, he

1
entered The Brick in a bad mood. Surly and argumentative.

Maybe that is his customary nature —
wouldn't know. do know,
I 1
since Shelly waited on him and she reminded me, that he

proceeded to order a hot chocolate. She brought him the hot
chocolate, and he proceeded to taste it and then claim that it
wasn't hot enough, wasn't sweet enough, and wasn't chocolatey
enough. She apologized and took it back. Then she made
another cup, which she presented to him, and he had the same
complaint.
Marone that that was the mix that we
Shelly then told Mr.
it up for him. He
used, but she could doctor
THIS IS SHELLY TAMBO TYPING TO YOU ON HOLLING'S
TYPEWRITER. THAT ARTHUR MARONE GUY IS AN OBNOXIOUS
CREER IHAVE SERVED HOT CHOCOALTE TO PEOPLE LIKE A
MILLION TIMES AND EVERYONE THINKS ITS GREAT. ITS SWISS!
THEY KNOW HOT CHOCOALTE!
SO THIS GUY SAYS ITS NO GOOD. SAY FINE. TAKE IT BACK,
I 1
AND ADD HERSHEY'S SYRUP TO IT, MEAN, WHAT MORE DO I
YOU WANT!!! PLUS HEAT IT UP UNTIL IT IS BOILING, OKAY?

1
YOU CAN'T GET ANY HOTTER THAN BOILING.

ITAKE IT TO HIM, AND HE IS JUST SITTING THERE, LOOKING
SOUR AND READY FOR A FIGHT. GIVE IT TO HIM, AND HE
I
TASTES IT, AND MAKES THIS TOTALLY OBNOXIOUS FACE, AND

SAYS ITS NO GOOD. SAY LOOK. MAYBE YOU JUST AREN'T IN
I
60
THE MOOD FOR HOT CHOCOALTE? HOW ABOUT A CUP OF
TEA? HE SAYS NO, WANT HOT CHOCOALTE-
I
Please excuse Miss Tambo, but you have to understand, she

herself was very upset by this incident, not only because Mr.
Marone was criticizing her ability to make hot chocolate, but at
the time we were extremely busy on account of a busload of
French journalists had stopped in Cicely and everyone was
ordering lunch in F
SO I TAKE IT BACK, AND JUST AS I'M ABOUT TO
SAY OK. I
TAKE BACK TO DO GOD KNOWS WHAT ELSE TO IT, HE

IT
SUDDENLY STANDS UP! AND GUESS WHAT HAPPENS? HE HITS
MY TRAY AND THE HOT CHOCOALTE SPILLS ALL OVER HIM!
BECAUSE MEAN WHAT DID HE EXPECT?! AND HE STARTS
I
YELLING OH MY GOD, FM BEING BURNED, I'M DISFIGURED, I'M

SUFFERING THIRD DEGREE BURNS ON MY EPIDERMISS!
LISTEN. HE STOOD UP ON PURPOSE. YOURS TRULY, SHELLY
TAMBO. PERIOD.
In any case, that is our recollection of the incident. We gave
him a damp towel to clean up
and offered to pay his dry
with, I
cleaning bill. Otherwise, as Mr. Marone had no apparent diffi-

culty getting back to his car and driving away, assumed he was I
fine. So you can see it was a common accident and no cause
for a lawsuit.
Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
MARCH 24
DearPhyl,
First, yes. I agree absolutely. Starch the avocado, make all

the sweatshirts butterscotch, and tell Raoul to sing "April in
Paris" or you'll revoke his hair.
Now: The New York doctor? The Right Obnoxious Doctor Joel
Fleischman? Well, he has a regular nurse, but his office has
been mobbed for three weeks, and knew she needed help. And I
since, you know, wasn't flying

I . . .
61
"
Anyway, that distant yappy barking you heard, down in L.A.,

around 10:30 AM today? That was the sound of one Fleischman
laughing. I will NEVER EVER again take the initiative to do
something nice for that child. Here's what I'm talking about:
I stuck my head into his office at ten-thirty this morning and,
as usual, he was on his guard. "What do you want, O'Connell?"
he said with typical charm. "I'm inordinately busy, plus I'm
dying to get home because I'm expecting an important letter
today from a very prestigious neurologist from Philadelphia."

He wanted to provoke me, and, naturally, he succeeded.
"Fleischman," I said in my best patient-teacher-to-immature-
student tone, "I am terribly impressed that you have a neurolo-
gist for a pen pal, although I don't recall asking about it. I just
came with a suggestion."

"Oh, dandy. A suggestion. Just put it in the box. I encourage
all my patients to tell me how to do my job." He threw his pen
down. "What is this, the shop floor of an Oldsmobile plant?
What kind of suggestion? No, let me guess inaugurate a — series
of labor-management volleyball games."

"It's Marilyn. She's overworked."
"And I assume you have the proper OSHA forms for me to fill
out?"
"Fleischman, I came in here to help you
—
"I He began to get agitated.
don't need your help, O'Connell."
"What need is an explanation for why none of us have had to
I
change our bed linen for three weeks. What need is a partner I
who can handle this patient load while go do something I
recreational. What need is some decent food and a tv that gets

I
the Knicks so I can have a bit of escape during the few hours I'm
not being called upon to remove splinters or mediate domestic
disputes. And what I really need is another receptionist, so
home and spend some time
Marilyn can take a break and go
with her Aunt Sylvia who, some unfathomable reason, has for
decided that now was a good time to move into chez Whirl-
wind."
"I know. That's why I'm here. For Marilyn."
62
He shook his head, took his glasses off, rubbed his eyes.
"What— don't get You're here—?"
I
"To help Marilyn. To be your

it.
— " And I had to stop, and look

away, and and shrug.
stall, second receptionist." "
—
Silence. He scratched his head. "You? mean, know you I I
can't fly, and we're all suffering from some latent form of
schizophrenia that I'm sure we're going to pay for later, but . . .
you work ... for ME?"

I started to leave. "You're right. It's absurd. Never mind."
"No, no . . . nodded ^you know
wait." He looked pensive, —
how men will milk a situation when they are "amused"? and just
do it to death? that sort of thing and said, as though granting —
me a favor, "No, O'Connell, 1 have to admit, the idea has some
merit. You're intelligent . . . presentable . . . responsible ... Of
course, you realize you will have to make a sincere effort to
mitigate some of the more off-putting, not to say, obnoxious
aspects of your personality ..."
1 had had enough. 1 leaned over the desk toward him, "Fleisch-
man," I said, "Ruth-Anne needs help at the store. Holling wants
me to run the day shift. Beryl even asked if I could run the
laundromat all night. Everyone needs extra help. 1 will have no
trouble getting work, 1 assure you. So bear in mind that you're
not doing me a favor. And unless you treat my offer with the
respect it deserves, 1 will start to feel that I am doing yow a favor.
Then 1 will decide not to do it."
Again silence. And what's so infuriating about him is that he

knows damn well I'm right. Of course he relented. He always
does in the end. Which is what makes every new display of
attitude so tedious and such a waste of time. "Okay, O'Connell.
You're right. I'm just tired. Not sleepy, no, that would be too
much to ask. But tired. So no offense intended. The job is yours
if you want it. Argue with Maurice over salary and benefits."
"I'll take it."
63
I held my hand out. He blinked, looking like a myopic squirrel,
and shook it. At least his handshake was firm.
Hey, it's a living.
More later,
Maggie
MARCH 24
Anchorage, AK
I am in receipt of your letter of March 24, in which you

offer to drop the and to "settle" for a sum of ten thousand
suit
dollars. Frankly do not know what to say. It's true that getting
I
hot chocolate spilled on you can be a bad experience. am not I
eager to hire my own lawyer and meet Mr. Marone in court, but
$10,000 is a lot of money. At least it is to me. I'm afraid you will
have to give me some time to think about this.
Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
24 MARCH
My Dear Selena,
hope your Austin address is still current and that you
I
won't mind this intrusion into your happy domestic life. But it
occurred to me that in a few hours will be up to my elbows in
I
gnocchi, and naturally my thoughts turned to you. To you and to

the brief time we spent together those many years ago. And so,
since letter-writing has lately become a regular activity not only
with me but my entire community, succumbed to the impulse
I
to take computer in hand.
64
Now we have been in haphazard touch over the years, and I
have come to look forward to your annual Christmas card and

to the unusual or exotic recipe you invariably include with it. So
I'm going to take that fact as proof that a longer and more
personal letter from me will not be unwelcome in your home.
That the inspiration behind all this is gnocchi will not surprise
you. It was you who taught me tocook and more importantly to
appreciate good food. Until 1 met you, was a gastronomic
I
cretin, a cave man for whom the freeze-dried ice cream and
stew-in-a-tube they gave us on space missions could have served
as acceptable daily fare. 1 got steak-and-eggs before a mission
and considered it gourmet cuisine.
But you changed all that. When that LTV p.r. gal told me had I
a one o'clock interview with a feature writer from the Sugar Land
Courier, was ready to sneak out the service entrance and head
I
for the nearest saloon. But Ling Temco Vaught was paying for
my services, paying for the hotel and expenses, and knew I the
space program needed all good publicity it could get. So
the I
ordered my lunch just before you showed up, in your crisp white
blouse and neat blue skirt . . .
And you were what? Barely twenty-five? It helped that you were
slim and trim and pleasant to look at, because frankly, Lena,
your questions were yawners that had mold on them from a year
previous. Then my lunch arrived, and the smart-alecky waiter
wheeled and took off the big silver dome, and asked your
it in I
permission to eat. Which you gave, of course. So there was, I
tucking in to this well-appointed meal on its fancy wheeled cart,

with this pretty news gal peppering me with cliches. But I
noticed your eyes straying more and more to the platter, until
you sat back and pointed.
"Please excuse my asking," you said. "But what do they call
that?"
"That, little lady, is a seafood salad," 1 said, every inch a
pompous patronizing fool.
"Do you mind ifyou asked. Today, of course,
1 taste it?" 1
understand how a person fond of cooking may not want to eat

anything, but he (or she) wants to taste everything. It's a matter
65
"
of detached scientific curiosity. But at the time I didn't know

that; I thought you were hungry. And this was annoying, no two
ways about it. But was so flabbergasted and exhilerated by
I
your audacity — some could call it downright bad manners that —

Ihanded you the teaspoon and said go ahead. You did and
shook your head and bit your lower lip in a sign of deep
disappointment.
Then you won my heart.
"Major Minnifield, you risk
life and limb in a tin can to bring
our nation glory and extend the boundaries of human knowl-

edge," you said. "And this supposedly deluxe hotel in big
cosmopolitan Houston can't do better than that for its seafood
salad? And us so near the Gulf with these fine shrimp, too. That
is a scandal. May I?"
You gestured to the food, and for all knew your may-I referred 1
to sending it back or chucking it out the window. But before 1
could say anything you took the parsley (which had always I
disregarded as a food or an herb, thought of it as being sheer

decoration, like a ribbon on a birthday present), tore it up with
your well-manicured fingers, sprinkled it on the dish in question,
then stuck your fingers in my iced tea incredible! and — —
scooped up the lemon. Squeezed same over the salad, plucked
up the tiny crystal salt and pepper shakers, and proceeded to
apply them in a rapid fusillade of prestigitation like a stage
magician, a flurry that made your bracelets jingle and your
carefully lipsticked mouth tighten up in concentration.
I tell you what should have done. should have fallen down
I I
on my knees then and there and begged you to marry me. But
"Now hold on, sweetheart, this fine the
instead
way it
I
is
—got huffy. is just
"Major, I think you'll like that better," you said. And held out
a forkful and hand-fed me like a baby.
Well, was bliss. Of course,
it realize today I that you put
parsley and lemon juice on a rusty cam shaft and it'll come out
palatable. But to the 37-year-old Maurice Minnifield, this was
music of a divine order. That inert, undistinguished aggolomer-
ation of scallops and shrimp and celery suddenly became a
66
chamber concerto of brightness, transparency, and flavorful
harmonics.
Do you recall who said what next? do. looked at you with I I
new eyes and said, "Pardon my asking. But are you married?"
And you said, "Not at the moment."
That is how the six most satisfying, not to mention delicious,
months of my life began. But much as I'd like to dwell on it
further, see have work to do. My students will be here soon,
I 1
and I intend to pass the torch to them.

My regards to your husband. Tell him 1 remember anew what
a lucky man he is.
All my
hue,
Maurice
MARCH 25
Mr. Arthur B. Marone

338 McKinley St.
Anchorage, AK
Dear Mr Marone,
hope you don't mind, but took the liberty of looking
I I
your name up
in the Anchorage phone book. Since you are the
only Arthur B. Marone listed, assume you are the same man
I
who had the hot chocolate experience at my restaurant. The

Brick, in Cicely, last month and who is thinking of suing me.
Now know I it's probably unwise or illegal or unethical forme to
write directly to you, but frankly 1 am nearing the end of my
rope. What want to do is to ask you to drop the lawsuit.
1
I know you ordered a hot chocolate and were dissatisfied with

it. All can say is, I'm sorry. also know that somehow you got
I 1
hot chocolate spilled on your suit and on your epidermis. Once

again, all can do is offer you my heartfelt apology. can also
1 I
add the apology of Miss Shelly Tambo, the young lady who
waited on you.
Is it really necessary to sue? Can't we talk about this on the
67
phone like two men of good faith? My number is 555-2910.
Please call me collect at any time of the day or night, and let's
discuss this.

Yours truly,
Holling Vincouer
MARCH 26
DearPhyl,
It's too soon for me to have received anything you've written

in response to my previous letter —the one in which I applied,
in the face of almost overwhelming obnoxiousness, to work as
Dr. Joel Fleischman's alternate receptionist —but things have
developed in a rather interesting way, so I thought I'd keep you
informed.
I started work today on the 5-to-midnight shift. Fleischman
gave me a cursory tour of the filing system. At least he started
to, but half a minute into it we both gave up. It turns out that
Marilyn has organized files, patient data, etc. in a completely
baffling way, with little Indian symbols on the folders only she
can read. Oh well.
So man the desk
I for the steady stream of customers. I know
that after a moment's reflection you'll be wondering, "How many
patients can a doctor in a small —microscopic, — really ^town
have at midnight?" It's a long story. Just accept the fact that
nobody sleeps in this town — —so nights and days are

literally
indistinguishable except for the absence or presence of daylight.

I admit the first patient, a big beefy logger with a beer belly
out to here. And, dutifully, follow him into the doctor's office.
I
Because isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Hover crisply and
assist "Doctor"?
Fleischman looks at me with that inimitable blend of defen-
siveness and arrogance. Try it in the mirror. It's a real skill.
"What."
68
"
I spread my hands in innocence and smile. "Nothing. Fm

here."
"I can see you're here, O'Connell. My question is, why?"
I was stunned. 'To . . . help. To assist. Isn't that my job?"
"You're a receptionist, O'Connell," he says in a nasal sneer.
"Your job Now excuse me please?" He turns to the
is to recept.
patient. "So. Roy.The knee go out again?"
Now these loggers are a mixed lot. Some will talk your ear off,
and others say ten words a year. This was one of the latter. "Got
a pain in my gut."
"Uh-huh . .
." Fleischman looks at me, sees I'm still there,
rolls his eyes."O'Connell, don't you have to sit at the desk and
do your nails or something?"
Knowing it will work, say, "I want to watch a professional at
I
work." It does. He shrugs and turns back to the patient.

"What kind of pain?"
"Sharp, in my stomach and lower."
"When did this start?"
"This afternoon."
"Any idea what might have brought on? Some questionable
food, a sudden jolt of stress
— it
"Something ate." I
Silence. Finally Fleischman prods him with, "Well, come on,

what did you eat?"
"Monopoly pieces."
I couldn't help myself.
said, "Houses? Or hotels?" I
Roy looks
me, absolutely deadpan. "Both. Plus the top
at hat,
steam iron, and the little whatchamacallit."
Fleischman said, "The dice?"
"Roadster."
I say, "Aren't those pieces made of metal?"
Roy shrugs. "Tin," he says in a minimizing tone, as if to say,
tin is so soft, it's practically food. "Houses and hotels are
plastic."
Fleischman's face is scrunched up in —something, 1 don't
know, horror or disbelief. "How many houses and hotels did you
. . . did you eat?"
69
"
Roy looks away, shrugs. "Five or six houses, couple-three

hotels."
"Not to pry . . . but can I ask why? Just couldn't wait for the
popcorn to cool down?"
"My wife. She keeps winning. I buy everything I land on, and
she still ends up with all buy Park Place, she gets
the railroads. I
Boardwalk, 1 figure, fine. Then boom, she ends up with all the
light green properties. North Carolina, all those. Breaks my back.
Kitty buildsup in Free Parking, never touch it. She lands on it 1
like she owns it. Finally just had enough." I
BANG! Fleischman slams his fist on the examination table,

jumps up, and starts roaming around the office. "I can't do this,"
he says to the walls. "This is not MEDICINE as have been I
TAUGHT it in the INSTITUTIONS of the MEDICAL PROFESSION in

NEW YORK CITY. This is NOT medicine. This is being STRAIGHT
MAN to a bunch of RUSTIC FREAKS and MARRIAGE COUNSELOR
to HOMO ERECTUS. do my HOMEWORK. read the LITERA-
I I
TURE. I try to keep UR And for WHAT? To treat people who

ingest TIN GAME TOKENS and PLASTIC HOTELS?"
"Fleischman—"
"What am supposed I to write him a prescription for? Drano?"
"I'm sorry, Fleischman," I say, "If this man's malady doesn't
suit your image of yourself as a healer of worthy men of affairs.

Did it ever occur to you that he must be really hurting for him to
come in? That his type is whole orders of magnitude more stoic
and disciplined when it comes to pain than your type?"
"My type, my type, what does that mean, my type
—
"Narcissistic intellectuals who think that all other people are
nothing more than extras in their star vehicle."
"Please, O'Connell, spare " Then he's suddenly me the
—
stunned by a realization and turns to Roy and says, "Do you
believe this? She's lecturing me? The woman is in my employ! I
am her boss. " He turns to me. "This is the first patient. Is this
how it's going to be? Every patient is going to provide a theme

for you my professional competence and
to criticize take cheap
shots at my personality?"
70
"This isn't about you, Fleischman. And it isn't about me. It's
about Roy."
"Roy will be fine. I'll take care of Roy. But I'll tell you what is
about you, O'Connell. I'm about to deliver your first job review.
And guess what?"
"I won't give you the satisfaction. I quit."
"That dovetails nicely with what I'm about to say. You're fired."
1 know I should have kept my mouth shut (which is what
Marilyn does and is the secret of her success), but there's
something about him provokes and irritates the hell out of
that
me. And what about Roy's feelings? Although he sat there like a
totem pole figure the whole time.
But it's just as well. Who sits at a desk and does their nails?
Who has nails to do?
Love,
Maggie
MARCH 26
Dear Lou,
How are you? How And are you

are things in Skagway?
coming out here so we can go after salmon in Katmai, or am I
going to have to catch them myself? On second thought, maybe

that's the best idea. still have that scar you gave me when you
I
cast too close and your hook bit my side. Shelly touches it and
makes a face. She says it's "sexy," but don't think she means I
it. She doesn't look turned on. Actually she looks kind of put-off.
Anyhow we're fine here, but we've got a problem. You've been
in this game as long as I have, maybe longer, so I wonder if you
could offer some advice.
A few weeks ago a customer came in, ordered hot chocolate,
and kept sending it back. Finally he stood up, knocked it out of
Shelly's hands, and claimed he was burned. Now he's suing us,
but is willing to settle for ten thousand dollars. I've written to
him personally and asked him to call and discuss it, but he just
71
called back (collect) and said he was deeply traumatized and
might require psychiatric counseling.
In all the years you've owned The Fremont has anything like
happened to you? I'd hate to have to go hiring a lawyer
this ever
justbecause one ornery man decides to try to earn some easy

money. But I'd hate worse to have to pay ten grand just to get
him off my back. I'd appreciate hearing what you think about all
this. Many thanks, and my love to Helen.

Holling
MARCH 29
DearPhyl,
Me again. 1 got your first letter since this working-for-

Fleischman thing began, and of course it's pathetically out of
date. Here's the latest, but first: Definitely not. Tell Raoul it's his
job to slice the pancakes, and window
no excuse. sills are
Now: Remember how quit moments before was fired? So
1 I I
went home, wrote my previous letter to you, and went over to

the Brick. I'd been tending bar there, and the owner was glad to
have me back. It's indicative of how weird things are in this town
that he was absolutely unfazed by all my coming and going and
changing my mind.
So I which is open night and
started working the bar again,
day. People who haven't taken on a second job or plunged into
a hobby now use the 24-hour day/night cycle to do their one job.
The result is a complete shattering of the idea of routine and
schedule. There's something wild and giddy about it, with an
undertone of cheating and menace. Like we're all having a
breathless time on a runaway train heading for a cliff.
At least everyone else is wild and giddy. I'm sort of glum. Not
flying, bickering with Fleischman, not in a relationship (not that
I "need" one, but still .). Have you ever had the feeling that
. .
you're ready for something DIRE? Anything, just to blast you

. . .
out of the doldrums? Well, I am reflecting on just that feeling,
when who should shuffle in from the street but you-know-who,
72
looking sad and regretful in that puppy-like way that makes me
want to go oh-poor-baby and then smack him.
"O'Connell, I was thinking ... I mean I wasn't thinking, but
Roy said something . . . Maybe you were right. Maybe I was
being unprofessional." 1 smiled pleasantly and said nothing.
"So, was thinking ... if, you know, you still needed a job
I . .
"Do look like need a job, Fleischman?"

1 1
"Mmm, no. Not really. Okay. Can have a beer?" 1
drew him a Pyramid and put it in front of him. Then said,

I I
"However, it would certainly be in the community's best interests

to have a doctor whose office was fully staffed."
"Especially in these anomalous times," he said.
said. "Because of the situation. That prevails."
"Exactly," I
"And the increased pressure on all of us therefrom."

"Exactly. So yeah, okay. I'll come back."
"You will?" He gave that smug little smile men reserve for
when they win bets. "All r-i-i-i-ght ." . .
Which have. Because if live to regret it, figure, Hey. can

I 1 1 I
always blame it on the sunspots.

Fully employed,
Maggie
MARCH 30
Anchorage, AK
Dear Mr. Culpepper:

1 have recently been made aware of a most disturbing fact
concerning your client, Mr. Arthur B. Marone. It turns out that he
is and you could almost say, the profession, of
in the habit,
making trouble at restaurants and then threatening to sue. Ask

him if he is familiar with a place called The Fremont Cafe in
Skagway. If he says he is not, he is telling an untruth, since Mr.
73
Lou Carpentier, a friend of mine, owns and operates The Fre-
mont and identified Mr. Marone by name strictly from my
description of him.
For this reason I am going to decline your offer to settle for
ten thousand dollars. Furthermore, 1 am advised by Dr. Joel
Fleischman, M.D., who is from New York, that if you persist in
this harrassment, 1 will have grounds to take legal proceedings
against your client. It is
(NOT ONLY AGAINST YOUR CLIENT, JACK, BUT AGAINST YOU

YOURSELF. HAPPEN TO HAVE ONCE BEEN ENGAGED TO AN
I
ATTORNEY AND KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT. Also: Mr.

I
Vincouer is from a very old and venerable Yukon family; the

chances are good he'll be acquainted with, if not directly related
to, any judge you try to stage this farce in front of. Second: Miss
Tambo is a very attractive and well-spoken young lady. She'll

have judge, jury, and bailiff eating out of her hand while you're
busy trying to flash your Rolex to let everyone know how
successful you are. Third: We have a secret witness okay, he's —
—
not secret, it's Holling's friend Lou ^who is prepared to testify,
under oath, that your client has tried to pull this exact same
scam in a different town. Maybe you represented him in this.
Check your files. Then do yourself a favor, Mr. Benton T. Culpep-
per Esq., if that really is your name: drop back and punt. Or face
a countersuit that will severely inhibit your being able to pursue
your own professional duties, i.e., e.g., viz., it will result in your
disbarment. Have a nice day. JF, M.D.)
Thank you, Joel. Mr. Culpepper, I think that says it all.
Yours,
Holling Vincouer
31 MARCH
My Dear Selena,
Many thanks for one photo. Believe
your reply and for that
me, you look fine, fine. Just lovely. recognized you immedi- I
ately, and all can say is, if you think you've put on weight, you
I
74
should see me! As for your request to hear about how my
cooking class went, if you want the short version, I can sum up
the entire experience with these words: 1 tried.
You'll note the tone of melancholy seeping in already. Put that

down to a confluence of factors, starting with frustrated creativity
and ending with having my kitchen and living room more or less
devastated by a mob of ingrates and Philistines. I'm going to go
on like this for a page or two, but don't worry unless my tether —
snaps and go drifting off into the deep space of self-pity, the
I
result shouldn't be anything you can't show your husband or, for
that matter, On the other hand, I've already
your three fine kids.
had about one brandy more than my system's configured for,
and the bottle's at hand, so anything can happen.
My students were about two dozen citizens from Cicely: men
and women, teens to seniors, Anglos and Indians and whatnot.
Now before we go any further you have got to appreciate how
remarkable that kind of a turnout is for a town with about 850
people, most of whom are content to eat caribou burgers from
dawn til dusk and dropped out of school ten miles before
algebra.
But people have time on their hands these days, so the kitchen
was crowded. Some were there out of idleness; some were there
out of boredom; some were there for entertainment or a free
meal (although it wasn't free, exactly, since charged everyone I
head for supplies. But you can see wasn't making

six dollars a I
a penny.) . . . And a few were there to learn to cook. The lesson

was gnocchi and sauce bolognese, i.e., meat and potatoes, but
with flair.
Well, flair be damned. You try saying the word "gnocchi" to a

roomful of intimidated Alaskans. I got giggles and blank stares,
until inspiration struck and I amended it to "Italian potato
dumplings." The relief in the room was palpable. But it was
downhill from there. When I encouraged them to mash up the
boiled potatoes on the table, they looked at me like I was
insane. When 1 instructed them on how to sprinkle on the flour,
they turned to each other with little smirks. When I gave each of
them a plate of the mash and had them form little gnocchi
75
bundles, they either stared at it with a looi^ of distant dismay, or
rolled it into small marbles and then stared at it, or balled the
stuff up and ate it.
Excuse me while I pour another two fingers.

There. Now.
When browned I and then mixed it with white wine,
the beef
they yelled out as though had really gone crazy and was just
1
wantonly making a mess. And of course we had to let the beef

cook down, so there was plenty of time to wander through my
kitchen and living room and den and flop onto the chairs and
couch, handle the memorabilia, turn on the tv and fiddle with
the satellite control, and so forth. found myself lecturing to a I
lone polite survivor, poor Ed Chigliak, who know is perfectly I
happy to eat Beefaroni until Doomsday. Finally the sauce was

ready, had stirred three brimming cauldrons of boiling gnocchi
I
while my home was destroyed, and invited my pupils to file I
past and serve themselves. Five did, twenty-two declined and

went home. Of the five, two expressed pleasure, and one asked
ifI would cook this again for him tomorrow if he paid me
another six dollars.
I miss you, Lena. miss the meals we made, the love we
I
made, the time we spent without saying a word, just deveining

shrimp in the kitchen. promised myself wasn't going to say
I I
this, but the brandy has given me permission, so here goes:
when said loved you that last night in Austin, meant it more
I I I
than have ever meant anything else before or since. And when
I
you said that you loved me, felt like could have dropped dead
I 1
then and there and not felt cheated by life.

But when you said you could not bring yourself to come with
me to Alaska
Imean understood, of course understood, this country,

I I I
mean hell, look at it, and it was wilder twenty years ago, like
outer space, just as you said,
See, the point is, that was the point.
76
Well. A person asks, Do I regret it? Of course I regret it! But I
don't regret it. What
I had better stop now. This is a big house. Very big house.
And it gets bigger when I drink too much. So you take care, Lena
All my love,
Maurice
3/31
TO: DR. MICHAEL ROBERTSON

WILSON INSTITUTE OF NEUROLOGICAL STUDIES
FROM: JOEL FLEISCHMAN
VIA FAX—NUMBER OF PAGES INCLUDING THIS COVER: 1
Dear Dr. Robertson:
I am absolutely thrilled and delighted you are taking time off

from your busy schedule to visit us here in Cicely. Bring clothes
suitable for a coolish Eastern spring. Normally our
"birdwoman"
(pilot)would pick you up in Juneau and bring you out, but she's
grounded. Anyone who leaves the town falls asleep immediately.
So hire a Juneau service. Bring bagels!
JF
11
i
APRIL THE FIRST
President George Bush
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
Washington, D.C.
Dear President Bush,

Like all Americans, I know you are concerned about the
role our nation plays in the exploration of outer space. Now that
the Russians have given up, it's pretty much left to us. It's a big
responsibility, since outer space is the biggest thing there is. But
I know we're up to it.
However, we have to be careful. Because if we do too much,
when we landed a man on
other parts of our society suffer. Take
the moon. That was a teriffic thing, even though it happened
before was born. But ever since then, people have used that to
1
criticize everything else in our society. If the waffle iron breaks

at Holling's cafe in our town, people say, "If they can put a man
on the moon, why can't they make a waffle iron that works?" I
try to explain that the people who put men on the moon don't
make waffle irons. But no one listens.
1 am interested in movies and would like some day to direct a
motion picture. was thinking. Wouldn't it be great to shoot it
I
on Mars? The cast and crew would need space suits and life-
support protection and so forth, but the cameras would work.
And what an excellent location. know this is a dream, but1
still —
if we can put a man on the moon, why can't we shoot a
movie on Mars?
All this goes to show you how important it is to keep NASA a
respectable agency, so people will continue to support it. Well,
81
that's why I'm writing. We have a former astronaut in Cicely,
Maurice Minnifield, who goes around wearing NASA patches on
his personal clothing. Is this legal? It's true he was once a
member of NASA, but now he isn't. This concerns me, because
•people might see some of the things he does and decide that it
reflects poorlyon NASA. For example, he gave a cooking class.
The food he made was pretty good, but the whole time he was
sort of yelling at everyone. They all got annoyed and left. I
stayed, but thought,

I hope this doesn't affect the space
I
program.
In closing, let me just say, I like Maurice, and I even work for
him. He's an OK boss. But lately he's been getting on my nerves.
Yours truly,
Ed Chigliak
APRIL 1
Dear Tawni —
Things here are getting totally weird.
First, I'm still not sleeping. I mean, an entire MONTH, right?

Now some big brain doctor has flown in from Philadelphia to
study this thing. Holling says the whole town is going to be
asked a lot of questions. But, I mean, why? It's not like it's our
fault.
Second, business which was going nonstop has suddenly

shut down. It's like at first everyone treated this no-sleep thing
like a big party, and we had customers 24 hours a day. Now
people figure, Hey, as long as my days are twice as long, I might
as well make good use of them. So instead of hanging out
waiting for this bonus party time to end, everyone stays home at
night, doing hobbies or writing letters. Because if you're not

going to go to sleep, there's no such thing as winding down,
right? And if you're not winding down, you might as well do
something constructive.
feel the same way. I'm almost finished reading
I that World
82
Almanac I told you about. Frankly, I don't know why colleges
even exist. All the facts in the world are in this one book. So you
pay the five dollars. It's worth it! You have to read it more than
once to absorb everything, but it sure doesn't have to take four
years!
Meanwhile, the mood around here. We have
is getting strange
a guy, Ed Chigliak, who you met. He's an Indian, our age.
1 think
Last night, when Maurice came by, Ed was sitting at the bar,
took one look at him, and said, "I'm young, Maurice. There's
still a chance can get to shoot my movie on Mars. So don't ruin
I
it for me."
Everybody looked at everybody else, and I'm like, huh? Finally,

after a few seconds, Maurice says, "Ed, if that's some kind of
authentic Native American incantation, I respect your right to
incant it, but I can't say as I understand it." Ed made a face and
turned away.
But meanwhile, what's his problem? 1 swear, some people
think that just because they go around all year in a black leather
motorcycle jacket without even owning a hog, they can be
It really bugs me.
creative.
I hope you sent that chain letter out. I check the mail every
day. Nothing yet.
Luv,
Shells
APRIL FOOLS' DAY

Dear Bernard,
Things go from weird to worse, brother. Our town has gone
sleepless now for a month. had hoped that a complete lunar
I
cycle would renew our passports to Dreamland, but no such

luck. (The culprit, after all, isn't the moon, but the sun.) As you
said on the phone, more wakefulness equals more life. OK. But
what kind of life? If a nightly spell of unconsciousness is the
price we hairy bipeds have to pay for our highly developed
brains, then let's fork it over. I would rather buy death on the
83
installment plan at a fixed rate, than face a sudden balloon
payment for which I'm not prepared. In other words, what if all
this catches up with us in some drastic way?

Grim thoughts. And I'm the only one entertaining them. To
everyone else, it's either party time or an endless supply of
unexpected study halls. And I take your other point: that if this
thing is the result of sunspots, then it's as natural as a thunder-

storm. But so is an earthquake.
Still, every time I sidle up to despair, I see what might be
window,
called signs of correction. Take this morning. I'm in the
doing the show, and enjoying my customary splendid view of
the town and its denizens. The normal morning traffic is sorting
itself out . . . when I spot Holling Vincouer striding manfully up
the street, mail in hand, toward the Brick. At that moment, out
of Dr. Fleischman's office comes Marilyn Whirlwind.
The two encounter each other in the middle of Main Street.
Holling gives some pleasant greeting, and Marilyn stops, looks

indescribably offended in that deeply placid, undemonstrative
way of hers —and slaps him on the face! Later I asked Marilyn
what Holling had said to offend her. She replied, "He said good
morning."
Faint glimmer of normality — i.e., reasonable stress caused by
lack of sleep —slowly dawning in Ms. Whirlwind's psyche? Or
one-of-a-kind aberration not likely to be repeated? I hope the
former. We should all be borderline psychos by now; a Marilyn
who slaps a man for no good reason is a Marilyn one slap more
sane and healthy than the rest of us.
Still, all this free time is helping me catch up on my reading.

To paraphrase the immortal Mose Allison: my body's on vaca-
tion, and my mind is working overtime. I'd just ask you to join
me in hoping that my spirit isn't out to lunch.
More later
Fraternally,
Chris
84
APRIL 1
Dear Aunt Louise,

I have a question for you. When was I growing up and you
were teaching me the piano, we used to talk about the feeling
one note had for another. If two notes had the same feeling, they
were in harmony, and if you played them together, they made a
third sound. If they had a different feeling, and you played them
together, they made disharmony and an ugly sound. You said
the same thing was true of people.
My question is, can a person's note change? I am in dishar-
mony with a man who 1 used to be in harmony with. He is
Holling Vincouer. He owns the local cafe. Suddenly everything

about him annoys me. This afternoon, went to Ruth- when 1
Anne's store to buy paper, he was there talking to Ruth-Anne

about books. Holling said, "There's no accounting for taste."
This inflamed me with anger.
Can you explain this? Does it have anything to do with our
unusual situation? It must. I can't explain my reaction any other
way. 1 have always liked Holling, but suddenly the sight of his
plaid shirt fills me with rage. What should do? 1
With love,
Marilyn
APRIL 1
Prof. Jennifer Kelly
Soc. Dept.
U. Mich.
AA, Ml
Dear Jen,
Great letter! But 1 keep picturing the last time saw you, I
i.e., eleven years ago. So end up imagining a teenage girl in

1
85
plaid skirt and navy knee socks, teaching college kids who are
older than she is. (Remember the day after graduation? Going
back in jeans and shirts, just to see how it would feel to walk
around school in something besides the uniform? School was
out, the halls were empty. We turned the corner. Halfway up the
hall. Sister Lucille stepped out of her room and just stood there,
staring at us, stopped and gulped, and you said to me, "Our
1
minds are still in skirts and knee socks.")

Not after four years of college and six years of Alaska, believe
me. Speaking of which, interesting developments around here
in sleepy, sleepless Cicely.
I have taken a job as off-hour receptionist for the local doctor,

the Physician In Spite of Himself, Joel Fleischman (cf. prev.
correspondence). So 1 was there, in the office, when he arrived
this afternoon with our latest celebrity visitor: Dr. Michael Rob-
ertson, world-renowned (or so says Fleischman) neurologist
from Philadelphia. He runs an important research clinic there.
And get this: tall, fortyish, smooth, gorgeous. Black hair with
that becoming hint of approaching grey. Clothing courtesy of
Ralph Lauren.
In a word, potentially insufferable, but not literally painful to
look at. Not that was gratifying to see
I care, of course. But it
Fleischman, who has been condescending and arrogant and

superior from his first day here, suddenly turn deferential. Sort
of gratifying, anyway. Also a little sad. But then, it didn't last
long, as Fleischman immediately announced the pecking order,
as it were.
"O'Connell, this is Dr. Robertson. Fll be working with him, so
some of your duties may include helping with our research."
Then, as an afterthought: "Mike, Margaret O'Connell."
"A pleasure, Margaret," he said, his brown eyes on mine.
What's your position on cleft chins? I'm for them, in modera-
tion. "Please," I said. "Maggie."
"Maggie it is."
I offered a smile without subtext. "Welcome to Cicely, Dr.
Robertson."
"Please. Mike."
86
"
"Uh," Fleischman intruded eloquently. "I don't think that level

of, of intimacy is wise, uh, Mike. Just to keep the lines of
authority straight ..."

"Come on, Joel," Dr. Dreamboat says, "Alaska is no place to
stand on ceremony." Then, looking at me: "Especially with such

a beautiful Oops! Sorry. You'll have my head for that.
girl.
Woman. So, Maggie. Is it Mike?"

"You seem like a nice boy," I said politely. "Sorry. Man. So
we'll compromise. Michael."
looking at me. Dr. Robertson said, "This one's dangerous,
Still
Joel. How do you get any work done?"

Fleischman said, "1 wear a blindfold."
Maurice has set Dr. Robertson (okay, Michael) up in a store-
front office two doors down. (Maurice is, to no one's surprise,
ecstatic that Dr. Robertson is here. "I'm telling you," he was
telling us, "this man is going to single-handedly put Cicely on
the map. And not and Game topo map of caribou
just the Fish
migration patterns, either. mean the tourist map, the conven-

I
tion map, the health-spa-pilgrims' map, and several other carto-

graphic variations 1 haven't even thought of yet!")
Michael has asked me to show him around and introduce him
to the natives. He intends to take a detailed history of every
person "It's an ideal research situation," he enthused,
in town.
as we
had a get-acquainted beer at Holling's. "A self-con-
all
tained community with fewer than a thousand people. A living

laboratory."
Fleischman started to reply, "Yeah, well
—
But Michael smiled at me and said, "That's what's so thrilling
about Alaska. ."
All this beauty . . (Explicit eye contact.) ". . . and
hardly anyone here to really appreciate it."
Are you gagging? The worst part is, even as I blinked back at
him in a parody of flirtatious stupidity, 1 got a buzz. Meanwhile,
Fleischman scowled and said, "No! No, 1, 1 disagree completely!
There are plenty of people here who appreciate the beauty. I
myself appreciate it like crazy every day. Don't I, O'Connell?"

1 smiled at him and said, "Like crazy. Dr. Fleischman."
Then Michael said, "One thing does concern me about Cicely,
87
Joel. Are you familiar with the Rackshaffen experiment?" (I'm
sure I spelled that wrong.)
Fleischman suddenly looked alarmed. For all they were in-
cluding me in the conversation, could have been a decorative
I
salt shaker on the table. "You don't think it applies, do you?"

"What?" I asked. "What doesn't apply?"
BOTH OF THEM AT THE SAME TIME said, "Nothing." And
changed the subject.
Ever hear of it? Ask your sources. I have sources, too, but they
treat me like a salt shaker.
Shaken,
Maggie
4/2
Richard Marx
do Siegel, Vartorella, Berger, & Knapp
812 East 41st Street
NY, NY
Dear Richie —
second gear with this sleepless thing. Finally.
Moving into
A big-time neurologist from Philly's not only willing to fund
some systematic research, but get this: HE'S COME HERE HIM-
SELF
Admittedly, at first my feelings were mixed. He'll steal the
limelight, control the work, put his name on the paper, claim
credit. But I think I know a way around that, a way to secure my
fair share of the glory. See, he's an interloper. Whereas these
people —I'm one of them. Okay, let's say, I'm as one-of-them as
a fast-talking Jew from Flushing who's being held here against
his will can be. But at least have two years' seniority! know
I I
people's names, I know the name of the spouse they've stabbed,

I know the endearing names of their pets and their rifles and
their flatbeds.
88
So I'm in the system. But I'm also the local doc, and my
patient case load is atypically high. So I'll have to hustle. Most
of the complaints from my patients continue to be minor,
although I notice the number of bar fights has risen dramatically,
which is odd amount of bar business has
considering that the
fallen off. Local guys in flannel shirts and ZZ-Top beards, who
used to drink six, seven beers a night and walk two miles around
the pool table, now can be found at home, assembling Heathkit
shortwave receivers or putting up wallpaper. But crankily, as
more and more people seem to be in a permanent bad mood.
The local disk jockey, a mild-mannered poet/artist, went off the
deep end and yelled at the cafe owner's dippy airhead girlfriend
about pistachio nuts.
"Our lives are fragile things, Shelly!" he starts shouting after
he gets one of those hermetically sealed nuts with no access-
crack. "Given that, and given the apparent impunity with which
we all seem to be able to flout the laws of nature these days, is
it too much to ask that you weed out these jawbreakers before
putting down a bowl of nuts?"
No, it doesn't make sense, and to a Manhattan-based attorney
such as yourself, Richard, smacks of incipient madness. But
this
I found myself doing what everybody else in the vicinity was
doing, i.e., nodding indignantly and yelling, "Yeah! Right on! You
tell 'er, Chris!"
I too find myself losing patience a lot these days. No pun
intended. Is this related to the sleepless syndrome? Has to be.
And no doubt will be detected, quantified, and duly theorized
by myself and my disting. colleague. Dr. Mike Robertson. Speak-
ing of whom, gotta go make sure Mike's new landlady remem-
bers that the shower in Mike's room is for his use only.
Best,
Joel
89
APRIL 2
Amy Levin Cooper, Editor-in-Chief

Mademoiselle
350 Madison Ave.
New York, NY
Dear Amy,
I read your magazine all the time. I think it's great. The
regular columns are pretty helpful and answer some of my
questions.
The thing is, though, 1 am a somewhat unusual case. My
boyfriend is older than me. Iam eighteen, and he is sixty-three.
But there must be others like me out there. So my suggestion is,
could you do a special issue for girls like us? If you did, here
are some questions 1 think would be helpful in the Q and A
section:
1.HELP! My guy often mentions Pearl Harbor. Is she a blues

singer, and, if not, who is she? Should worry? I
2. HUH? Sometimes, after we make love, my boyfriend says,
"Honey, you're the bee's knees." What does this mean? Do bees
really have knees? And if so, so what? What's it have to do with
sex?
3. UH-OH! Last night my squeeze and argued over a movie. I
Iwanted to see Father of the Bride. He didn't. said, "Don't you I
want to see what it's about?" He said, "I already know what it's
about. I've already seen it." But the movie only came to our town
the day before, and there was no way he could have seen it. So
the question is, Do people get more psychic as they get older?
Can they read your mind? Should be careful of what think, I I
and so forth?
Maybe older women know all this stuff, but younger chicks
like me don't. So thanks, and keep up the great work with the
magazine!
Yours truly,
Shelly Tambo
90
APRIL 2
Dear Anita,
How are you? I am quite fine, although that strange situa-
tion I wrote you about has not changed. If as you say it's still not
affecting you in Anchorage, then believe it's only happening in I
Cicely.
As I say, I feel fine. The thing is, though, I wonder about
Shelly. And 1 thought 1 might ask your advice. Now as told you1
when you were here last year, 1 am absolutely crazy about that
girl. She most wonderful thing that has ever
is by far the
happened to me. Which is not to take away from the good times
you and had in the old days, of course. And tell her this
I I
constantly, mean, may not be as demonstrative as some men,

I 1
but I do not neglect telling her of my love.
Lately, though, she seems to pay more attention to someone

else than to me. don't know if you remember him. His name is
I
Ed Chigliak, a young Indian, Shelly's age. Always wears a black

leather jacket. Until recently thought he was just about the I
sweetest, most unassuming young man you could ever want to

meet. Wouldn't hurt a fly, as agreeable as the day is long (and
up here it's pretty long!), and so forth.
But Shelly can't stop talking about him. "Holling," she sud-
denly said last night while we were reading in bed. "Doesn't Ed's
mopey expression just make you want to scream?"
1 said, "Well, hon, not really. He only looks mopey. When you
talk to him you realize he's actually quite cheerful."
"1 knew you'd say that. You're so nice. Maybe too nice."
"It's his personality. I'm sure there are aspects of me that
make him want to scream."
"And what about that leather jacket? I mean, is that pretentious
or what?"
I looked at her in shock. Because that's what I was. I was
shocked. "Shelly," I said. "Where did you learn a word like
pretentious? From reading that World Almanac?''
"In Mademoiselle. Look, never mind. It's just that Ed is getting
on my nerves these days in a major way. No biggie."
91
Anita, this is not like Shelly. And it makes me wonder: Could
there be something going on between her and Ed? As say, they
I
are the same age, and I am acutely aware of the difference

between my age and hers.
I have started to examine her behavior for signs of discontent
or boredom
what have you, but frankly don't see any. Still,
or I
why does she go on and on about this boy, who she has never
had any strong opinion about until now?
would appreciate your ideas about this. also intend to ask
I I
Dr. Fleischman, who as a physician has some experience in

these matters. would also want to discuss it with another one
I
of our local young men, Chris Stevens, who is something of a

philosopher and took Shelly's confession when she was ad-
dicted to satellite tv. But for some reason that Chris gets on my
nerves so much these days, can barely look at him.
I
Thanks for your help, Anita, and hope to see you again soon.
I
Loue,
Holling
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
2 April
Mr. Charles Rouse
10275 Little Patuxent Parkway
Columbia, MD 21044
Dear Sir:
I am a great admirer of your commercial developments, from

Faneuil Hall in Boston to Harbor Place in Baltimore, and South
Street Seaport in New York. I am especially impressed with the
global scale of your accomplishments. Now before you tell your
92
girl to word-process out one of your standard generic thank-
yous, let me when it comes^ to activities on a
note here that
global scale, more than most. As a former NASA
I know a bit
astronaut, have been fortunate enough to gaze upon planet

1
Earth from the ultimate vantage point. So hope you'll forgive 1
me if I am so bold as to suggest that I feel a certain congruence

or kinship with what you do.
1 say all this by way of broaching the subject of a business

proposition — or no, better yet, call it a concerned citizen's
suggestion. Mr. Rouse, I am a resident of Cicely, Alaska, a
minuscule town along what many are increasingly calling "the
Alaskan Riviera." And it is my firm and fervent belief that one
day Cicely will be a Mecca for sportsmen, outdoor enthusiasts,
vacationers, tourists —something of a cross between Aspen and
Saint Tropez. Well, lately my vision has taken a quantum leap
closer to realization with this absolutely fantastical development:
No one in this town, has slept since the end of February.

sir,
And we don't seem to suffer any ill effects from it, either. Now I
realize your first response to this information is disbelief. I don't

blame you. In a moment will present two suggestions aboutI
how you can convince yourself that this amazing fact is indeed
true, but first want to tell you why you should care at all.
1
Actually it may already have occurred to you: if Cicely is indeed

the place where no one sleeps OR NEEDS to, then we may be
looking at the closest thing to an actual fountain of youth this
side of Heaven.
If not youth, then energy. If not actually energy—because the

normal physical activities of life do leave us fatigued in a
somatic, muscular sense—then consciousness. And I ask you,
sir: is worth developing commercially, or do
that I lack the
intelligence God gave celery? Is the potential not infinite for
conventions, retreats, international conferences, sanitaria, med-
ical research centers need go on? — I
93
Come see Cicely for yourself. Regardless of what you may think
about Alaska, it is anything but a frozen wasteland, and my
home — all 14 rooms of it —^would be at your disposal. Or, if that
is impractical, allow me to send you, when it is complete, the
report of Dr. Michael Robertson, of the Wilson Neurological
Institute of Philadelphia, PA. Dr. Robertson has come to Cicely
to study this phenomenon and no doubt will be forthcoming
with a credible and enlightening explanation for it sometime
soon.
He takes this seriously. So, too,might add, does our local 1
physician, a young man, a Jewish young man, from New York.

Talk about your institutional validation! This is more than a
bunch of wilderness crazymen staying up as long as they can to
get their names into the Guinness Book of Records. This is an
ongoing psychoneurological mystery.
Of course, what call our "unlimited consciousness" isn't all.

I
The Cicely Experience also includes some downright gorgeous

country and a nice congenial local population. Sure, we've got
our share of bad apples. There's an Indian gal, works for the
aforementioned local doctor, some people might find her la-
conic, undemonstrative personality and cryptic monosyllabic
utterances a tad infuriating, as 1 do.
But hell, no community is perfect. Look past these occasional,

atypical kinds of individuals, and you're looking at not only a
first-rate wilderness experience, but a truly amazing psychologi-
cal one as well —and none of the inconveniences of passports,
currency conversions, language difficulties, or pajamas.
In a word, Alaska, Mr, Rouse. Our state motto says it all: North
to the Future. look forward to your reply. And if a phone call
I
94
—
tempts you, feel free to yield to temptation. Call anytime, day or

night. I'll be up.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
CEO, Minnifield Communications
APRIL 3
Dear Andrew,
How Of course remember you
great to hear from you! I
my brother Jack's freshman-year roommate. From the dorms. We

met at our house when Jack brought you home for the Xmas
holiday. Was it you who spilled the eggnog on our cat? Oh, who
remembers!?
I remember that as a fun time, even if it was ten long years
ago. And yes, what Jack told you is true. I'm not currently
"seeing" anyone. But it would be a bad idea for you to come up
here now, Andrew. Even if you will be in Seattle in three weeks,
visiting Microsoft in Redmond with whom (as you say) you have
a very special relationship.
You see, I have an extreme case of insomnia at the moment.
In fact, I have been awake continuously for almost five weeks.
Some doctors think the Rockshaffen Experiment may be rele-
vant. Ask Jack. Plus, the reason I am not "seeing" anyone at this
time is that all the men I have "seen" over the past six years have
died.
So, it was great to hear from you. Good luck with your software
program!
Yours truly,
Mary OVonnell
APRIL 3
Dear Jack,
PLEASE don't do that again, i.e., give my address or phone
number to your old college buddies. I can't STAND your fresh-
95
man-year roommate. You know that. So I just had to give him the
He wanted
brushoff. to stay with me for a week! He asked me to
show him Alaska! I told him I have insomnia, which is true
enough.
If he asks you, back me up on this, or you'll regret it come
"asset" time.
Meanwhile, is it me, or are all doctors, in one way or another,
insufferable?
1 ask because my new routine involves exposure to two
doctors almost twenty-four hours a day. The diff. between this
new life and my old one as a pilot could not be more extreme.
As apilot, was the boss; as a
I receptionist (for Joel "Fleisch-
man" Fleischman) and research assistant (for Dr. Michael ''Mi-
chael" Robertson), 1 am, respectively, the well-meaning but
faintly dippy gal Friday or the semiworshipful peasant granted
license by the lord.
Another thing about doctors. They think not only that what
they do is far, far more
and important than anything you
difficult
do (which it often is), but that they could do what you do if they
merely had the desire to squeeze it into their busy schedule.
(Which they probably could not.) No matter what it is, from
baking bread to designing a house (to flying a plane), they do it,
or they used to do it, or they've thought about doing it, which to
them is tantamount to already having done it. When told 1
Michael was a bush pilot, he nodded in a familiar, dismissive

I
way and said, "I was going to go for my pilot's license. But got I
involved with other things."

it? "With other, more important things" is the implication.
Get
So nodded back and said, "1 know what you mean. was going
I I
to take up neurological research, but got involved with other I
things." He chuckled at my dry wit, and still felt insulted. It I
was one of those vain, I-see-you're-a-saucy-wench kind of

laughs.
It must be and condescending to the
strange, being a doctor
entire range of human experience. The exception to this, as
always, is Fleischman, who makes no bones about his inability
to do ANYTHING I can do. I mean Alaskan, wilderness-type
96
things like flying and camping and hunting. Of course, he makes
up for it by suggesting —no, not suggesting; "by shouting — that
these things are not worth doing, that the entire purpose of
civilization march from the primal swamps has been to
and its
make cooking freshly caught salmon over an open fire com-

pletely unnecessary.
In my plane, I don't have to put up vîth this sort of thing.
Unfortunately, I do in this office, since I am now working for/
with both men. By day, I serve as Robertson's interpreter as we

walk around town. It's fun, actually.
Except for today, when we were visiting Chris Stevens at his
trailer outside of town. Chris is a sculptor, and today we found

him outside, welding old car parts together.
Things were tense from the start. He took one look at us and
scowled.
"1 love you, Maggie, but don't do this," he sang out, eyes on
the agglomeration of tail pipes and fenders.
"Don't do what?"
"Subject me to a rationalist interrogation. Quantify my subjec-
tive experience in a way that can only falsify it."
1 was flabbergasted; 1 thought he'd find this interesting, since

he talks about science as much as mysticism or religion or
poetry. Plus, Chris is one of the sanest, most polite men on
Earth. But Robertson leapt right into action, utterly undaunted.
He walked around the piece Chris was working on, eyeing it. I
could see Chris was peeved. Then Robertson stopped and said
to him, "I do sculpture sometimes. Coat hangers, tongue depres-
sers —^whimsical stuff, indoors."
Chris gave an obviously fake smile and said, "Good for you,
Doctor Mike."
It was downhill from there. Robertson got his answers, which
Chris gave grudgingly, and we left as it was getting dark. The
doctor's parting words to the dj/artist? "Call me. 1 may know a
good agent back East."
Chris just waved, then fired up his torch with a pop. I didn't
97
—
have the heart to tell Robertson that Chris had no intention of

selling his works and didn't own a phone.
Loue,
M.
4/3
Mr. Kurt Anderson

Spy Magazine
5 Union Square West
New York, NY
Dear Mr. Anderson:
First the basic info: I'm a physician, which is how we're

taught to refer to ourselves to the public, don't ask me why.
Maybe because there are doctors of sociology, philosophy, etc.,
but there are no physicians of sociology, etc. And, now that I
think of it, there are honorary doctorates, but there aren't any
honorary M.D.s. Then again, no philosophy professor was ever
sued for malpractice.
I —
was born and bred born and bred; bed and breakfast;
bread and circuses interesting
. . . —
in Flushing. Bronx Science,
Columbia, Columbia Medical. Typical, right? Fine.
For the last two years have been marooned up here in
I
—
check the postmark Âlaska, in a town fully as big as Kew
Gardens with a population easily as large as the sophomore
class at Forest Hills. None of which is interesting, but here is
what is: no one has slept in this town since the end of February.
There are theories to account for this, but they are highly
technical. In layman's terms, we can say that a recent "crop" of
sunspots have "done a number" on Earth's magnetic field. This
has "bothered" the large iron ore deposits in the mountains
around Cicely, stimulating a kind of "rude backtalk" in our local
98
magnetic field, which then "jams" the "go to sleep" signal in the
"normal taking care of yourself" area of the brain.
So was thinking: would 5py be interested in an article entitled
I
"The Real Town That Never Sleeps"? am thinking of something I
offbeat, a little irreverent, with enough firsthand medical info to

lend it legitimacy and elevate it above your usual run-of-the-mill
travel piece. Because I'm not only the Hair Club president, Tm
also a client, i.e., am a faithful subscriber, so know what does

1 I
and does not appear in Spy. As for my writing experience, it is

nil, but hey, can type.
I
Frankly, I'm hoping you'll be intrigued enough in this anomaly

to want to run a story on it, but not so intrigued as to send one
of your (admittedly better qualified) staff or customary free-
lancers up here. Besides, they wouldn't like it, believe me.
Remember the Exxon Valdez? Reporters from the Lower Forty-
Eight paid homeowners in the town of Valdez three hundred
dollars to sleep on the floor. (Wait a minute ... read that in I
Spy!) And Valdez is bigger than Cicely. Tons. Did somebody say
accommodations? don't want to say Cicely is a grueling,
I
backward, one-moose town, but put it this way: we have no

police force, but we do have a resident taxidermist. He's also the
undertaker, which is a comfort.
Let me note that was editor of my high school newspaper,
1
got 714 in my SAT verbal, and was consistently complimented

on the clarity and economy of my lab reports as an undergrad.
So I like to think that I can write when 1 want to. What do you
say? Look, it doesn't matter whether 1 can write or not, since
you're going to re-write it anyway. I can accept that.
Write me am beginning
or call with a reply (907-555-6748). 1
research of this whole phenom. with the eminent (trust me) Dr.
Michael Robertson of the Wilson Neurological Institute of Phila-
delphia. So there is legitimacy here. Call his office (215-555-
6002) and check Or come up yourself and see what it's
it out.
like being awake all I'll tell you what it's like. It's like
the time.
going to a class in college, and waiting for the professor to
show, and waiting and hanging out, and waiting and hanging
out, and finally realizing that he ain't comin'. You discover you've
99
been handed back a piece of your own private life. Taice that
feeling, and multiply it times 24 hours a day.
See? told you can write.
I I
Yours truly,
Joel Fleischman
PS—Look. 1 hope I don't have to tell you that this was written in
good faith. Hubristically, So please don't hand it
okay, but still.
over to the guy who writes the "From the Spy Mailroom" column
for his snide commentary. It would be bad enough for my friends
to learn that I'm stuck up here while fame and they're pursuing
fortune in more would be unbearable
civilized surrounds. But it
to be made fun of in Spy. That last sentence was rather awkward,

but you know what mean. So no, do NOT give you permission
I I
to run this in the "From the Spy Mailroom" column or as a

"Letter to the Editor." Even though, admittedly, this is a letter
and you are the editor. Sorry. JF
PPS —Okay, I see I'm beginning to turn into one of those people
who write coy, demanding, annoying letters to you time after
time, what's theirnames, Halberstam or Goldfinger or DeMornay
or whatever, insulting you and then six months later asking for a
job as though you're expected to admire their moxie. promise I
not to do that. JF
APRIL 4
Dear Tawni,
am just about ready to jump out of my skin. Remember
I I
told you about how we don't sleep here? Well, we don't sleep
here more than ever! Plus, don't know, but somehow think it's
I I
making me smarter. Or more aware of stuff. Take this guy

. . .
who lives here. Ed Chigliak. told you about him. He's our age,
I
an Indian, a nice guy but now just the sight of him makes
. . .
me want to scream. He just gets on my NERVES, okay?

This morning he came into the bar for breakfast like he always
does. So get this.
100
"I guess you want scrambled eggs, like always, right, Ed?" I
said.
"No," he said, in that mopey-dopey way of his. "I'll have 'em
fried."
And want I to say, WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?

Plus there's a new doctor in town, Dr. Robertson, from Phila-
delphia, who's researching this whole sleep thing. Some big
shot neuro- something. Cute, like Tom Selleck without the
moustache. He wants to talk to everybody, get their stories about
how it feels not to sleep, when it started, and so on.
So he wants to talk to me, of course. And we're sitting at a
table, me and him and Maggie O'Connell who has become his
assistant, and he says to me, "Shelly, do you ever take naps at
night? Do you ever stare out the window and have daydreams?"
I say, "Excuse me? Daydreams at night?"
"You know," he says, with this smoothie smile. "Fantasies."

As if it's any of his business? mean, have fantasies. But I I
what does that have to do with sleeping? don't know, Tawn. It's I
like 1
—
woke up one day ^without sleeping, if that makes any
sense, which know it doesn't, although it sort of makes
1
tremendous sense —
woke up and saw Ed as he really is, and
1
now have this thing about MEN. They're like a PAIN. mean
1 I
aren't they? With their hulking around and their JACKETS?

And it's like, once you realize stuff like that, the whole world
looks different. mean, as WOMEN, what is it with MEN? Maggie
1
once asked me that, but she was kind of drunk at the time and
really bummed out, and I thought, well, she's depressed, so she
doesn't mean it. But now 1 see what she meant. Why do we have
to please them all the time? Of course they try to please us,
sometimes, okay. But what they do is so STUPID, why do we
find it pleasing? Unless we're stupid. Which let's not be, okay?
Not Holling, of course, since he's really sweet. 1 mean, 1 can
see that he's also into doing all this man-stuff, but 1 know him
well enough to see how he's sort of stuck with it, so I forgive
him. Like this morning, we were doing the breakfast rush, and
the radio was on. Our local station's only dj is Chris Stevens,
who does the "Chris in the Morning" show, where he talks and
101
—
reads and plays music. Well, it was on, like it always and is,
Chris was talking about some cosmic stuff like he always does
1 think he's mad at me about something —and suddenly Holling
looks ILL.
"I'm sorry, folks," Holling calls out. "But 1can't abide that boy
these days." And he goes to the radio and CHANGES THE
STATION.
Of course everybody yells out, but at least what he got wasn't
Maurice playing show tunes all day like he did last year when
Chris called Walt Disney a homosexual and Maurice slugged
him (Chris) and him and took
fired over. (Maurice owns the
station.) When Holling changed the station, the only one we
could get —don't ask me why, since it comes from SEATTLE, but
it has something to do with the sunspots and the magnetic field,
etc. —^was National Public Radio. Which is like all news! And no
music! And these mysterious announcements like, "The time is
21 minutes before the hour."

Now, before all this started, would have heard something
1
like that and just not thought about it, because would have I
thought, well, it's on the radio, so it must make sense. But now,
with my new outlook on things, think: wait a minute. WHAT
I
HOUR???
Because who gave that time report? Right. A MAN. So it makes
me realize that, once you stop just believing everything men say,
and start asking questions, you become a lot more intelligent.
Luv Ya,
Shelly
APRIL 4
Dear Lou,
Once again, thanks for your help with that Arthur B. Marone
business. We have not heard from Culpepper, his lawyer, so I
assume they'll just let the matter drop.

As for your other questions, yes, all of us here in Cicely have
been up since the end of February. It's starting to take its toll on
102
"
people. There is a young man, Chris Stevens, who in fact was

once my partner on a deal I got into with him when I needed a
shot of cash for the IRS. That didn't work out, and we broke it
up, but there were no hard feelings. And always

I liked him.
But lately he has become just about the most irritating individ-
ual I have ever met. There are some days I want to smash his
face in.
The thing is, Lou, just about everyone in Cicely these days
wants to smash somebody's face in. Ed Chigliak came in the bar
this afternoon looking like he was shopping for trouble and was
willing to pay cash. 1 asked him what was the matter and he
said, "It's Maurice." (Minnifield, of course.) "He's getting on my
nerves. I quit working for him. Let someone else go to Dr.
Fleischman's house and deliver messages." When I asked Ed
what Maurice had done to make him so mad, he said, "I don't
know. But it must be something." Before could inquire further, I
he said, "Do you know what I've decided to do?"

"What?"
"I've decided to quit fooling around. No more mister nice guy.
I'm going to do it."
"Do what?"
"Make things happen. Be all that can be. Let the chips fall I
where they may, because that's the way the cookie crumbles. It
must be a chocolate chip cookie And look out for Number . . .
One, go for the gusto, and stop at nothing to succeed.

"Ed," I said, "That's not like you."
"I know." He nodded. "It must be because I'm annoyed with
Maurice."
Well, I was certainly willing to concede that Maurice could be
annoying. "But you want to talk about annoying individuals,"
said, "You take Chris
— I
"I don't think Chris is annoying at all, Holling," Ed said.

I replied, "Well Ed, you are entitled to your opinion."
He nodded and smiled and said, "Thanks." Then he looked
kind of surprised, and said, "I am?"
103
I know Shelly is annoyed with Ed for some reason, but I can't
for the life of me figure out why.
Yours,
Holling
APRIL 4
Ms. Kim Basinger

do Weisman, Miller, and Davis
1 1 00 Avenue of the Movie Stars
Century City, CA
Dear Ms. Basinger:

hope you don't mind my writing you, but
I saw your I
attorney's name in an old issue of Premier, so I'm sending this

there. read that a year or so ago you bought a town. What a
I
great idea. Now you can go there whenever you want and not
have to worry about it being closed. If you want to open your
own business, like a grocery store or a dry cleaner, you can,
because it's your town. You can even have your own special Kim
Basinger Day and give yourself the key to the city, although you
probably don't need it since of course they give you one when
they give you the town. Still, it's always good to have a spare
key.
That's why
I'm writing. live in a small town in Alaska called
I
Cicely. an ordinary town, except that for the past month or

It's
so no one here has slept. Not because of reasons like the

neighbors play loud music, or we're worried about the economy.
There's something in the Earth's magnetic field that has made
us not need to sleep.
So thought you might be interested in buying Cicely. It's
I
great for getting things done. Of course not that many of us have
that much to do. But, being a movie star, you would.
know this is hard to believe, but it's true. Are you interested?
I
I don't know what the price would be, but I'm sure we could
104
work something out. You can write to me at the address on the
envelope. Don't worry, I'm serious, because I have decided to
be all I can be.
Yours truly,
Ed Chigliak
APRIL 5
Mr. Jason De Brettville
Geneological DataBase Inc.

Boulder, CO
Dear Mr. De Brettville,
Thank you for your junk mail of March 24th addressed to

me. But you have made a mistake. My name is not Whirl, so I
would not be interested in a computerized family tree tracing

my ancestors back to their possible roots in England and Wales.
My husband's name is not Wind, so would not be interested to
I
know if he is related to Herbert Warren Wind, who used to write

about college football for the New Yorker. I am not married. My
name is Whirlwind, not Whirl-Wind.
Thank you.
Yours truly,
Marilyn Whirlwind
APRIL THE 5TH

Dear Uncle Anku,
I hope you are feeling better. A week in Providence Hospital
isn't so bad. You get to see Anchorage, although 1 guess you
only get to see it out your window. 1 hear you get cable tv. The
food is probably terrible, though. Oh well.
Things here in Cicely are pretty much the same. Just after you
left, that Dr. Robertson came from Philadelphia. He and Maggie
105
O'Connell and Dr. Fleischman all came to interview me this
afternoon.
I was home, doing pre-production work on my first movie.
at
At this stage that mainly means making lists of things to do once
I have a script and some money. I'm working for Ruth-Anne at
the store, helping with the mail. Everybody's writing letters and
sending out for catalogues and magazines. Everybody except
Ruth-Anne. She says she doesn't have time to write an>1hing but
order forms. But that's not exactly true. She wrote a sign we put
in the window yesterday. It looked like this:
ATTENTION ALL LIBRARY PATRONS

GRAND AMNESTY!
All books have been taken out. None have been

returned. Come on, Cicely! Finish with those books
and bring them back, so others can read them, too!
Normal fines will be suspended for one week starting
today. Drop 'em off. No questions asked.
After Amnesty Week, a New Fine Schedule will go

into effect. Every day a book is Overdue there will a
charge of
Two Cents ($0.02)
Failure to pay the fine will result in a Suspension of

Borrowing Privileges.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!
Being interviewed by Dr. Robertson and Dr. Fleischman and

Maggie was interesting. Mike asked me when was the first time
I skipped sleeping, and how it felt. I told him it felt like being
106
awake. Then he asked how I felt at night now. I said the same
way as I feel during the day. He asked if I dtank, so of course I
said yes. He said, "Do you ever, you know, drink too much?" I
said not really. He asked if drinking ever made me pass out. I
said. Pass out what?

He laughed and said, "Ed. My man. I'm referring to
B-O-O-Z-E."
Then laughed and said, "Oh, you mean alcoholic beverages."
I
I him didn't drink alcoholic beverages. Just beer.

told 1
There were a few more questions, and Maggie and Dr. Fleisch-
man talked about a few things. Then Mike asked, "Ed, would
you voluntarily submit to an E-E-G?" and thought he had made I
a mistake. said, "Don't you mean an E G G?" They laughed,

1
and I wondered what it would mean to

laughed, although I
voluntarily submit to an egg. Then realized they wanted to test I
my reflexes by throwing an egg at me, and said, sure, and I
asked them when they wanted to do it. Mike said as soon as he

could lease one from Anchorage. said, "Lease it? It's going to I
get all smashed. Can't you just buy it?"

Dr. Fleischman laughed and said, "Ed, do you have any idea
how much one of those things costs? Try and correct me if I'm —
wrong, Mike — try fifteen, twenty, around there."
I was absolutely amazed. I said, "Twenty cents? Just for one?"
Dr. Fleischman said, "Try dollars, Ed. Try thousand dollars.
Try twenty thousand dollars."
1 said, "But why do you have to get it from Anchorage? My
Aunt Julia raises chickens."
For a second they all looked at each other with a funny
expression. Dr. Fleischman said, "What is this, a dialogue from
a language lab? My Aunt Julia raises chickens?"
Then Maggie said, "Ed ... so what?"
"Well," 1 said, "She can sell you a dozen for a dollar."
It turned out that they were talking about a complex piece of
scientific equipment, and I was We all had a
talking about eggs!
big laugh over that. Then Maggie and Dr. Fleischman argued
about some stuff, and Mike said some other things, and Maggie
107
— —
and Dr. Fleischman called each other names. All that is pretty
much the usual.

I hope you get well soon.
Your loving nephew,
Ed
APRIL 5
Dear Jen,
No, no, you're the professional doing useful work in an
important institution. You didn't tell me you wrote an article for
The Atlantic! I had to consult your Tm
own footnotes to find out.
proud of you. (Any extra copies?)
—
As for me, thanks, but no I'm not Fleischman's nurse.
Patients come in and assign them numbers. True, sometimes
I
Fleischman summons me into the sanctum sanctorum with a

cool, professional, "O'CONNELL!" Usually he wants me to write
down as he dictates notes on a patient's condition. Sample
dialogue:
FLEISCHMAN: Patient is a Caucasian male, age 34,

symptoms include headache, myalgia, arthralgia,
some diarrhea. Splenomegaly, hepatomegaly both
possible
ME: Hold it, Fleischman, not so fast.
FLEISCHMAN: Come on, O'Connell, keep up. This

is life in the diagnosis lane. Pulse and respiration
abnormal, traces of macular rash on torso

ME: Do you talk this fast with Marilyn?
FLEISCHMAN: Marilyn doesn't do this. She refuses
to record diagnoses.
ME: So you go twice as fast with me, to make up
for lost time?
Meanwhile, outside the office, Fleischman, Michael and I are

like ... I don't know . . . "Moonlighting" meets "M*A*S*H,"
108
"
which results in scenes like when we went to interview Ed

Chigliak.
Ed is eighteen, an Indian, really sweet, kind of naive — at least
1 think so. Either that or it's a really subtle form of higher

wisdom. Anyway, he was stretched out on his bed doodling.
Michael asked him some routine questions, and Ed gave his
usual literal/profound answers. There was some weird mixup
about an EEG, which was hilarious.
At least Ed thought it was And so did But the
hilarious. I.
whole time we were laughing, Fleischman was watching Mi-

—
chael as though for a cue? So when Michael made this obvi-
ously forced, polite laugh, Fleischman gave one of his strained,
fake-good-sport grins, like the face he wears when he's asked to
join a tribal dance. And then he said, "Uh, can we, can we get
back on track here?"
"What's the matter, Fleischman," I said. "Afraid the scientific
rigor of these proceedings will be compromised by a sense of

humor?"
"Excuse me, O'Connell," he said in that prissy way of his.
"But we happen to be in the middle of the most perplexing
medical anomaly since Legionnaire's disease, and I think it
merits a certain amount of respectful attention to the process at

hand."
"What does that mean, Fleischman? The process at hand.
Where on earth do you learn to talk like that?"
"Especially," he said quickly, "now that we've got a world-
renowned authority who's come all the way up here to help us
and who's time is valuable and not unlimited. mean know, I 1
Mike, that you can speak for yourself, but I'm sure you didn't
come up here to listen to a lot of
—
"To a lot of what, Fleischman?" I said. "This better be good."
"
— to a lot of . . . local . . . folk . . . ethnic . . . Alaskan rural
tribal hayseed humor whose interest is at best anthropological."
"How dare you!" Mortified, I turned to Ed. "I'm sorry, Ed.
Fleischman didn't mean that."
"That's okay, Maggie," Ed smiled. "I didn't understand it."
"People," Michael murmured. "Each side's argument has
109
" "
merit. But may we proceed with the questions? Ed, Fm sure

you're anxious for us to get out of your hair
—
"Not really. It was getting lonely in here."
"
—so we'll finish up." Michael paused, then said, "Although
it was quite admirable of Maggie to stand up for Ed just now."
Fleischman said, "Yeah, she's a saint. Listen, Mike, about the
Reckstoffen experiment, I really think it doesn't apply."
I said, "Not that again. What is it?"
"Nothing, O'Connell."
"Nothing for you to worry about, Maggie," Michael said. "Joel,
you may be right. I want to hear more of your theories."
"Great," Fleischman said. "Absolutely, Mike."
Now isn't that pathetic? To see Fleischman visibly relieved that
this big-time neurologist still liked him, still thought he belonged
on the team. Is this a man thing or a Fleischman thing? Even
though his (F's) behavior had been appalling, condescending to
Ed there, who everyone knows has a quite original mind of his
own and is anything but a hayseed. But of course, Fleischman
was embarrassed. He wanted to display to his fellow big-city
physician that he was in but not o/dumb, rural, folkloric Cicely.
And the truth struck me like a revelation: Fleischman was a
snob!
1 had just begun to really absorb this, when Michael added,
"Because my time up here will be brief." He looked at me. "Too
brief."
Our eyes met. Fleischman saw this and starting making noises
and walking around, and said, "So, Ed, about that EEG
—
Did mention he looks like Marcello Mastroianni? A little?
I
Michael, that is.
By the way, thanks for letting me go on like this. It's nice to

have a friend to write to in the midst of all this strangeness. It is
strange, isn't it? Or is it me? Don't answer.

More later,
Maggie
110
4/5
Dear Alexander Solzhenitsyn:
Are you ready for this? O'Connell is now woriîng for me.
I icnow, believe me: weird isn't the word. O'Connell as my
second-string receptionist? I can't decide whether it's a good
idea or a nightmare. On the one hand, she's the smartest woman
in can actually bounce ideas off her and not have
town, and I
them land on the floor with an audible thud (as with my patients)
or have them sent back to me mysteriously transformed into
ravens and moths (as with my starting receptionist.)
On the other hand, she's monumentally uptight, and (it's so
obvious) self-righteous in that way that people from nice clean
middle (or upper-middle) class homes get when they come up
here and pursue The Wilderness Experience. They're fleeing the
suffocating sham of their compromised, pallid, emotionally
hypervigilant middle (or upper-middle) class life for the pure
bracing air and clean, honest backwardness of the whole paleo-
lithic Alaskan thing, and anyone else who has read a book or
gone to the Met is a fey, crippled, neurasthenic weakling inca-
pable of taking care of himself in any context more demanding
than that of a gelateria in Soho.
She thinks I'm arrogant. She thinks I'm conceited. I mean, is
this third grade, or what?

We go Ed Chigliak. And after an amusing little
to interview
interlude, inwhich we share a chuckle over a confusion over
EEC's and eggs, suggest we get back to the matter at hand.
1
Immediately she squares off. "Fleischman," she says, "What's

wrong with having a sense of humor?"
Now this is the sort of "brave," "enlightened," "humanizing"
question asked by many people who care deeply about the
quality of American health care and who, at the same time, are
idiots. It galls me that I am forced to address it.
"Not a thing, O'Connell," 1 am compelled to say, and go on to

state that 1 believe a sense of humor to be a prime prerequisite
for a full and satisfying life. "But this is not some unfamiliar
111
malady, like Legionnaire's disease. This is an utterly perplexing
anomaly that defies laws of medicine and physics."

But she's bent on grandstanding for Mike's benefit, playing
the sensible, earthy speaker-of-plain-truths. So she hits me with,
"Where do you learn to talk like that, Fleischman?"
"In medical school, O'Connell," I say— ^we're like a vaudeville
team now —and go on to deplore our excessive badinage while
Mike's time is awasting. I apologize to Ed for wasting his time
too, but he's having fun, sitting up against the headboard on the
bed, legs stretched out, smiling and pivoting his head from
O'Connell to me and back, holding a legal pad and a pencil like
a tennis judge taking notes.
I'll you something
tell —
just realized this, bear with me
I it —
just hit me. What really bugs O'Connell now is the fact that THE
SHOE IS ON THE OTHER PEDAL EXTREMITY. Of course! When I
got here, was the stranger in her world. She knew the lay of the
I
land, the customs, the personalities. This was her home. She
was here of her own free will, whereas came under threat of I
monetary penalty and a significant period of incarceration! So

of course I was a schlemiel.
But now we're involved in this medical research. Now SHE'S
in foreign territory, SHE has
what the vocabulary to ask me
words mean, SHE is unfamiliar with the customs and traditions.
No wonder she's gravitating to Mike. Not that he isn't an
attractive man, in some ways. He is. If you like that kind of self-
conscious smouldering routine. But this is shameful. I mean the
man has been here barely a week, and O'Connell is exhibiting a
tropism toward him without the least regard for standards of
seemliness or tact. The flirting, the bashful smiles, the wide-
eyed attentiveness —I'm very disappointed. I guess ... I don't
know ... I guess I really thought she was above throwing herself
at the first handsome charming world-famous scientist that came
down the pike.
know what you're
I thinking, and no, it's not that I'm jealous. I
don't want her. She's too . . . too prickly, and opinionated, and
argumentative, and judgmental. Plus she has this very slight lisp,
which infects me when I talk to her too much, and I start lisping
112
a little, too. We're like a pair of cats hissing at each other. No,
it's not that. But I'm offended. This squaring off, this me-and-
"Michael"-against-JoeI, this constant baiting and hectoring: do I
need this?
Look, I know you don't know me. I'm a 30-year-old Jewish

doctor from Queens, and you're a however-old-you-are world-
famous non-Jewish Russian exile writer. But 1 had to write
somebody. And the thought of bringing any of my friends up to

date with what has happened here, even those with whom I'm
already in contact, was too laborious to entertain. So when I
started this letter I just wrote "Dear," assuming I'd think of

someone to send it to by the time I was finished. And I did.
Because I know you couldn't care less about any of this. You're
above this sort of thing. SO AM I, NORMALLY, BUT I'M A
PRISONER UP HERE IN ALASKA.
Just as you're "prisoner," in a way, where you are. You know,
it's funny. I never thought of myself as having anything in
common with Alexander Solzhenitsyn, but there's a certain
situational parallel, isn't there?
Anyway, feel free to throw this letter away. You needn't write
back or anything. By the way, did I spell Alexander right? Should
it be Aleksandr, or something like that? What's the rule — ^you
Americanize it while you're living here, and then revert back to
all consonants if you return to Russia? Is there still a Russia, or
is it called something else now?
As for how I'm going to get your address, I'm not. I'm just
going to write "Alexander Solzhenitsyn, Vermont." A hundred
dollars says it reaches you. Unless, of course, you New
live in
Hampshire. I know you live in one of them. I'd better stop now.
Thanks. You don't have to be a thoracic specialist to know that
it's good to get things off your chest.
Sincerely,
Anonymous
113
APRIL 7
Dear Stan,
I'm sorry, but I won't be able to fly you from Prudhoe to

Anchorage in two weeks as per our usual arrangement. I've been
forced to take some time off. I suggest you call Len at Talkeetna
Transport or Tommy at YakuTaxi.
I'll you know about the next scheduled trip. may be flying
let I
by then, or may not. don't know. I'm sorry even to miss this
I I
one trip, though. enjoy ferrying you guys down from the ARCO
I
station at the top of the pipeline. You look so awful, trooping out
of that horrible residence building and dragging yourselves
across the ice. I feel heroic, like I'm airlifting refugees.
But who am I kidding? You know

do what I'll really
as well as I
be missing. That's right. The pastries. All those doughnuts and

eclairs and Danishes. Still, my question is, why? Is that how they
get you to sign up? "Work the Alaskan Pipeline. It's like living on
Neptune with unlimited napoleons." Or is pastry important to
roustabout-oil-rigger-type men in a way a woman just wouldn't
understand?
Because it's ARCO. once flew an engineer
not just you guys at I
from British Petroleum, who handed me a bag of luscious

goodies as he climbed aboard. I don't mean to propagate the
stereotype of the restrained Brit any more than necessary, but

here was a man who gave a woman a bag of "cream-filled Long
Johns" and didn't make any dirty remarks. would PAY to fly I
that guy again. What was his name . . . Derek. (Nice name for a
guy who works an oil rig.)
So have a good vacation. I'll be in touch in a month. Sorry for
the inconvenience.
Best regards,
Maggie O'Connell
114
APRIL 8
The Postmaster General

Department of the Post Office
Washington. D.C.
Dear General:
I am wTiting on behalf of Ruth-.\nne Miller, the postmis-
tress, and I guess general store mistress and head librarian
mistress of Cicely, .\laska. She doesn't know I'm writing to you.
but actually these days, she's so busy, she doesn't know much
of an\lhing.
The thing is. usually we get a small amount of mail here. But
now that we don't sleep. e\-erybody in Cicely writes a lot of

letters. And you know how is with letters. mean, a man
it I
couldn't get to be General of the Post Office if he wasn't an

expert on letters, probably. What mean I is. letters are like seeds.
When I vvTOte that line aboNe just now. I really did think letters
were like seeds. But when 1 tried to think of why. I couldn't
come up with amthing. So maybe letters aren't like seeds. But
what is true is Ruth-.Anne needs a lot of help with the mail now.
She also needs a fork lift. Could you send her one^ She also
needs a separate building to be the Post office, and of course if
you had that, you'd need a separate Post Mistress or Mister. I'm
not being too clear, but I can tell you that three months ago. we
got something like three thousand letters a week for the whole
town. Now we get something like fifteen thousand.
.\nd this doesn't include all the magazines, catalogues, cou-
pon booklets, and junk mail. What we do is dump all the Bulk
Rate and Third Class stuff in a firewood bin and let people help
themseKes. It makes good kindling for fires now. but what will
we do in the summer'!' So have a request. Could you issue an
I
order making everyone stop sending junk mail to Cicely' It

wxDuld make Ruth-.\nne's job a lot easier. .And after all. you are
the General. Thank you.
Yours truh'.
Ed Chigliak
115
4/9
Dear Pop,
I had a revelation yesterday, and I had to share it with you.
I was driving home — ^well, "home" —and it was raining. Up
ahead, on the side of the semi-terrific road that leads from the
quasi-excellent highway to my house, I saw two deer nibbling at
trees. And one thought led to another until suddenly had a
I
blinding insight and a deep understanding of the natural world:

animals Hue outside all the time.
What I'm saying is, 1 realized that outside is not animals' place
of business that they go to at nine in the morning, and stay in all
day, and then leave at dinner time and go to their real "home."
Outside is their real home and their place of "business," which
is to be an animal. If it rains, if it snows —and it does —they stay
there. They have to! They're animals!
Do you see what mean? The deer were
I getting wet in the
rain,but it was not a violation of something, it did not mean that

something was wrong. They were deer, they were animals, so
they lived outside. What happens when you live outside? You get
hit by weather. That's part of what outside is, ie, the weather.
They're there now! All over the world, animals are outside
right now.
And it's cold here. It is night, it is dark, it is cold, and yet all
those deer and moose and caribou —even if they're asleep,
they're outside.
I find this tremendously impressive. I think I may have under-
estimated animals all this time.
I hope you and Mom are well. I'll write again soon.
Love,
Joey
APRIL 9
Dear Katherine,
Greetings to Bryn Mawr from the 49th state. I'm sure the
last person you expected to hear from was yours truly, notwith-
116
standing the one evening we spent together that, as I said at the
time, was nothing short of memorable.
You thought was referring to our lovemaking, and was. But
I I
what you don't know is how you affected me afterward, after you
left Cicely and returned to the problem that had vexed me until
I
the moment met you on Baker's Point.

1
1had wandered there in search of inspiration. found it, I
embodied in you, sitting against a tree, your half-dome tent

nearby, a picture of solitary repose over your copy of Daniel
Deronda. We spoke, some current flowed between us, and took I
you over to Kiniamshet Meadow to view my work in progress: a

small mountain of used tires. had assembled it over weeks,
1
forming a giant's array of rough black grommets piled smack in

the middle of the greenery. The piece, explained, was correct 1
but incomplete. It needed a final element.

You looked slightly repelled but said, "Well, at least it's a good
use for old tires. You get points for that."
Ismiled, we returned to your camp and spent an ecstatic
evening in your tent. Your cries and my laughter surely kept the
wolves awake. The next morning you offered a sweet good-bye
and hiked off into my memory. But the seed you planted bore
rapid fruit: I returned to the meadow, thought hard about your
words, and decided that the wanted was "points." So
last thing I
Icommissioned a team of Indian women to sew a patchwork

tarpone hundred feet square, and staked it down over the tires,
concealing them from view and completing the piece. Title: No
Retreads.
I'm writing now because I was out on Baker's Point recently
and could not resist the urge to violate the unwritten rules of
chance, karma, and destiny —
not to mention the strict games-
manship of male-female psychology and the tricky hydrodynam-
ics of desire —
and ask if you'd care to visit me again.
1 know the constraints that limit your freedom: the Bryn Mawr
academic calendar, your personal commitments for the next few
weeks, the not inconsiderable expense of crossing the conti-
nent. So as an inducement let me note that soon spring will be
upon us here, and as it was among the ancient Celts and Druids,
117
it is a time of fierce revelry and unpredictable passion. The very
notion of which awakens, in my own consciousness, a dormant
yearning for your presence. So think about it. Call me at the
station (907-555-8823) and let me hear your voice.
But come quickly. The ice is melting.
With love,
Chris
APRIL 9
Dear Kay,
Warm greetings to Berkeley from the 49th state. If the last
person you expected to hear from was yours truly, note for the
record that the first person in my thoughts, upon discovering
that spring is imminent, is you. The lake outside my trailer is
frozen still, but you would not want to walk on it now, as its
daily creaks and groans announce, with rifle shots and timber
cracks, the impending thaw. Amid this tohu-bohu of melting and
release, as dormant yearnings awaken and revive, my spirit
encounters their mental embodiment in thoughts of you and that
single night we spent together.
I recall it as a night of various passions. You had gone to
Baker's Point for recreation, I, for inspiration. We met, spoke,
and an electric charge built up between us. When mentioned
I
the project I was working on, your interest was a turn-on all by
itself.
So I took you to my trailer. Outside, in the waning light, the

piece hung from a scaffolding: a large, broad, dangling mobile
formed of welded snow machine parts. Working title: "Snow
Machine Snow Mobile." Your approval was almost sexually
gratifying. And when said that my sole remaining problem was
I
where to hang it, you had an immediate suggestion.

"Put it up in the town hall or the church," you said. "Some
place where everybody goes and will see it all the time. To
establish art as a vital presence in the town."
The idea was thrilling, intoxicating. We made each other
118
drunk on the open defiance of it all. That night, in the trailer, my
cries and your laughter surely kept the wolves awake. You left
the next day, out of my trailer and into my memory. After
watching you hike off, contemplated the sculpture and realized
I
what had to be done. Anyone, understood, could hang a mobile

1
over the ground, permitting it to turn freely and displaying it for

all to see. So dug a vast hole and "hung" it underground.
I I
buried the thing in Kiniamshet Meadow and called it, "Snow

Machine No Mobile."
Interred, immobile, does the mobile nonetheless turn? Yes.
Because the Earth turns. And we are creatures of cycles. Small
wonder, then, that at this stage in the seasonal round when the
quiescent yields to the quickening, 1 discover in myself a desire
for nothing so much as to repeat that time we spent together.
Not to indulge in fantasies of time past, but to celebrate time
present in a way we have already shared and, in my opinion,
consecrated in fierce revelry and unpredictible passion.
Can lure you up here again? Think about it, but not too long.
1
Then tear yourself away from the constraints of the Berkeley

academic calendar, personal commitments of the next few
weeks, and consideration even of the expense of travel. Call me
at the station (907-555-8823) and let me hear your voice.
But quickly. The lake is turning liquid.

With love,
Chris
APRIL 9
Dear Kimberiee,
Warmest greetings to Tacoma from the 49th state. And
please don't pretend that the last person you expected to hear
from was yours As the lake outside my trailer announces
truly.
daily, with rifle shotsand timber cracks of melting ice, the

impending collapse of winter's domain and the return of spring's
beneficence, these sounds are answered with creaks and groans
inside my heart. Small wonder that my thoughts be suddenly
119
occupied with images and memories of you and that single
sleepless night we spent together.
Sleepless for every good reason. For my unbelievable luck
when you stopped me on the street in Cicely and asked direc-
tions to Baker's Point. For the privilege of spending the day with
you. For our lovemaking and for your cries and laughter, which
surely kept the wolves and bears awake. For the artistic inspira-
tion that you ignited and kept flaming when you looked at my
latest project —
a giant rocking chair assembled of two-by-fours
and standing, isolated and proud, on the frozen ice of Kipnuk
—
Lake and said, "Hey, neat. But what about when the ice melts?"
I explained that the chair would, at a completely unpredict-
able time, crash through the thinning ice and sink to the bottom.
You grinned and said, "Wow, cool. And so people in like fishing
boats can look down through the water and see it. Like King
Triton's throne."
It was the final jog to my
As soon as you had
artistic vision.
gone the next day, driving your Jeep Cherokee into the foothills
of my memory, bought four gallons of green and brown paint
I
and daubed the chair in camouflage. When it sank, as it most

certainly did on the arrival of spring thaw, it fell to the lake floor
and disappeared from sight. Title: On View.
And now it is spring again. Amid this tohu-bohu of melting
and release, when ice yields to sun and earth to the rising green
shoots, I must yield, too: I violate the unwritten laws of chance,
karma, and destiny —not to mention the glorious paradoxes of
male-female psychology and the damned, blessed hydrodynam-
ics of desire — to ask ... no, to demand, to beg, to hope? that
you visit me again.
The lake outside my trailer, though deliquescing, is still
essentially frozen. Come, let us walk on and dare spring's

it,
warming touch to break the ice beneath our and plunge us

feet
to our deaths. It won't. We will defy it with our fierce revelry and
unpredictible passion.
As you once memorably said, "Everything goes in cycles."
away from the constraints

Yield, then, to this one. Tear yourself
of the academic calendar of West Pottsville Community College,
120
personal commitments for the next few weeks, and even the
expense of travel. Let loose the dormant yearning inside you and
bid it find its mate in mine, as we indulge in fantasies of time
past and celebrate time present in a way we have already shared
and, in my opinion, consecrated.
Don't think about it. Call me at the station (907-555-8823). Let
me hear your voice. And let yourself hear mine.

But do it quickly. The icy lake is melting into liquid.
With love,
Chris
APRIL 10
Dear Tony,
Bedtime stories and lullabies didn't work; deliberately ad-

ministered tedium didn't work; and, lately, carefully selected
readings from Jung, Freud, Erich Neumann (The Origins and
History of Consciousness) and Shakespeare haven't worked. No
music didn't work; boring music didn't work; and bad music
hasn't worked. The upshot?
Well, the upshot is, if I don't cool it and relinquish my role as
"Cicely's self-appointed guru-shrink" (so says my boss), / won't
work. Meaning: 1 So I'm back to the usual radio
will be fired.
—
show something of a relief for me, actually, since it means I
can play what like rather than what want people not to like.
1 I
And both timeless wisdom ("You can lead a horse

in the spirit of
to water") and Voltaire, am about to leave the horse at the edge

1
of the water and go tend my own garden.

1 have decided that if can't access the lightning bolts and
I
lava flows of the unconscious unconsciously (i.e., alseep), will 1
try to do so consciously (i.e., in bed). By this mean, sex. To I
that end have invited a trio of women friends up for a visit.

I
With any luck at all, one of the three will say yes. My fundamen-
tal assumption is that in the act of making love we receive a
sample, a taste, of primal desires and states-of-being that come

factory-direct from the unconscious.
121
Will it work? Only one way to find out. And will this electro-
magnetic anomaly have any noticeable effect on my sexuality?
Let's see. Til try to take really, really good notes, but don't
1
promise anything.
Best,
Chris
4/10
Richard Marx
Siegel, Vartorella, Berger, & Knapp
812 E. 41st St.
NYC
Dear Richie,
These Foolish Things Remind Me of You Dept.
Robertson, O'Connell, and were interviewing a I tribal elder
(sic; we have several tribes up here, or actually they have us;

and a few dozen elders), and he said, with regard to our
communal lack of sleep, "This must end. My people blame it on
Exxon. They want to bring suit." Which captures the contradic-
tions of modern-day . . . well, I was going to say, "modern-day
Alaska," but modern-day AMERICAN LIFE. It also
let's just say,
reminded me of when we first met and The Most Embarrassing

Moment of My Youth.
The Hebrew School class
Place: Mrs. Rosenberg's first-grade
at Beth Sholom. The Time: countless eons ago. The Event: Mrs.
Rosenberg is explaining why each Sunday we pass around a can
with a coin slit in the top and put real money therein. It's called
Keh-ren Ah-mee, "which are the Hebrew words for Fund of My
People." (The money goes to Israel. Whatever THAT means.)
Joel Fleischman is in attendance, but Richie Marx is home with
an illness.
A week later. Joel and Richie are both in class. The can is
produced, and coins given to the children by their parents
122
specifically for this purpose are clanking and clinking into it.
Mrs. Rosenberg says, "Oh, Richard, you were absent last Sunday.
Can anyone tell Richard what Keh-ren Ah-mee means?"
Now, my mother's chief pedagogical technique in raising me,
both then and, frankly, up until last week, was to say, "You Are
A Genius. You Can Do Anything You Want. Be A Doctor. And
Remember. Most People Are Stupid. Stand Up Straight And Show
Them How Smart You Are." So, obedient to the Prime Directive,
1raised my hand until Mrs. R. called on me. "Yes, Joel? What
does Keh-ren Ah-mee mean?"
"It means Fun of My People," Joel says. "Because you can use
the money to have fun."

Maybe that's what they do with itin Israel. In any case, down
there in Manhattan, representing Monsanto or whatever, you

CAN use the money to have fun. Me, I'm writing this in Alaska.
No money, no fun. Still, in either case: ve've come a long vey,
boobie.
Best,
Joel
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
4/12
Ms. Kim Basinger

% Weisman, Miller & Davis
1 1 00 Avenue of the Stars
Century City, CA
Dear Ms. Basinger:
My associate, Mr. Ed Chigliak, has forwarded to me your letter

of 1 1 April in which you express tentative interest in the purchase
123
of the town of Cicely, Alaska. Please permit me to express my
extreme pleasure and gratification at this news.
You will appreciate that Cicely is a very small town. Therefore to

your query of Mr. Chigliak, "With whom should we negotiate?"
let me reply, with myself. We have no formal government to
speak of, mayor (whose exercise of her power is
apart from a
largely imaginary) and a sort of defacto, informal mayor, who
happens to be a good friend of mine. Indeed, as the chief
businessman and principle property owner of the town, am for I
all practical purposes the powers that be.
I will therefore take it upon myself to do the legwork and legal

investigating to determine how (and, quite frankly, if) Cicely can
be sold. Rest assured, by the way, that the electromagnetic
anomaly of which Mr. Chigliak wrote you is still very much with
us. We are awake day and night, with no ill effects save for
swollen electric bills!
In return I would ask two things. One, that this remain strictly
confidential for now. Not all of our residents are as worldly or

sophisticated as you, an international cinema personality, and
myself, a fomer astronaut. What am saying is
I if Cicely is indeed
to be bought, I will have to figure out a way to sell the idea to its
citizens. Among us rugged individualists, such a level of general
civic agreement is not to be taken for granted. But it is not, I
assure you, unattainable.
My second that be the sole legal representative of

request is I
the town of Cicely and that the sale be contingent upon my

receiving a commission, the terms of which will be negotiated
between me and the town's authorizing body. Lawyer talk, but
not all that unfamiliar to you, I am sure. In closing, let me again
express my delight in your interest and my confidence that,
when you and your people do come up to visit, you will be
124
anything but disappointed. Please contact me at your pleasure
to arrange a date for your inspection of the property.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
ARPIL 12
DearPhyl,
This letter-writing has become a habit. Do you mind? If so,
tell me, and I'll write you a letter of apology.

What did 1 tell you about Michael Robertson? Did say he was I
a self-adoring know-it-all? If did, forget what

I said. forget I 1
what 1 said, but whatever it was, forget it.
(Before I forget: You're kidding! Raoul is a saint. But next time,

no molly bolts. Also, make the doilies out of zinc, dip the babies
in chocolate first, and play Puccini.)
Now: Michael Robertson is possibly the most intelligent man
1 have ever met. And it's fascinating and something of a privilege
to be working with him.
Even though . . . Okay. The work I'm doing is not exactly
creative. Or the most intellectually satisfying. Or even physically
satisfying like maintenance on my plane. What I'm doing is I'm
typing up (well, inputting; he has a laptop) Michael's notes. But
it's amazing how many notes he's taken already! And we have a
couple hundred more people to talk to! He's asked if would be I
willing to transcribe the taped interviews, and said yes. I
1 know it's tedious. I know I'm being reduced to a secretary,

without even a secretary's paycheck. But I don't know how to
explain it, he's just very compelling. At first I thought he looked
like Marcello Mastroianni, but now I see traces of Barry Bost-
wick. Did 1 say he isn't married?
This came out earlier this evening. The two of us and Fleisch-
man had dinner at the Brick. Then Fleischman had to see some
patients, so Michael and I dropped by the office Maurice has
125
donated for the research. He sat at the desk and I sat on the old
couch. Michael opened the drawer and pulled out two glasses
and a bottle of Fundador. He poured me a little and took it. I
'To Alaska," he said. I nodded and took a sip. "So tell me,
Maggie. Why?"
"Why what."
"Why Alaska? Why Cicely? What's a nice woman like you
doing in a place like this?"
"Escaping from Grosse Pointe," I said —a little glibly, but it's
not as though 1 hadn't answered that question a hundred times

in the past six years. "Escaping from other people's expecta-
tions."
j
"Good for you."

'
"Michael," I said. "Don't patronize me."

"I patronize everybody," he said. "I'm a doctor."
And I can't help it, Phyl: I laughed. \
Then he said, "But I take your point. It's a bad habit. Worse
than that. It's insulting. I apologize. But that's what I get for
going into research. My bedside manner has completely atro-
phied."
"You're forgiven," I said and drank a little more brandy.
He said, "I bet Joel's bedside manner is alive and well, isn't
it?"
And there was something way he said that,

insinuating in the
so I bristled and said, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He laughed. "Just that. Ease up. mean, he's probably good
I
with patients."
"Yes. He is. A little condescending and
little too cerebral, a
superior, but yes. He'sgood with patients. He respects them." I
smiled, and added, "He doesn't understand them, at least a lot

of the ones up here. But he tries to respect their quirks."
"Of course he does." He took a big gulp of brandy. "He's of
the next generation. one of their things. Humane medicine.
It's
Every ten years a new wave of interns wants to reinvent the

profession. I did, too, but I outgrew it." He looked at me
suddenly and said, "Are you and he a ... an item?"
"ME? and FLEISCHMAN? Absolutely not!"
126
" " "
"I didn't think so. He's too . .

." And then he shook his head
and waved a hand, as though to cancel the thought.
So naturally prodded him and told him you can't start a
I
sentence like that and not finish it. He shrugged, finished the
brandy, put the glass down with a little knock, and leaned
forward over the desk toward me. He spoke softly. "Strictly entre
nous? Just between you, me, and the fax machine?" nodded I
and suddenly felt odd. My stomach churned. Michael said, "Dr.

Joel suffers from an acute case of Terminal Entitlement. You see
this a lot among young hotshots. You hear it in the way he
speaks. That self-conscious verbal style. Every pronouncement

is an official statement."
Now I'm not sure why, but said, "Well, he wants to be pre-
cise
— I
"Oh, absolutely. I'm not being critical. And what you must
remember is it really isn't his fault. First-generation profes-
sional —he wasn't raised in the tradition. He can't take it for
granted. So he tries too hard. Feels he's aspiring above his
station, and it makes him self-conscious."
"Well, he is a bit much sometimes, but
—
"Still, in some ways envy it. If had that I that fantastic I . . .
verbal brio, might be more successful."

1
"Head of your own institute? I'd call that pretty successful."

He shrugged. "It's a plateau. There are other plateaus above
it.But actually meant, successful with women."
I
"Come on." grinned, and looked into my glass, and grinned

I
some more, and said, "You're not going to convince me you're

unsuccessful with women."
He sat back. "I have my moments. But why am still alone?" I
What could say? looked away, and he looked away, and

1 I
then, for whatever reason, mean know you know what reason,
Isaid, carefully, "You mean you're not
I I
—
"Not what? Married? No. notice you're not married either."
I
Before I could say anything, he leaned back and looked past

me, into the distance, and said, "Why aren't we married, Mag-
gie?"
Is this what magazines call The New Flirting? Take a come-on
127
—
line men used to pretend was "sincere," although it wasn't, and

now deliver it with no pretense? I've been up here in the bush so
long, I wouldn't know. Or did he think 1 was buying this retail?
Not that had to say something, and it came out, "We,

1 was. But 1
uh we haven't met the right person?"

. . .
'That must be it. We haven't met the right person." He sat

upright again and looked sharply at me as though I'd just
suggested something brilliant. "1 haven't met her in Philadelphia,
and you haven't met him in Alaska."
"Yet," 1 said.
And he smiled. "Yet."
Don Y ask me what this means,
Maggie
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
12 April
Dr. Robert Barlow

NASA Planetary
Houston, TX
Now, Bob
You have got to try to bear with me on this. Yes, the magnetic
field anomaly is still with us, and yes, I have been awake since I
last wrote you. But no, you cannot come up and investigate, and
I'll tell you why.
I have a deal pending here with an individual that would be

jeopardized by the presence of you and your team. cannot 1
128
disclose the identity of the individual at this time, but I will teFl
you that he or she is a well-known, bona fide celebrity. It's my

feeling that he or she would be put off by a group of scientists
and engineers popping up all over the place.
However, I do think, once I complete the deal with him or her,

that he or she might be flattered by the Agency's request to set
up shop in Cicely. Just bear in mind 1 haven't asked him or her
about this. His or her interest in Cicely involves the obtaining of
a certain amount of privacy, which he or she might feel to be
imperiled by a NASA research project dropping in. In the end he
or she may say okay, come on up. I don't really know him or her
well enough to venture a guess. It would be up to her. Or him.
What I'm saying is this is business. As soon as I can square it

with the potential buyer —of what I'm not saying— I'll get back
to you. Meanwhile, just sit tight. The wheels are turning. Better
yet, the line is out, the fish looks interested, and I expect a strike
within a couple weeks.
Best regards,
Maurice
APRIL 12
Dear Mr. Salinger,
I don't know where to start. I mean, it's not as though I
haven't read, like, BOOKS before. In fact I was just finishing the
1977 World Almanac when somebody sent your book to me in
the mail. (I don't know who sent it, somebody in Gainesville,
Florida. I entered this chain letter.) Well, now, just now, I just
finished reading The Catcher in the Rye, and it's like I KNOW
you, and you KNOW me. I mean not really, but it's like Holden
says — after you read a great book, you want to call up the author
129
and tell him how great it was. So did. At least, tried to call
I I
you at the publisher's office in New York. But the girl who
answered the phone didn't know who you were, so she said you
didn't work there or that maybe you were a temp.
So decided to send this to the publisher's office, so you can
I
pick it up when you come in. Or they can forward it to you. (I

mean, KNOW you don't live there!)
I
Anyway, can't tell you how neat that book was. Holden is
I
EXACTLY LIKE this kid in my class at school, Brian Lacombe.

Do you know him? He has red hair and was always sort of quiet
and mischievous. once thought he was cute for about five
I
minutes, but then Billy McGee shoved him against the lockers
and he started to cry, which was a turn-off.
I live in Alaska and have never been to the Lower Forty-Eight,
but some day I'd like to visit you and just thank you personally
for writing such a fantastic book. Please send me your address
and I'll ask Holling (my boyfriend) when we can set up a trip.
But don't worry. I'll make sure he reads the book before we go!
(He's 63, so even if he read it, it was probably a long time ago
and he doesn't remember a thing about it.)
Your biggest fan,
Shelly Tambo
12 APRIL
Dear Ingrid,
I'm sorry we won't be enjoying the pleasure of your com-
pany this year. My old friends from the Canaveral days are in
some ways and most special of them all. We Mercury
the dearest
boys felt that you, and people like you, were with us all the way.
When we were sitting on our rockets waiting to go up, we felt as
though you were there, sitting on our rockets, too. Still, as you
say in your recent letter, if your husband's been shifted from
tagging snowshoe hares to monitoring Dall sheep, c'est la vie.
Maybe next year.
Then again, perhaps it's just as well. Something peculiar
130
seems to be happening up here, which can only ascribe to that
I
bizarre sleeplessness wrote you about before. Now am not

I I
one to shrink from confronting the dark side of the human

animal. I know what Man and Woman are capable of. Iknow
that our psyches are repositories of turbulent emotions that to
our ancestors represented the difference between obtaining, and
being, dinner. So when, as occasionally happens, someone in
this community goes on one kind of a rampage or another, I
may deplore it but 1 am not surprised.

But the kind of psychic upheaval afflicting Cicely these days
is, if you'll pardon my politically INcorrect French, more appro-
priate to a salon full of cat-fighting interior decorators and sullen
nancy boys than a town of hardy Alaskan pioneers. Everybody,
regardless of age or sex, seems to be infected with a highly
selective but virulent form of crabbiness. That sounds more
venereal than I intend. I mean crankiness, grouchiness, irritability.
It turns out that just about everyone finds someone else

preternaturally annoying. 1 myself have developed a distinct
intolerance of none other than Marilyn Whirlwind, the Indian
girl who works as the receptionist for Dr. Joel Fleischman. I
almost went into business with Marilyn last year; I had some
idea that the colossal eggs produced by her pet ostriches might
fetch a prettypenny on the open market.
But the more involved myself with the
I enterprise, the more it
became apparent that those ungainly creatures simply did not

like me. In fact the ostriches hated my guts. They stopped
producing eggs the size of honeydews and starting cranking out

skimpy little things no larger than lacrosse balls. So I cut my
losses with no hard feelings, and Marilyn and I parted ways.
But now I can't abide the sight of the woman. And it has
nothing to do with the ostriches, the eggs, or anything else. It
must be the lack of sleep, although like everyone else, I feel

normal. It seems to me that Marilyn harbors similar feelings
toward Holling; Holling can't abide my disk jockey, Chris Ste-
vens. Chris is provoked by Holling's girlfriend. She, in turn, is
irritated by Ed Chigliak, the boy who works for me. Or used to, I
should say, since — of all people! —the one human being whose
131
very existence offends young Ed is . . . yours truly. Similar daisy-
chains of annoyance can be traced throughout our community.
Which is bad enough. But lately 1 have been promoting the
bejesus out of Cicely, sending letters to some of the most
eminent thinkers, do and hotshots of our time.
ers, developers,
I mean, am insane, or is a town v^here sleep is unnecessary

1
not THE place where you want to hold your next convention,
retreat, conference, or peace negotiation?
And I'll tell you another thing. Somebody is interested. am I
not at liberty to disclose who, but will say that this party ^who
I
—
comes equipped with an international reputation has a solid —
record of commercial involvement with towns like Cicely.
Thing is, though, this deal won't fly if our citizenry is engaged,
twenty-four hours a day, in a round robin of bickering and
sneering and grudge holding. Which leads me to conclude that
what we need is a joint project, something the entire community
can commit to and get behind, to break down these petty
barriers and foster a more general sense of collective harmony.
Beats the hell out of me what, though. Can't have a picnic. Not
in this weather.
My best to your husband, and I expect I'll be writing you about
this later.
Fondly,
Maurice
4/12
Steve Cohen, Lawyer of the People

PittsPa
DearSteue,
Not to be premature, but I am LIKE THIS (holds up two

fingers next to each other) with Dr. Mike Robertson, which
means that my, okay, our monograph in Nature or Lancet or
JAMA or Science is practically in galleys. Yes, it has yet to be
132
"
and theories have yet to be fully

written. Yes, our conclusions
on it has yet to he summarized, or
articulated. Yes, the research
even evaluated, or even concluded. But approach this with I
renewed determination and confidence. Why? Because this

morning, over a "working breakfast" at the Brick, while O'Con-
nell labored in the project office transcribing interviews, Mike
and had a guy-type chat and discovered a ton, a host, a slew of
I
things in common. Basketball —

he is, predictibly, a Sixers fan,
—
but can respect that beer (domestic: Sam Adams. Imported:
I
Pilsner Urquell), and, well, not to put too fine a point on it,
women. Which he brought up, as follows (all dialogue not
guaranteed verbatim, but accurate in, uh, thrust):
"But seriously, Joel. What do you do for fun up here?"
"1 dunno," 1 said impressively. 1 nibbled at a piece of toast. "A
lot of people drink. But, me, I'm not a big drinker."
"So what else is there? That Last Picture Show theater across
the street. And what? Indian Bingo?"
I laughed. "For the Indians, yeah
—
"Or do you have a girlfriend?"
"Well," I said, "Let's just say I had one, back home, but we
ended it."
"Ouch. That hurts. Mutual consent?"

"Ultimately, yeah."
He slurped coffee and put his cup down with a clink. There
was something stagey about it, but of course knew why: here I
was this six-foot, good-looking, well-groomed stranger with a

smooth urban manner and soft city-boy hands, whose main job
was to snoop into the lives of every grizzled man, woman, and
child in Holling's bar. So he was seeking to strike the common
note. Then he looked sly and said, "Or is there something going
on between you and Maggie?"
You can bet that if had been sipping coffee at that moment,
I I
would have executed an immediate Danny Thomas turbo spit-

take right into his face. "ME? and O'CONNELL?" laughed. "Did I
she tell you that?"

"Good Lord, no. We didn't discuss you. Not that I'd blame
you. She's a beautiful woman."
133
"
"Well," I allowed. "Yeah, she's . . . she's got a face." Then I
added, "But come on, man, her personality. Talk about confron-
tative . . . talk about critical. Maggie O'Connell is without
question the most brittle, most repressed, most emotionally
defended and moralistically sanctimonious and aggressively

self-righteous individual have ever had the misfortune to en- I
counter."
"Nice body."
Ipretended had not thought about O'Connell's body before
I
and looked pensive, then said, "Well yeah ... if you like . . . . . .
you know ..."

"Bodies."
"Right." Then I said, "Whoa, Mike, do I detect a note of
interest?"
"I assure you, doctor, my interest is strictly professional."
We traded leers, man to man. Then he said, "Jesus Christ, I'm
glad you're here. Imagine if had to drag
I my ass up here and do
this without an ally."
"You would never have come," I said. "I'm the one who
contacted you, remember?"
"Exactly. It's good to have a peer on hand."
grinned. "That's great, Mike. mean, it's terrific. Our working
I
together, I mean
— I
"So you wouldn't object if I . . . how to put it . . . set my sights

on Ms. O'Connell?"
"Uh ." And for a second it felt a little weird, don't ask me
. .
why. mean, sure. know why. And know you know know
I I 1 I
why: because was jealous. Which freely admit. was. But

I I I I
consciously reminded myself that Mike's expression of interest

in O'Connell was by no means repudiation of or a threat to his
friendship with me. So of course said, "I give you my blessing. 1
Essen gezundteh heit."
"Which means. . .
?"
"Go for it."

Okay, admit there's a kind of lockerroom macho tone in that
I
exchange that probably, if really thought about it, don't like.

I I
On the other hand, he was right to ask if there was something
134
between O'Connell and me. And if something blossoms between
them, some kind of affair or romance, fine, because a) maybe
it'll make her a happier person and she'll relent in her unceasing
campaign to criticize and scorn me and b) there are more
important things at stake than my relationship with Maggie
O'Connell.
I am fully aware, as I am sure Mike is, that the research we
have commenced into this anomaly could make my career. We
are on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough. What if we
could locate the exact area of the brain causing our sleepless-
ness? And what if, therefore, we could learn to synthesize a
chemical —or better yet, construct a radiation device, which
would probably, once we learned the basic principle, be as easy
to build and market as a microwave oven that could eliminate —
the need for sleep? Or defer it? The financial possibilities are
staggering.
So, is it okay with me if Michael Robertson puts some moves
on Maggie O'Connell? think it is, yeah.
I
Gotta run. More news when it happens.

Joel
12 April
Samuel French, Inc.
New York, New York
Gentlemen:
1 am interested in staging an amateur production of one of the

following shows:
1) The King and I

2) My Fair Lady
3) Guys and Dolls
135
4) Oklahoma!
5) The Music Man
Kindly let me know which of these shows come under your

purview and your fees for scripts, royalties, scores, etc. 1 say
"amateur," but I may sell tickets, although then again, 1 may
donate the proceeds to charity, but bear in mind that if this
production turns out to be as problematic and hair-raising as 1
have a feeling it will, the charity so designated may be not much

more than my account at a certain package goods and wine
store in Anchorage. In other words, let me know the various
forms of payments you require for various kinds of money-
making or eleemosynary productions.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
12 APRIL
Sgt. Barbara Semanski
Alaska State Police Precinct 7
Tok, AK
Dear Barbara,
I am
communicating with you this way, rather than by
telephone, because want you to consider carefully what am
1 1
about to propose. It is very important to me, and admit to a 1
good strong pang of anxiety about popping this particular ques-

tion. am afraid, in fact, that you will think I'm kidding. Believe
I
me, Barbara, am in earnest. Just let me try to assure you from

1
the get-go that I am perfectly serious, that 1 believe together we

can work out any difficulties that might be inherent in this setup.
136
and that am certain it can result in great fulfillment for us both.
I
So I'll just come right out with it:

Will you be in my musical?
am contemplating staging an amateur production of a classic
I
Broadway show to be cast from people in and around the greater

Cicely area for the sheer hell of it. Who'll come? Whoever's not
in it. will fund the production myself, foot all the bills, and
I
cover my expenses at the end from whatever gate receipts there

are.
Why? Because ever since we lapsed into this nonsleeping

period from about the end of February, Cicelians have been
increasingly at each other's throats, sniping and snapping for no
good reason. Now know that you know am not a humanitarian.
I I
The general state of human comity in the town of Cicely, Alaska,

is of merely passing, theoretical interest to me. go about my I
business and expect others to go about theirs. I'm no liberal

1
sob-sister moping over why people are sometimes mean to each

other or don't recycle their Q-tips.
But what I am is an explorer and a businessman, and all this
free-floating antipathy is bad for business. How can I invite a

Michael Eisner or a Charlie Rouse or a Steve Jobs up here and
urge them to plunk down two, three hundred million dollars if
the entire town at the hub of this thing is evincing a group state
of PMS?
I —
So thought. Hey let's put on a show! Because don't care I
what your age, socioeconomic background, or taste in entertain-

ment is, don't care who you're peeved at or what kind of mood
I
you're in: you work on or sit and watch one of these splendid
examples of musical theatre, and defy you to leave the audito- I
rium without a song in your heart, a tear in your eye, and a smile
on your lips. A project like this will bring the whole town
together. What amazes me is the fact that I didn't think of it
sooner.
I am going to hold open auditions for all roles, although I can
confide in you, off the record, that 1 have certain assumptions
about which of our citizens will probably be cast in which roles.
137
Let me now tellyou what roles 1 see you in and describe them
so you'll appreciate the snug fit:
1) The King and I — Lady Thiang, the King's wife. Shunted

aside, neglected, world-weary, but oh, so wise. Has a dandy
solo number, "Something Wonderful." ("He may not always say/
What you would have him say/But then sometimes he'll say/
Something wonderful . . .") This show is my own personal
favorite.
2) My Fair Lady —Mrs. Pierce, Higgins' main maid. Proper,

unflappable, she has some sweet lines in "1 Could Have Danced
All Night" and — this will appeal to your sense of irony —gets to
have Higgins talk-sing to her, "Mrs. Pierce, you're a woman. Why
can't a woman ... be more like a man?"
3) —
Guys and Dolls The Captain of the Salvation Army. A can-
do military woman and type-casting, if you ask me. No songs,
though.
4) Oklahoma! —Âunt Eller. No-nonsense, good-natured aunt
to the leading lady. A person of gumption. No extended solos,
but gets to strut her stuff in "The Farmer and The Cowman
Should Be Friends,"
5) The Music Man —^Town lady, can't think of her name, who
leads the others in the sprightly, irresistible gossip song "Pick a
Little, Talk a Little." There's the role of Marion's mother, but
better suited to a more mature woman.
Now ask you: is that a selection of theatrical plums? It occurs

I
to me that you may not be familiar with all of the above shows,
their scores or plots. Feel free to audition my cast albums at any
time, although will have to insist
I be done in my music room.
it
I don't want to let those babies out of my sight. Meanwhile, let

me know if any of this tickles your fancy. And don't tell me you
don't have any theatrical experience. For one thing, you're a
police officer, i.e., a public servant. You play a role every time
you strap on the holster. For another, no one here does. 1 have
138
never directed a show in my life. Why let that stop us? This is
Alaslca!
Wery fondly,
Maurice
APRIL 17
Matthew Miller
Flanagan, Bender, and Zipperstein
265 Michigan Ave.
Chicago, IL
Dear Matthew,
You don't know me, but I'm a friend of Ruth-Anne Miller.
She's your mother. She asked me to write to you to bring you up
to date on what's going on here in Cicely, because she is so
busy she doesn't have time to write. She says not to worry, she
is fine. And I'd like to add that she is fine, but she really doesn't
have time.
She was even too busy to talk to Dr. Fleischman and Dr.
Robertson and Maggie O'Connell last night when they came by
to interview her for the scientific paper they're writing to win the
Nobel Prize. It's about why we're not sleeping.
Maggie asked Ruth-Anne if she could take about a half hour
off toanswer some questions, but she said no, she had to shelve
three cases of Progresso soup and then said she had a question
for them. She asked them if they thought she should sell
appliances.
Dr. Fleischman said, "Ruth-Anne, absolutely, what a superb
idea! Get some popcorn machines, some blenders ... I mean,
not to drive Holling to the poorhouse, but that would make a lot
of people self-sufficient."
Then Maggie you would think that
said, "Fleischman, only
being able to make your own popcorn
your own popcorn in
machine, both of which have been flown in five hundred miles,

makes a person self-sufficient."
139
"" "
Dr. Fleischman said, "Sorry, O'Connell. Not everyone is a

crackerjack homemaker like you. Did she cook for you yet,
Mike?"
"Why as a matter of fact she did," Dr. Robertson said. He
looks like the man in a movie who seems like a great guy but
ends up disappointing the protagonist.
"And what did she make? No, don't tell me —
"Fleischman
—
—lasagna?"
"
"You know, Joel," Dr. Robertson said, "She did make lasagna,
and was abs
it
—
"And the Caesar salad, right? With the coddled egg? Say what
you will about Maggie O'Connell, she knows how to coddle an
egg."
"Michael," Maggie said, "I'll talk to Ruth-Anne later, when she
has time. Let's go back to the office, and we can start organizing
the transcripts."
Dr. Fleischman said, "Forget it, O'Connell. Mike and I are
setting up a conference call with a geologist in Seattle."
"Joel," Dr. Robertson said, "You call him. Lay the groundwork,
explain the situation. Then set up another call for next week,
and I'll sit in. Maggie, on the laptop, boot up FoxPro and find a
file called Outline. Break down the transcripts according to
those categories."
"Okay. Uh—how?"
"Oh, then just do it from DOS. I have some calls to make."
"Huh?"
Dr. Fleischman said, "Mike, it's four in the morning."
"Iknow. I'm calling Rome."
Then Ruth-Anne reminded them she needed some input about
whether or not she should stock appliances. Like maybe ice
cream makers.
"Ice cream makers?" Dr. Robertson said, and he laughed and
looked at Dr. Fleischman. "Like sending coals to Newcastle,
isn't it?"
Ruth-Anne said no, selling ice cream makers wasn't like
sending coals to Newcastle. It was like sending a coal-burning
140
stove to Newcastle, which they probably did all the time. It
would only be like sending coals to Newcastje, Ruth-Anne said,

if she was talking about selling snow.
So as you can see, she's fine.
Yours truly,
Ed Chigliak
APRIL 18
Mr. Barney St. John
State Farm Insurance

338 Fifth Street
Anchorage, AK
Dear Barney:
How are you? I'm fine, as is Shelly. The reason I'm writing
is 1 want to know if there is a more extended kind of insurance
coverage I can buy for the Brick that would cover widespread
acts of destruction. Lately, everyone in town has grown so
irritable, we have been plagued by incidents of accidental break-
age. The amount of glasses and plates that have fallen on the
floor has gone through the roof. A case in point was last night.
Maurice Minnifield came in at about seven o'clock with a
poster he tacked up on the bulletin board. The place was
packed. Maurice called and announced that he was
for quiet
going to put on a production of Guys and Dolls, starring Cicely's

most talented. He then invited everyone to auditions, starting
the day after tomorrow.
"I've thought about it," he said, "And 1 have concluded that
Frank Loesser's classic is best suited to our purposes. We can
fake the costumes, we don't need English accents, and there's
unlimited room for men and women in the chorus."
Well, as you can imagine, this left us all a bit confused. He
told us how he would make copies of the script available, and
he'd personally tape the album for whoever didn't have it. Then
141
he gave us one of his great big smiles, spread open his arms,
and said, "So how about it? Are you interested?"
There was absolute silence. People looked at each other. I
thought, well, these are wilderness people, most of them haven't

seen a play. Maybe one or two of them have been up to the
dinner theater near Sourdough, but that's about it.
Maurice was getting an earful of nothing, so he squinted and

glared around the room and said, "I have a lot of time, effort,
and prestige riding on a group of invitations have sent to some 1
of the biggest movers and shakers in the nation. A movie star,

whom am not at liberty to identify, may come up here any day
I
now with checkbook blazing. want these people to see a

I
united, happy community. Now you all know how much we have
been getting on each other's nerves. Staging this show will be
good therapy for one and all."
Then Don Galen, a mechanic, stood up and yelled, "How
come we can't do Mame?"
People nodded and murmured, "Hell yes, I love that damn
show," like that, until Maurice waved for quiet. "Because we
need a show with an equal balance of men and women," he
said. "For God's sake—Mame is two gals and a little boy!"
"That's not why," someone said. Maurice looked around and
found who it was. It was Ed Chigliak, who has been especially
peeved with Maurice these days.
"Well, Ed, suppose you tell me why," Maurice said.
"We're not doing Mame because you don't like it," Ed said.
"You told me so yourself, Maurice. You once said, 'I respect the
hell out of Angela Lansbury, but that Jerry Herman score is like
a cheap wedding cake. All icing, no substance. All flourishes,
no flavor.' That's what you said, Maurice."
At that everybody started talking at once. "Camelot is very

colorful." "I like Sweeney Todd." "South Pacific or count me
out!" "La Cages Aux Folles? That's for well ... gay people!"
. . .
and so on.
But the loudest of all was my own Shelly! "Pipe DOWN, Ed,"
she said, coming around the counter with a tray of five glasses
of beer. "Honestly, so Maurice doesn't like Afame—who cares?"
142
Ed, who is a mild-mannered young man, looked wounded
and said in his was just repotting the truth."
hangdog way, "1
And the glasses shattered, the

At that Shelly dropped the tray!
beer flew every which way, and she screamed, actually
screamed, ''Stop moping! Just stop it! can't stand that mopey- I
dopey look of yours!"

—
"Now hold on " Maurice said. But just then who should
stand up at his end of the bar, but Chris Stevens, our local radio
personality. 1 have found his very presence intolerable lately, so
when he said, "A man's look is a man's soul, Miss Tambo. Men
don't tint their faces or paint their lips," 1 saw red.
Shelly said, "Huh? What's that supposed mean?" to
I stepped in and said, "Chris, I'll thank you to leave these

premises."
"What for, Holling?" someone said, and it was Marilyn Whirl-
wind, a local Indian woman. "What Chris said is true."
"Marilyn," 1 began to say.
But at that moment Maurice pointed to her and said, "Damn!
You going to let her talk to you like that, Vincouer?"
By then everybody was yelling, standing up, shaking fists,
stuff was falling off of tables, glasses were breaking and crunch-
ing underfoot —and the thing was, Barney, it wasn't a brawl.
Nobody threw a single punch. Instead I heard random shouts
from people like, "Will you please wear a different belt for once
in your life!" and "I hate your beard! Do you hear me? I hate it!"
And, one by one, people stormed out of the bar. As they left they
did more damage —upending chairs, knocking glasses off ta-
bles, and so forth.

Finally, when only about eight people were left and the place
was a complete shambles, Maurice looked around, and it was
perfectly silent, and he said, "Sign-up sheet in my office tomor-
row. Character descriptions to be posted nearby. Scripts avail-
able on request. Come on, people . He stopped to brush
.
."
some mustard off his jacket sleeve, then said, "Let's make some
magic."
143
Is there some kind of coverage I get for that? Let me know.
Call any time. Thanks, Barney.
Yours,
Holling
18 APRIL
Mr. Charles McDevitt, CPA
3383 Fourth Ave.
Anchorage, AK
Charley —
Thanks for getting that tax extension. Every day we keep
their cut in our hands is a victory for our side.
Another question: as part of my continuing promotion of
Cicely as a site for commercial development, I am contemplating
staging a musical. Are the expenses I incur in so doing deduct-
ible? Duly documented, of course. I intend to use local talent,
but as our community lacks a suitable venue for the performance
of a full-dress theatrical production, I may decide to undertake
improvements in one of my properties, e.g., one or two store-
fronts I own or even my own home.

Would such a remodeling qualify as capital improvement,
deductible only over the long term if I sell the property, or can I
claim the expenses as legitimate business investments? I know

it's me when tell you that I'm doing this
a grey area. But believe I
strictly to promote community harmony and thereby get Cicely

in the proper mood to receive visiting developers. Because
somebody had better do something. This town is in a snit like
you wouldn't believe.

Regards to Bonnie.
Best,
Maurice
144
18 APRIL
Mr. John Newton
KZAK
Anchorage, AK
Dear John:
I know could call, but wanted to put this on paper so it

I I
can sit on your desk and haunt you until you do me the following
favor. Without going into the whys and wherefores, which are
considerable, suffice it to say I am planning a production of
Guys and Dolls down here in Cicely, to go on the boards
probably around the end of May. Local people in all the roles.
As the purpose of this project is more therapeutic than aes-
thetic, have no need of an orchestra or pit band. In fact, all
I I
have in mind is a single piano. Now, we have a gal in town who

can play the hell out of the instrument; can't sight read perfectly,
but give her some and you'd get your money's worth.
practice
Problem is, John, lately have grown inexpressibly irritated
I
with her. The whole town's like that: everybody hates somebody
sometime, but it's not "hate" so much as a kind of irked
antipathy. Well, 1 am and would sooner shave
irked by this gal
with a chainsaw than ask her to play piano in my show. So I'm
writing you to ask if you know anyone in Anchorage who'd be
interested. We both share an affection for the American musical
theatre, so know can trust you to pick the right kind of pianist.
I 1
I am willing to pay for the musician's time and will put him or
her up in my guest room. Rehearsals would commence around
Mon., May 4, and last four weeks or so. The run itself would
probably cover the first week of June.
It won't be a cake walk; the whole town is feeling ornery and
temperamental. Even in the best of times we are talking about a

cast and crew of surpassing amateurish incompetence, so your
suggested musician had better bring along a sense of humor.
But having said that, let me add that believe in Cicely and know
I
145
that my fellow Cicelians will extend themselves to make him or
her feel at home. All except that Marilyn Whirlwind.
Best,
Maurice Minnifield
4-18
My Dearest Mother—
I'd ask "How Are You?" but who am I kidding? I don't
REALLY CARE.
I'm fine.
Not that I'm sleeping. No, we don't "do" that here any more.
Have you any idea what torture it is to be trapped in my superior
consciousness twenty-four hours a day? The acuteness, the pain,
the limpid clarity — ^just FORGET IT. If you're wondering whether
a friend in Singapore sent me a case of coconut milk, the answer
is yes. I'm doing curries. Simmering. Simmering! At the lowest
possible heat, so that the bubbles, the thing bubbles, I'm micro-
adjusting the stove so that Imost one bubble every twenty
get at
seconds. You will be interested to note that I have installed a
seven-inch-diameter ten-pound lead flywheel to the right hront
burner in order to calibrate its level with maximum precision.
Then I sit there and stare at the simmering curry and DARE a
premature bubble to surface. Of course this takes time. But now
I have time in abundance. Yesterday I sat and dared the bubbles
for eighteen hours until I was sure it was under control. Then I
simmered the curry for another twelve hours. In this way, the
coconut milk reduces to almost a GLAZE.
The result was acceptable.
Then went into town. Why? PERHAPS IT HAD SOMETHING
I
TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT THE LEAD FLYWHEEL FELL ONTO

MY NAKED "FOOT" AND CRUSHED MY TOES.
So I went into the office of the doctor, Dr. Fleischman, as his
name is. Present at the desk in the front was Maggie O'Connell.
I KNOW YOU DON'T KNOW THEM. I was surprised. But in the
current situation, as it develops, Maggie is the day receptionist
146
" " " "
and Marilyn, the magnificent totem-head, the one woman I
actually RESPECT in this miserable town, is ^he nighttime one.

And now, an evocation of what transpired
Dr. Joel emerged from the back room. He saw, among other
waiting patients, me. His greeting? A curt, blunt "What."
Naturally 1 disdained to give him the satisfaction of knowing
my pain. "Nothing," 1 replied. "I was in need of entertainment,
so I came here."
"Fleischman," Maggie said from the desk, broadcasting dis-
approval. "The man limps in here with bleeding toes, and all
you can say is 'what'?"

Fleischman laughed, the swine. "Is that what he told you,
O'Connell? Bleeding toes?"
"No, he didn't 'tell' me," she riposted. Riposted! "He didn't
have to tell me, Fleischman
—
"Because you're psychic?" He addressed the line of impassive
Indians and grousing loggers and sullen MORONS and all the
other worthy ladies and gentlemen in attendance. "Madame
Maggie. Palmistry, tea leaves
—
"Fleischman, happen to know for a fact he has bleeding
toes
— I
"And how, O'Connell?"

"Because he's not wearing any shoes."
Fleischman looked at my feet. I HEREBY CONDEMN THE
WOMAN FOR REVEALING MY SECRET. "Adam," he said. "What
happened? Did you
—
"Did I what?" 1 said, unshakeable in my conviction, whatever
it was.
"Did you WALK here with your foot like that?"
"No," I sneered. "I flew. With love's light wings did 1 climb
these walls."
Dr. Fleischman made a face. Of inconvenience! I will destroy
him one day. And yet the love I feel for this man . . . "Let me
dress this," he said. To the others in the waiting room he said,
"Does anyone mind? He's visibly bleeding ."
. .
No one did, and as the noble physician led me into the room,
147
his receptionist said, through tight teeth, "You owe me an
apology, Fleischman."
I wheeled on her, I rejoined thus, saying, "Touchy touchy,
Nurse Margaret."
"What for, O'Connell?"
"That crack about being psychic."
"I apologize."
"Say it like you mean it."
"I don't mean it."
"You are unbelievable, Fleischman! Why do you always have

to have the upper hand? If it's not with your patients, then it's
with me and Michael. It gets to you, doesn't it? That he and I are
working so closely together."
"O'Connell, you have become seriously delusional! Do you
honestly believe that your role in the project is in any possible
way comparable to or on a par with mine? That my working
relationship with Dr. Robertson could possibly be eclipsed or
rivalled by your inherently secretarial role?"
"CHILDREN!" I cried. "WHY CAN'T WE ALL JUST BE AMERI-
CANS AND LOVE ONE ANOTHER?"
They didn't listen. They never do.
All my filial love, naturally. need money.
I
Madam, I'm,
Adam
APRIL 20
Dear Jen —
Well, it happened.
We were in the office (Michael and me) working. (I'd say
"working but around here 2:30 in the morning just means
late,"
it's dark outside. There is no "late.") I was typing on the laptop,
he was well, at first he had been reviewing data, but suddenly

. . .
he was leaning over my shoulder. Maybe he really was reading

what wasI typing. At any rate, he said, "Maggie."
148
"
I stopped typing. His face was four inches from my neck. "Uh
. . . Michael?"
"Seriously. Haven't we been coy long enough?"
"Uh, really . . .
?"
Of course I knew what was coming, and I guess I could have

moved away. me wanted
Part of to happen, which didn't it
surprise me, but part of me didn't want it to happen, which did

surprise me. In any case, he kissed my neck, which was nice.
And then he kept doing it. But as soon as 1 got ready to be swept
up in it, something shut down inside. So 1 pulled away and said,
"Not here."
He paused and nodded. "Your place?"
"No ." . .
He looked puzzled. "My place?"

I laughed. Some "place." He's staying in a room in Ella
Capaldi's house. She's a snoopy, paranoid old biddy who rents
out rooms, and it had taken a phone call from Fleischman, a
prescription, to convince Ella to give Michael a key so he could
come and go The notion of us going there was absurd.
at will.
So I shook my head and said, "No, not there. Not ... guess I
what I'm saying is, not now."

"Not yet?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. Just not, for now."
At which he shrugged, nodded, and we went back to work.
After a few minutes I said, "Michael?"
"Yes, Maggie?"
"What's the Rockstoffen experiment?"
"Nothing."
"Is it —are we in any danger
—
"No. Forget it. Hey, why don't I give you a back rub? I'm told 1
have a certain touch."

"No, thanks."
"Suit yourself."
Did I do the right thing? Please advise.
In knots,
Maggie
149
APRIL 21
Dear Aunt Ilene,
How are you? I am fine. I thought you would be interested

in something happening here in Cicely. We are doing a produc-
tion of Guys and Dolls, which will probably be performed
starting Sunday night, May 31. Maybe you would like to come. I
will be playing piano for it.
I almost wasn't. But Maurice Minnifield, who is in charge of

came to see me at the doctor's office where work. He said
it, 1
how lately he had been very irritated with me. said knew, that I I
1was very irritated with Holling Vincouer. He said we were all

victims of irritation and that the economic future of Cicely
depended on our overcoming which depended on doing this
it,
production of Guys and Dolls, which depended on my playing

piano for it. So he said he was willing to overcome his annoy-
ance for the sake of Cicely's future and asked me to play piano.
1 said, that depends. He said, on what. I said, on one important

thing. He said, well, what is it. If it's whether or not he'd be in
the show, the answer is no. I said, that isn't it. He said, then
what? 1 said. Will Holling be in it? He said, well, possibly.
Auditions are going along fine and he could promise that

Holling would not have a lead role. But if it came down to
Holling or you, Maurice said, Holling is expendable.

I told him 1 would think about it. But think I'll say yes. It I
sounds like fun. As long as Holling won't be sitting next to me
at the piano, turning the pages.

Love,
Marilyn
150
4/23
Mr. KurtAnderson
Spy Magazine
5 Union Square West
New York, NY 10003
Dear Mr. Anderson:

I note with a faint but palpable pang of dismay that you
haven't yet responded to my letter of whenever it was. Which is
fine. In it, as I'm sure you have no need to be reminded, I offered

to write an Spy about the small town in Alaska where
article for
1 live. The Town That Never Sleeps" was the suggested

"Cicely:
title, which at first glance seems to offer no more than a typical
5py-ish slice of irony, but which in fact is meant to be taken

literally, in dead, dead earnest or, if you prefer, deadly deadly
earnestly. What I'm saying, or failing to say, is that, because of

sunspots and magnetic field fluctuations, we residents of Cicely,
AK, have not slept since Feb. 28.
1 now hereby amend the offer. I am currently collaborating
with Dr. Michael Robertson, of the Wilson Neurological Institute
in Philadelphia. We are undertaking a scientific examination of
the sleeplessness phenomenon and will be submitting in due
course a paper to one of the leading medical journals.
That's how legit this whole thing is —^which is why 1 feel that
the subject is extremely 5py-worthy. In fact Dr. Robertson's
involvement has already drawn some (mainstream) national
media attention. Just this morning — by which mean 4 AM local
1
time — Robertson was interviewed via telephone by Robert

Dr.
Siegel, of "All Things Considered," on National Public Radio for
a taped segment to be broadcast in a few days.
I was in the office when Mr. Siegel interviewed Dr. Robertson,
consulting primary sources with regard to a theory (my own,
actually) positing the site of the disturbance as being some-
where in the neuronal link between the midbrain reticular
formation and the circadian mechanism of the hypothalamus.
151
Sound impressive? I hope so. It did when Dr. Robertson enunci-
ated the hypothesis to Robert Siegel, without, I noted, crediting
the theory's originator.
What have in mind for Spy is a sort of James Watkins/Double
I
HeHx behind-the-scenes story, which is still unfolding, of

course. 1 would therefore be both unable and, frankly, unwilling
to write the article until this anomaly is solved, ideally (I didn't
say "hopefully"; 1 believe in using "hopefully" correctly) thanks
to the work of myself and Dr. Robertson.
Look, know Spy likes
I to cover stories about true-but-wacky
science. Here's a true-but-wacky phenomenon, experienced by
wacky-but-true Alaskans, being covered firsthand by true, non-
wacky scientists. It's not a home run, but it's a clean double,
isn't it?
I await your reply.

Yours truly,
Joel Fleishman, M.D.
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
GUYS AND DOLLS

Official Cast List
SkyMasterson Chris Stevens
Nathan Detroit . . Joel Fleischman
Sarah Brown Maggie O'Connell

Miss Adelaide Shelly Tambo
Nicely Nicely Johnson Ed Chigliak
Harry the Horse Dave
Big Jule from Chicago . Holling Vincouer
Salvation Army Captain Barbara Semanski

Various Gamblers TBA
152
.
The Hot Box Girls . .

TBA
Salvation Army People Ruth-Anne Miller, TBA
Piano Marilyn Whirlwind
Entire Production Produced and Staged by

Maurice Minnifield
APRIL 24
Dear Tawni,
Look at this list! COULD YOU DIE!! Do you believe I am one

of the LEADS in our new show? (1 told Maurice, who is putting it
all together, that it would be nice if the guy I was playing

opposite was Holling, but that I understood how it had to be
someone more my own age. So it's Dr. Fleischman, who as a
matter of fact is kind of cute. Although it'll be real weird doing,
like, love scenes with your DOCTOR.)
Anyway, my part is this real hot night club dancer! I can't wait.
Plus I have a couple songs. One SOLO about catching a cold
is a
(!!), the other is with Dr. Fleischman. mean am PUMPED.
I I I
asked Maurice who is going to teach us the dancing, and he

said he was working on it.
The only problem is on
Ed Chigliak is in the cast, and he gets
my nerves. But don't think have any scenes with him. Of
I 1
course, by now we've all realized that each of us gets on the

nerves ofsomebody else. Maurice says that's the point, that's
why we need to do the show.
Can you come? mean, know you're 700 miles away. But try
I 1
to. You can stay with us for a couple of days and we'll have a
blast. And you can meet Holling who (ask Cyndy) is totally
bitchen. (I can't wait to see him in costume! Are you ready for
this? Holling is actually going to wear A SUIT!)
Let me know.
Shells
153
—
APRIL 25
Dear Jack,
Remember the letter I sent you two days ago, which you
probably haven't received yet but which you will certainly have
received before you receive this one, unless for some reason
you don't? Well, ignore it. Here's what's new:
I He was already
arrived at Fleischman's office this morning.
there. It was whatever it was —
9:00. He said. Where were you? I
said, What do you mean, where was I? He said, We were

supposed to meet here at 7:30. said, Fm sorry. You're right. I I
forgot. was working with Michael.

I
This is hard to follow, isn't it? How about this:
F:Doing what?
ME: What do you think, Fleischman? Transcribing
interviews.
F: Why does he have to be there? Can't you just
listen to a tape and type what's being said?

M: We discuss what's relevant. And what do you
care?
F: I care because if you miss appointments with
me, I can't get away in time to do my work with him,
which, if you'll excuse me for saying so, is just a little
more important than the transcription of tapes.

ME (OUTRAGED): Fleischman, you are unbeliev-
able! have witnessed your arrogance over the past
I
two years, and there have been times when I was

tempted to phone the Guinness Book of World Rec-
ords to make sure you got recognition for it. But
this—!
F: O'Connell—what do you think this is? Grad
school, where everyone gets a session with the prof?
This is SCIENCE, okay? This is real professional re-
search. to do his OR HER job,
Where everyone has
and meet commitments, and not turn every work
session into playtime
154
— —
ME: WHAT?
F: —and not cadge an extra hour with "Michael"
because it's so cosy and such fun leaning over the
laptop together.
ME: How dare you — ! No. No. Fleischman, I am not
going to lose my temper. Because I can see very
clearly what is happening here. You are jealous.
Daddy is spending more time with sister than with
Joel, and it makes you mad.
F: Oh, slick. Very slick. Reduce everything to The
Berenstain Bears Enter Analysis. Frankly, O'Connell,

I'm surprised. That sort of stuff is not worthy of you.
Or maybe —maybe you're just not clear about your
sense of priorities.
ME: Meaning what?

F:Meaning that maybe you have to choose which
is more important: the health of the community or
your own private . . . personal life.
ME: Fleischman, is this the delayed effect of not

sleeping? Massive, sudden breakdowns of rational
capacity? Are you going insane before my very eyes?
F: 1 need you here. In this office. Cicely needs you
here. It's hard enough for me, working double shifts
here AND helping Dr. Robertson get to the bottom of

this thing
ME: Excuse me, Doctor Selfless. I tend to forget

that you are in fact a saint and are working with
Michael strictly out of disinterested altruism and with
no thought at all of career advancement.
F: No, no, but is going to enjoy proper
if Cicely
medical care, then the doctor's staff must be on call
and on duty and on time. So
ME: So what? What are you saying, Fleischman?
Spit it out.
F: I'm saying you have to choose. Him or me.
ME (STUNNED, GAPING, GASPING FOR AIR):
???? What?
155
— —
F: You heard me. I can't run a proper office if my

day receptionist is off somewhere. Either you work for
Dr. Robertson or me. Pick one.
ME: No. I'm not going to pick one. That is without
a doubt the most ridiculous, the most pathetically
insecure
F: Fine. You're fired.
ME: Fleischman, PLEASE don't be this way.
F: I'm not being any way. I'm trying to be profes-
sional.
ME: You really are jealous, aren't you? That's . . .
kind of sweet in a sort of infuriating, repellent way

F: I'm very busy, O'Connell. Excuse me.
—and he went into his office and slammed the door behind
him.
What does it all mean? It means that I'll go back to helping
Ruth-Anne at the General Store and Holling at the Brick. Which
is fine. It means that Fleischman and I will probably avoid each
other like the plague, at least until this blows over, which I doubt
that it will. means that Michael will be in the middle.
It
And it means will not be able to take part in the show. The
I
idea of sharing a stage with him, even though Nathan Detroit

and Sarah Brown are rarely in scenes together, and even though
we don't literally have a stage, is just too much for now.
Otherwise I'm fine. How are you?
Looe,
Maggie
4/25
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry, but you'll have to cancel your reservations. I'm
not going to be in Guys and Dolls like you on the phone.
I told
It's a long story, but it just isn't going to work out with my other
medical responsibilities. I know you and Pop were looking
156
forward to visiting me here, but the show will go on without me.
So maybe put it off until something else comesûp.
Otherwise, thanks for the pastrami. And the lox, although
there's so much salmon up here maybe you can find a
fresh
recipe, and 1 can make it myself. The Eskimos dry it in the sun
and eat it as finger food. It's called Eskimo candy. And if you
think that sounds bad —
it isn't, really
—
^wait till you try Eskimo
ice cream. Somebody offered me some and thought, Oh, like

I
an Eskimo pie, vanilla ice cream covered in chocolate. Well, not

really. It's actually whipped seal oil mixed with very bitter berries
—
and snow. But don't be misled it's actually worse than it
sounds.
So as you can see, I'd love for you to visit, but not only is
there nothing to eat, I'm not going to be in the show. Regards to

Pop.
Love,
Joey
CICELY. ALASKA
907-555-8610
GUYS AND DOLLS
Revised Official Cast List
Sky Masterson Maurice Minnifield

Nathan Detroit .... Chris Stevens
Sarah Brown .
Barbara Semanski
Miss Adelaide Shelly Tambo
Nicely Nicely Johnson . . Ed Chigliak
Harry the Horse Dave
157
. —
Big Jule from Chicago Rolling Vincouer

Salvation Army Captain Ruth-Anne Miller
Various Gamblers . . TBA

The Hot Box Girls . . TBA
Salvation Army People TBA
APRIL 27
Dear Tawni,
Big changes here. Maggie and Dr. Fleischman had a fight
and they dropped out of the shov^. So Maurice is going to play
the lead, and Chris vîll play opposite me. Which is cool, at least
with me. But another new problem is, just like get really I
annoyed with Ed, Chris gets really annoyed with me. We all
know there's no real reason for it, but we still feel like we want
to scream. So Maurice will have his hands full. (He's still
directing, as well as starring.)
Still, come on out. Even when these shows are terrible, it turns
out to be fun. Remember the Drama Club's production of Mac-
beth? What a hoot! But still think my big scene would have
1
gone over better if the nuns hadn't refused to let me say "damn"
onstage. Because A, it's Shakespeare, right? and B, saying "Out,
out darn spot" sounds so, like, lame.
Still, it was fun. So this will be too. Call me!
Shelly
4/30
R.M.
S.,V.,B, &K.
Address
IWC
Dear Richie —
Thanks for the books. I plan to be seen in public reading
the Stephen King and, if it's all the same to you, will keep
158
—
hide Chutzpah! under my pillow to be savored alone, in pri-

vate, under the covers. But both are appreciated. Our local
"library" consisted of three empty shelves until one of our ditsier
residents, Ms. Shelly Tambo, took part (against my express
advice) in a chain letter for which the currency was books.
Result: she and her boyfriend (sic; he's 63) bring them in for
general circulation by the boxful, by the hundreds. And not all
of them are worthless!
I said "under the covers" above, but I mean it as an idiomatic,
or in my case, idiotic expression. I spend virtually no time under
my covers. I don't sleep, and God knows I don't have a sex life.
The only benefit of such a routine is that I never have to launder

my linen or, indeed, even make my bed. Is it worth it? A
resounding no. But does afford me more time for my work,
it
which in this case means seeing almost two full shifts of patients
a day AND pursuing a crash research project with a Phila. expert
on sleep disorders and brain functioning. He told me half an
hour ago that he has to go back to Philly for two weeks, leaving
me to carry on the good fight. (My God, an innocent typo and it
would have said, "... to carry on the food fight.") Leaving me
with time to read more, too.
And, with time to bicker with Maggie O'Connell, about whom
I may have told you. Apparently now we hate each other's guts.
But I don't take it personally. Still, these next two weeks may be
interesting as re her, too. And Thanks for
the rest of the town?
asking. They'll be appearing in a production ofGuys and Dolls.
I turned them down for one of the leads, so when you call for
reservations, don't mention my name. They're still mad.
Yours in Chutzpah!,
Joel
159
MAY 2
Herr Kriminal Wolfgang Puck

Spago/Chinois/EurekaAVhatever
Los Angeles, CA
Puck—
I'm still WAITING. Waiting for you to behave like a man of
HONOR, instead of the loathsome pipsqueak we both know you
to BE. Waiting for you to respond to my just claim and remit the
money that is rightfully mine. Waiting for you to ADMIT TO THE
WORLD THAT IT WAS WHO INVENTED THE DUCK SAUSAGE
I
PIZZA, AND NOT YOU, you detestable but charismatic little

genius/copycat.
Shall 1 refresh your ego-clouded memory? That afternoon at
Ma Maison all those years ago? When in a fit of appropriate
indignation I stormed back into the kitchen and WITH MY OWN
LIVING HANDSfashioned the scraps and remnants of the (serv-
iceable, no more. SERVICEABLE) fowl into the item for which
you have become so ill-deservedly famous? Oh yes, it all comes
back to you now. The minced ginger. The touch of (fresh)
coriander. The insufferable Terrail hovering, hovering. I'm WAIT-
ING.
You know my terms. A dollar
for every duck sausage pizza you
have served since you opened. In CASH. You reply: "But Adam,
why cannot send a check, dear boy?" Because don't TRUST
I
I
you, no, you or your very lovely, very talented wife.

1 hear the two of you laughing, crying, groveling. Get up. You
embarrass me. "But my dear Adam," you protest. "How can I
possibly know how many of your originally conceived duck
163
sausage pizza pies I have sold since opening?" Do what school-
children do, maestro. ESTIMATE.
But be utterly accurate or face the consequences. A buck a
pie. Act now. Rates go up after Memorial Day.
Irreproachably yours,
Adam
MAY 2
Dear ''Mother'—
My own beloved Eve is heavy with child. There is life in the

woman, "Ma," life which will out. 1 know you join me in wishing
me and her all the best. Certainly everyone else does. Have I
mentioned what happened yesterday? When was forced, com- 1
pelled by a sense of fatherly-to-be obligation, to enter the

repellent premises of Ruth-Anne Miller's "General Store" be-
cause the mother of my offspring declined my offer of a maple
sugar creme brulee because she wanted a ZAGNUT?
I entered the establishment and beheld a singular tableau: our
own Dr. Fleischman, who as you know is my personal physician,
and Margaret O'Connell, who as you know is my personal pilot.
These two were elaborately ignoring one another in that stylized
pas de deux in which people seek to indicate a passionate
unconcern for individuals in whom they are inordintely inter-
ested. Naturally I challenged them on the spot.
"So here we are," 1 sneered perceptively. "The sensitive young
doctor and the spirited young pilot. Abie's Irish Rose with a
college education. What's the matter, campers? Having a spat?"
"Butt out, Adam," Fleischman replied.
"How's Eve?" O'Connell asked.
"Changing the subject, Margaret?" I countered. "And what of
the handsome Dr. Robertson? Still his slave? Still typing his notes
like a grad school wife?"
"I don't need this," O'Connell said. "Where's Ruth-Anne?"
"Busy with the mail in the back," Fleischman said. "But wait,
164
"
I think he's on to something. That's a very perceptive comment,

Adam. Grad school wife. Very trenchant."
"As though you can talk?" v^heeled on the doctor and fixed
I
him with my baleful gaze. "While you labor on his behalf, like
an unnamed apprentice in a master's studio?"
•Touche," O'Connell said.
"No, not touche. Wait a minute
—
I seized the relevant candy bar and glared at him. Holding up
the confection, 1 said, "Pay for it. Put it on my tab." Then turned I
on my heel and strode out.

1 still need money. am contemplating working.
I
Yours,
Adam
MAY 3
Dear Tony,
From the Be-Careful-What-You-Wish-For,-You-Just-Might-

Get-ItFile:
women mentioned had written to, all three accepted.
Of the I I
And arrived en masse on April 29. On the same bush plane from
Anchorage.
sounds like a bad sitcom premise, but you should have seen
It
it, man. Three women stepping out of the plane down onto the
field and looking around, like a rock group on tour, airlifted into
the next small town and gearing up to make the best of it. Except
—
pissed each bristling with grievance, in search of something
or someone (me) to explain and assuage. These three good-
looking ladies, in their flattering jeans and brightly colored ski
jackets, their hair brushed out and just a bit of makeup for
traveling,saw me coming and struck annoyed, arms-folded, this-
better-be-good poses. And while of course was eager to rush I
forward and offer my heartfelt apologies, had to stop and just I
dig the scene for a moment.

Because, while had essentially the same thing in common
I
165
with each of them, it was still an eerie thing for me to see them
with each other. It was as though three pieces of my inner
emotional being —the separate of connectionfeelings 1 had with
each of them —had been taken out of me, up set fifty feet away,
and transformed into feelings of connection they had between
each other.
Get it? People from separate incidents of your life commingled
in an unlikely juxtaposition? A piece of the inner emotional state
embodied objectively over there in a striking (and not unerotic)
sight? What I'm saying is: it was like a dream.
So already was hitting paydirt in my effort to regain access
I
to the unconscious. Sadly, that sensation lasted about as long

as it took for me to reach them and give greeting. Will you be
surprised to learn I was the only one smiling? Katherine, the
intellectual, said drily, "You overbooked."
Kay, the political activist, added, "This is insulting."
Kimberlee, the artist, summed it all up. "This is real gross,
Chris."
The scene went on from there, part low comedy, part high
indignation. But wasted no time finessing.
I played my trump I
card immediately and no one could top it: said that Katherine, I
Kay, and Kimberlee were about to experience something utterly

new and unique. ("Oh please" and similar snorts of derisive
skepticism.) I apologized about getting my logistics snarled, but
promised these women that they would, at midnight tonight, be
as awake as they were now and would remain so indefinitely.
("Oh really?" and similar expressions mistaking our town's
objective fact for my own subjective sexual vanity.) I apologized,
Ibegged forgiveness, winked saucily did what needed doing.
I — I
Finally told them that they could either get back on that
I
plane or arrange a different flight out tomorrow by which time —

they would see what was saying was true. So why not chance
I
it and stay the night?

After a brief huddle, in which their sisterly solidarity was
demonstrated for my benefit, they agreed.
Next we needed accommodations —not for sleeping, mind
you, but for washing, changing clothes, "sitting," etc. This called
166
for two rooms, since offered to share my trailer with one of
I
them under whatever conditions they thought-appropriate (I was

admirably deadpan when said this and may actually have
I
meant it.) We went to town, where prevailed on Maggie I
O'Connell and Joel Fleischman to let the women use their

homes. Joel's barely accommodates one, and Maggie's is spare
as a monk's cell, since all her things were destroyed when her
mother burned down her cabin. But it doesn't matter; ever since
weVe stopped sleeping, homes have become more like locker
rooms —places to change, grab a bite, take a breather, and then

leave.
Maggie and Joel both agreed, but in a distracted, cursory way.

They are each working for a scientist up from Philadelphia and
seem to be vying for his favor. It's been four days now, and
Katherine, Kay, and Kimberlee all attest that while Maggie and
Joel are outwardly courteous, neitherseems to be in much of a
mood (If you must know, yes,
to play host to visiting strangers.
my three visitors and have established a rotation, so that at any

I
given moment one stays with me and the other two with my
neighbors.)
So soon we will have to find alternative accommodations. That
aside, the ladies find anomaly-plagued Cicely interesting and a
life without sleep fascinating.
As for me, well, yes, it is an exhausting routine. But I have
significant data to report. The anomaly has had no noticeable
effect, positively or otherwise, on my sexuality. (Afterward we
are tired, but we don't snooze. We rest.) 1 can report a marked
drop-off in artistic production. But is that the result of replacing
sublimation with outright nooky or simply the result of spending
more time in bed and less wielding the acetylene torch? It's not
clear.
So 1 guess I'll just have to keep investigating, won't I?
Selflessly,
Chris
167
MAY 4
Dear Tawni,
Guess what! We started rehearsal for Guys and Dolls!

Or, at least, we started to start. But we may not do it now.
Which is a real bummer, because my character, who thought I
was just a sort of bimbo night club singer, is a STRIPPER.

I have song called 'Take Back Your Mink," which
this fantastic
is about how supposedly I'm mad at this guy for giving me all
these presents, and suddenly one night he wants to take advan-

tage of my accepting his gifts and cash in and DO IT with me? (I
like totally missed all this the first time, but Maurice explained
it to me. He's the director.) So I give all the stuff back! GET IT? I
take off the mink coat and throw it in his face. I take off the
dress, the shoes, the necklace . . . and, see, not only am I taking
off but I'M TAKING MY CLOTHES OFF
my clothes,
I know how far we'll go with this ... but then, also
don't I
don't know how we'll even get started. At our first read-through
Maurice explained everything to everybody, and how we would
work on separate scenes, so there would be a rehearsal schedule
posted, and all of that. Then he asked if there were any ques-
tions.
—
Then Ed Chigliak ^who else??? mean. Mister Pain raised I —
his hand and asked, "How will we work on the songs?"
Maurice shrugged and said, "Well, listen to the record, then
learn by doing."
Then Ed said, "Uh, Maurice? Could you try not to embarrass
me? mean, what about the vocal arrangements?"
I
Maurice looked annoyed and said, "Well, hell, son, you've got
two ears. You listen to the singing and you recapitulate it."
"But what if we're not skilled recapitulators?"
mean is that typical or what? Why does Ed have to say
I
recapitulators? Why can't he just say singers? Anyway, then

Maurice looked at Marilyn, the piano player, and made a face,
because he's been as p.o.'d at her as am at Ed, and said, "Now I
Marilyn, just want you to answer one simple question. Will you
I
168
do that for me? With a minimum of Native American inscrutibil-
ity?"
"Okay."
"Can you or can you not work with the singers and do the
arrangements?"
"No."
"Hey, Maurice," Chris said. "As I recall, in Act Two the men
and do a dance
I to "Luck Be a Lady." Are you going to
choreograph that?"
So everybody turned to look at Chris, who's sitting there
with — get this —THREE girlfriends. I mean I know we're not
sleeping so everybody has extra time for — ^you know every-—
thing. Maurice said, "Son, what I know about choreography you
could inscribe on a peppercorn and still have room for the
Lord's Prayer."
So I stood up and said, "Then who's going to teach me how
to strip?"
At this point Holling stood up and said, "I don't know that I
want anybody teaching you that. Shelly," and that was the signal
for everybody to start talking at once. Maurice tried to quiet
everybody down and reassure us that he knew what he was
doing, but it seemed to most people that the point of the meeting
was to prove that he DIDN'T know what he was doing.
In fact, by the time the meeting broke up, everybody was
totally disgusted. Barbara Semanski said, "Maurice, if you can't
mush the team properly, don't hitch up the dogs."
Afterward, at the Brick, everyone was saying too bad, it would
have been fun. Like was already a dead issue.
it
But I'm learning my lines anyway, just in case. (When asked 1
Maurice how was supposed to speak, he said, "Hell, this takes

1
place in New York, doesn't it? Ask Fleischman.") Holling says
he's not going to let me

him won't go all the
strip, but I told 1
way (because mean YUCK!), but just enough to get some

1
reaction from the audience. He said what reaction. said some I
hollers. He said what kind of hollers. said nice ones. He said 1
he'll think about it.
You know that chain letter 1 sent you? If you sent it out, better
169
make room on your shelves. So far I've received 642 books. Ever
hear of Foucault's Pendulum? We have thirteen copies. Ask if
anybody wants one, but tell them it's impossible to read. Also,
what the heck is THE QURAN? We have eight.
Well, gotta go slice pickles. We could buy them sliced in
I
bulk, but what about the people who like them whole?
Luu ya,
Shells
MAY THE 4RTH

Mr. Sydney Pollack
do Mirage Productions
Universal City, CA
Dear Sidney,
I know I haven't written to you for a long time, but to tell
the truth, I was so disappointed with Havana that I couldn't

bring myself to write. But I blame you. think that the Cuba
don't I
section of Godfather 11 was so good, it used up all the movie-

energy for that subject. (I have a theory that there is a kind of
energy in the atmosphere that helps people make movies about
different subjects. It's sort of a private hunch, really, and not all
that scientific. Still, did you see the movie Cuba that Richard
Lester directed with Sean Connery? So there you are.)
The reason I'm writing is we have an interesting situation in
our town of Cicely that could use someone of your skills.
Because of sunspots, the magnetic field of the earth is making it
so that none of us can sleep. We all get a lot done, and so forth,
but we also get on each other's nerves. One of our citizens,
Chris Stevens, says this comes from not sleeping. He's sort of a
philosopher/disk jockey, so he's used to thinking about the big
picture.
"Ed," he said, "we're all looking down the business end of a
double whammy. First, each of us is busy being ourselves
170
twenty-four hours a day. We're about a third again as much
ourselves as normal." (There isn't really much^you can say when
someone says something like this to you, so I just nod and he
keeps going.) "Second, none of us has the benefit of sleep in
which to digest and metabolize our experiences. That's what's
causing all this annoyance. We're being all that we can be,
twenty-four hours a day, in each other's face. We're being
ourselves. Only more so."
I don't understand this, but it sounds right. So, to bring the
community together, and also so we'll be in a good mood if Kim
Basinger wants to buy the town (that's a secret, so don't tell
anyone yet), we are staging a production of Guys and Dolls. The

problem is the man who says he's going to direct the show is
Maurice Minnifield. He may have been a good astronaut, but
he's a terrible director. So the whole production is falling apart
because no one wants to work with Maurice, who doesn't know

what he's doing anyway.
That's why I'm writing. You are excellent with actors. Can you
offer some suggestions as to how Maurice can work with us? I
will convey to him your suggestions, although he is so irritating
I can barely bring myself to do it. Still, for the good of Cicely, I'll
try.
Or, what would be even better is, if you could come up here
and direct the show yourelf. Oh, I know what you're thinking:
won't Maurice complain if you show up here wanting to take the
show out of his hands? Maybe. But all he really cares about is
getting the show done. He told me, "Hell, I have no ambitions or

vanity about my abilities as a Broadway director. But we have
got to instill some community pride and civil decorum in this
town if we're going to clinch the deal with Miss Basinger."
So Maurice probably wouldn't mind if you took over. Besides,
he knows that if someone doesn't help him with this soon, there
won't be any show anyway. By the way, we can't pay you, but we
can show you what it's like to never have to sleep. It's weird.
Your fan,
Ed Chigliak
171
— —
5 May
Dear Michael,
Like this card? Anyway, I was
just thinking. When you get back,
let's go on a hike! Overnight
tents, "gorp," campfires, etc.So I
can show you more of AK than

just Cicely. Telling you now so
you can bring any nec. gear from
Phila. (No telling when we'd
PETERSBURG— "Little wake up, though. Or if we'd

Norway" sleep at all.)
Located on Mitkof Island,
this town of charming and
Til then . . .
beautiful is honne of the

state's largest halibut fleet. Maggie
5/5
Mike
Note, obverse, bear. In this pic-
ture, he is looking for me so he
can kill me. An idea: as long as
you're fetching an EEC, what
about static elect.? Any chance of
THE BLONDE TOKLAT

a Van Der Graff generator? Or is
GRIZZLY is one of Alaska's that electroplating the lily? Just a

most dangerous animals.
When running, grizzlies
thought. See you next week.
can attain speeds of up to
40 mph. Joel F.
5 MAY
John Newton
KZAK
Anchorage, AK
Dear John:
You said you wanted to kept apprised of our production of
Guys and Dolls, well, get ready. Yesterday was our first read-
172
"
through —mumble-through,
is more like it, although shouldn't I
complain, because end something

in the of a miracle occurred.
Early on the cast inquired of me who was going to be vocal
coach and choreographer. Will you believe me (and will you
keep under your hat) when
it say that until that moment
I I
it? Oh,
hadn't thought about knew in the back of my mind that
I
somehow the singing would have to be spruced up and the

dancing managed into more than the kind of writhing modern-
dance free-for-all you see on PBS. But so great was my enthusi-
asm, that failed to
I come to grips with these basic fundamentals.
I paid for can assure you, in the hard currency of loss
that, I
of face. For a while, at least. There we were, in the Cicely church,

my flagrantly amateur cast, most of whom had never seen the
show and some who had never even heard it (and, in one case,
heard of it). This is our second meeting, and have already had I
to personally beg some people to stay aboard. My Miss Adelaide

is asking me, "Who's going to teach me how to do a strip-
tease?" my Nicely Nicely Johnson is demanding, "Who's
and
going to show me how to sing this?" had started to give blanket
I
assurances that sounded hollow even to my own ears, when my

Nathan Detroit, Chris Stevens, the young man who works as my
drive-time dj, took me aside. asked the cast to take ten and
I
joined him.
it happened, were three young ladies who at his
With him, as
invitation had come up to Cicely to visit. Katherine from Bryn
Mawr, Kay from Berkeley, and Kimberlee from some community
college in Tacoma. Chris introduces them and says that they are
about to save my amateur theatrical bacon.
"Now you can call this sheer luck, Maurice," Chris says. "But
after a point, you have to wonder where luck ends and destiny,
a conscious imposition of energy by some superior force, be-
gins. Katherine here, it turns out, is a dancer. Kay arranges
voices for a community choir. And Kimmee here is a graphic
arts major."
gaped and then said, "Which means

1
—
"Which means, my friend, that if you play your cards right
you've got your choreographer, vocal arranger, and scenic de-
173
"
signer staring you in the face." Then he laughed and said, "Don't
look at me, man! I'm as shocked as you are!"
"Well," I said, smiling at these attractive ladies, "What's the
game, and how do play my hand properly? If it's a question of
money — 1
"We don't want money," Katherine says. "We need a place to

stay."
"To s/Y," Kay says.
"In shifts," Kimberlee says.
"They're at Joel's and Maggie's," Chris explained. "But the
atmosphere is tense."
I won't bore you with the combinations and permutations.
Suffice to say, bad planning had resulted in these three gals
being up here all at once. So in exchange for providing room

and board, I've got a crackerjack creative team the likes of which
they can only dream about over their German chocolate cake up
at DeConcini's Dinner Theatre. This works out tidily for all
concerned, not the least of whom is Chris, who is now able to

rotate his houri's like a sultan. You may be wondering if, in the
private confines of my own lavish home, I ever look upon these

gals with a covetous eye, but frankly, they're too young. I'm too
old. And all I care about at this point is the show.
But I'm being just a tad coy with you here, John. I have another
reason for being indifferent to these youngsters.
Did I tell you I'm Sky Masterson? When my first string quit, I
could no longer resist temptation. Well, my Sarah Brown is

Barbara Semanski, a state trooper from up north whom I might
confess has been an object of my interest in times past. How
she wangled time off to take part in this venture is just one more
mystery in a springtime rife with enigmas. She stunned me by
accepting the role, but in casting terms it's less of a stretch than
it looks. Sarah Brown is punctilious, strict, a stickler for rules,

and officious to the point of obsession. As I told Barbara, this is
the role she was born to play.
You know life is a funny thing. conceived of this project as a

I
selfless businessman, as a way to unite the community. Now,
174
suddenly, I'm center stage, doing classic dramatic scenes with
this magnificent specimen of femininity!
I appreciate your interest. Look for comps when the time
comes.
Best,
Maurice Minnifield
MAY 8
Rudolph Miller
% Oregon Freight Inc.
Portland, OR
Dear Rudy,
Ruth-Anne who as you know is your mother, asked
Miller,
me to write you you know she is okay. But she said she
to let
can't bear to look at a pencil and paper at the end of the day, so
she can't write you herself. She asked me to tell you she
apologizes for using me to do it. If that's not okay, and you want
to communicate with her directly, just let me know and I'll tell
her.
She asked me to bring you up to date on what's going on here
So
in Cicely. let's see. People are writing a lot of letters. A lot of
people are reading. We're doing a Broadway show called Guys
and Ruth-Anne has a part in it, but she says she only
Dolls.
hopes she can get away from the Post Office long enough to
come to rehearsals. Maurice, the director, asked her if she was
willing to wear a big bass drum for one scene if he could get
one. She said no.
Let's see, what else.
Shelly is getting thousands of books in the mail. This is funny
because she's more of a tv or magazine person. Every day two
or three planes fly them in. Maggie O'Connell, our grounded
pilot, looks sad when she sees them.
Oh, here's something. Dr. Fleischman's friend, Dr. Robertson,
175
is back. Maybe he's Maggie's friend, actually. No one is sure.
Anyway, he came here to study why nobody is sleeping. He had

to go to Philadelphia for a while but now he's back, and he has
brought with him an EEG machine. (There was a big mixup with
me and the EEG, but you don't have to worry about that.) Now
he wants to study everybody's brain waves. I asked Dr. Fleisch-
man ifwould hurt, and he said no, it was more like a lie
it
detector. You hook it up to your head and monitor activity. said 1
I was impressed that now they had a machine that could tell if
you were even thinking about a lie, but what was the difference
between that and just imagining something imaginary? Dr.
Fleischman slapped me on the back and said not to worry about
it and to have a nice day.
1 hope this answers your questions, if you had any. Ruth-Anne

sends her love.
Yours truly,
Ed Chigliak
5-10
Dear Anita,
I must say things here have gotten somewhat stranger. For
one thing, we're all getting electroencephalograms. Did 1 spell
that right? I'd go back and check, but looking over that word
feels like walking onto a patch of tundra after rain. Anyway, the
EEG.
That Dr. Robertson from Philadelphia has brought in an EEG
machine, and we have been asked by Joel Fleischman to volun-
submit to a brief test to have our brain waves recorded.
tarily
The office that Maurice gave Dr. Robertson now looks like a
cross between a barber shop and Frankenstein's laboratory, with
people waiting around on chairs, reading and chatting, while
someone lies on a table and has electrodes glued to their head.
Earl Earner asked for a copy of his test and now everybody
wants one. Each time the paper comes spooling out of the
machine with its jagged trace lines, Maggie has to tear it off, run
176
—
across the street, and send it through Ruth-Anne's coin-operated

Xerox machine. She gives the copy to the person and the original
to Dr. Robertson. People stop each other on the street to
compare patterns and argue whether this peak or that one proves
that one person is smarter than the other.
Edith Merkle started shouting this afternoon that her EEG
looked exactly like the west face of Mt. Alyeska. She was in the
throes of a religious experience until Ed Chigliak pointed out
that she was looking at it upside down. Every home in Cicely
now has EEG readouts hung up like Christmas bunting, held up

by cheeseburger magnets on refrigerators, or stuck up with duct
tape on mantlepieces.
As if all that isn't odd enough, I am going to be in a musical!
Maurice is staging a production of Guys and Dolls, and he has
cast me as a big-time gangster from Chicago. I'm a little nervous
about it, but at least I don't have any songs. What concerns me
more, to be honest, is Shelly. She has been cast as a strip-tease
dancer. Everyone assures me that nothing untoward will happen.
I was tempted to ask Shelly to drop out of the show, but after
Joel and Maggie did that —and they were cast in leading roles
1 wouldn't dare. Everyone in town is still disappointed that they
dropped out. Worse, the two of them are feuding with each
other. And this is more than the usual back-and-forth they do,
this seems more angry. It probably has something to do with Dr.
Robertson, but 1 don't know.
1 do know that the atmosphere in that office is somewhat
strained. You've got this tall, debonair doctor from Philadelphia
fiddling with electrodes while Maggie and Joel joke with the
patient and snarl at each other. Then the patient lies down, the
needles on the machine start leaping around, and Maggie and
Joel each try to talk to Dr. Robertson and get him to ignore the
other. It's enough to give anybody a case of brain waves.
Let me know if you want to come up and see the show. don't 1
think Maurice really knows what he's doing, but he seems to be

surrounded by people who do. So it's shaping up.
Fondly,
Holling
177
MAY 12
Dear Jen,
Well, I started out as a part-time secretary/assistant to

Michael Robertson, and now it's full-time. I've quit the other jobs
at the storeand the cafe and am working with Michael twelve,
eighteen hours a day. Of course, I'd chuck all this and be in the
air in a minute if I could, but for now it's really very interesting
work. We interviewed everyone in town, and now we're taking
their EEC's. Michael is superb, very friendly, and easygoing. He
puts the suspicious locals and nervous children at ease.
Unfortunately, Fleischman is ever-present, running over from
his office to insert himself into the process in a transparently
desperate effort to impress Michael —^who, of course, takes this
in stride. I think the only reason he agrees with Fleischman is to '
placate him.
When Michael was in Phila. I sent him a postcard proposing
we go for a hike some time soon. He
mentioned it, but hasn't I
noticed that he did bring back hiking shoes and a backpack.

What will happen ... or, rather "happen" on such a trip, have I
no idea. But presumably something will. Which is fine. Some-

thing happening, mean. think. It all depends on what we
I I
mean by "something" and "happening." So long as it doesn't

—
happen depending on what it is in town. For some reason —
the notion of something happening in town makes me queasy.
("In town" means at the office, at my house, at anyone's
house . . .) On the trail, in the bush, fine. Maybe. Depending.
Poor Fleischman! So eager for this mentor's approval, so
naked in his attempts to elicit it! It really is rather sad, in a way.
In another way it's infuriating, and wish he would just leave us 1
alone. Which is petulant and childish, know. But Fleischman I
brings that out in me.

Of course, one way to fly again is to move out of Cicely. It's
inconceivable. But it's something to think about.

Love,
Maggie
178
5/12
Steve Cohen, etc.

Etc.
Pittsburgh, Etc.
Dear Steve —
Not that you asked, but in about ten minutes I will be able
to qualify as an authority on electroencephalography. Or at least,
on electroencephalography as a combination diagnostic tech-
nique/home decorating style. We're doing readings of the whole
town. One guy thought we were doing a polygraphic screening
of the citizenry. He was very nervous, very reluctant, and when
we finally got him on the table and wired up, the machine made
a single beep and he broke down and confessed he had stolen
his brother-in-law's Vise-Grip. 1 him off with a warning.
let
But we are getting data, all of which is (ARE. DATUM IS, DATA
ARE) providing excellent support for my theory about this elec.
magnetic condition and its effect on what up here passes for the
human brain. won't bore you with the details now. Wait until
1 I
write it up for a prestigious medical or scientific journal under

my and Mike Robertson's name; then I'll bore you with the
details. But in sum, all is well, and we're still awake.
All is well with me. It's O'Connell that worry about. She has
I
so plainly transferred feelings of an inappropriate nature to Mike,

it's a little embarrassing. What's the word transference? You —
know, the psychological term for transforming an ordinary,
adult, boss-employee relationship into an idealized, eroticized
Daddy-daughter analogue. The way she gazes adoringly at
—
Mike it's unhealthy, it's perverse. She does any and everything
he asks of her, from the most tedious secretarial stuff (typing
notes, transcribing interviews) to running for coffee. Which is
useful to the project, yes, until I ask her . . . then she tells me to
do it myself. Why? Because "she's not my secretary"!
As for what Mike thinks of it, well, naturally he likes it and has
confided to me certain intentions about which have no feeling I
179
.
whatsoever, none. It is absolutely none of my business. But what

if I told him that her last FIVE boyfriends of record fiaue met
with unexpected and in some cases violent ends . .
But that would be unthinkable. She would be angry with me

for interfering in her budding relationship with Mike. He would
be peeved with me for distracting him with information that is
both inflammatory and irrelevant. No, instead I should do the

proper thing, whichis to write him an anonymous note. Maybe
tie it and throw it through his computer screen. Or do

to a rock
they have programs now that can do that automatically? Ha ha.
More later.
Living life to tfie fullest,
Joel
MAY 13
Dear Bernard,
Well, the onset of high spring, of indubitably mild breezes
and balmy temperatures, has done less than nothing for our
current plight. Cicely remains awake by day and by night; the
closest any of us come within whispering distance of blissful
somnolence are the glazed stares of the kids being subjected to
the more egregiously boring classes at school. had thought the I
progress of Mother Earth in her orbit might, by now, have moved

us out of the zone of anomaly and into the arms of Orpheus; but
no such luck.
I still find this very disturbing. A few Indian elders do, too,
and have tendered up special sacred dances to appease what-
ever Native American deity has clout with Apollo and his spots.
But, thus far, to no avail. Not that things are a complete disaster;
for one thing, the population seems essentially okay. The musi-
cal mentioned on the phone is slouching toward readiness,
I
and my own performance in the (ill-chosen, if you ask me) part

of the comic lead has received any number of polite, unconvinc-
ing compliments.
Interestingly, the lady cast opposite me. Shelly Tambo, whom
180
I had lately found to be almost metaphysically annoying, has
begun to seem, as the architect once put it ir describing the
generic Main Street, "almost all right." Shelly's unself-conscious
glee, her sincere naivete —they inform her character (a nightclub

"canary") in a way that makes me LIKE her again. The result
being that our scenes together are not the exercises in torture 1
had feared they would be. At the end of the show, when decline I
yet again tomarry her, and she reads me the Runyonesque riot
act, sing "Sue me/Sue me/Shoot bullets through me/I love you"
I
and there's something in her look — tight-lipped but yielding,

implacable but tempted — that strikes a chord.
I am ready to forgive her. All 1 have to do now is figure out
what for.
Best,
Chris
MAY 14
Dear Tawni,
Well, my life is now totally upside down.

For one thing, there's my normal work at the cafe. We're still
open 24 hrs/day, and now we're one person short since Maggie
O'Connell quit. 1 don't know what's wrong with her, but she
seems preoccupied. I think she has a thing for that neurotic
from Philadelphia that Dr. Fleischman brought in. (He took my
brain waves yesterday with one of those machines that they plug
into your head?) When Maggie is alone she's normal. But if that
new guy is with her, like if come into the Brick for lunch,
they
she turns very artificial and cool. So when she quit work here to
work with the new guy full time, 1 wasn't surprised.
Also I'm in the show, like I wrote you before, and it's going
great! I have a song about how 1 have a cold because my
boyfriend won't marry me — I sing, "In other words, just from
waiting around for that plain little band of gold, a person can
develop a cold." RIGHT? So, this morning we're working break-
181
fast, and I come back to the counter and sneeze. Holling looks
at me and says, "What's that supposed to mean?" (!!)
Of course, the only reason things are going well is Chris's
three girlfriends all have theatrical experience. Maurice isn't
much help. I mean, 1 know he's the star as well as the director,
so he gets to yell at everybody. But that's all that he does. Ed,
who gets on MY personal nerves and is still irritated with Maurice
about well, everything
. . . has a scene with Chris and Dave.
. . .
Ed asks Maurice, "Am Nathan Detroit's employee or his friend?"

I
Maurice looks disgusted and says, "For God's sake, Ed, this is
musical theater, not some Hungarian Greenwich Village psycho-
drama."
Ed nods, in that dorky way of his, and says, "Maurice. Until
you learn the difference between an employee and a friend, I'm
not going to work for you again."
"Fine, Ed," Maurice says like a big old sourpuss. "Just hit your
mark and read your lines. I am making an effort with this
production to bring the community together, and I can't do it if
we're going to stand here all day gabbing about friendship."

and Kay came over and said that
Luckily just then Katherine
Nicely Nicely Johnson (Ed's part)is an employee who likes his
boss. Ed's face lit up and he nodded, then he looked mopey

again and shook his head at Maurice and said, "I think we can
all learn a lesson from this."
Meanwhile the sets are being built —no problem some of for
these guys, who built their own cabins—and painted, and some
of the women are putting together the costumes. Marilyn is great
on the piano. Kay just says something like, "From letter D after
the chorus," and Marilyn just nods and turns to the right place
in the sheet music and plays it. didn't know human beings I
were capable of something like that. But she's an Indian, so she

has a deep spiritual life, so the spirits must help her. You can
see that even Maurice, who has been mad at her all along, is
impressed.
Ed has a solo number that he sings to all the men and to
Ruth-Anne and the other Salvation Army officers called "Sit
Down, You're Rocking the Boat." And, as much as I'm actually
182
into metal and Maurice's show tunes that he sometimes plays
on the radio make me want to puke, have to-admit that whenI
Ed stands up there and sings it's extremely moving. He sings,

"And the people all said sit down, sit down you're rocking the
boat." It's a dream of him being on a boat to Heaven, and
everyone else in the boat is telling him to shut up. And believe I
it! When Ed does his songs, no matter how horrible his voice is,
everybody stops and listens. So maybe I've been wrong about

him.
Gotta run. PLEASE try to come out and see it!
Luu,
Shelly
MAY 15
Dear Bernard,
I played "She Blinded Me With Science" this morning, and
nobody laughed. (That might have been because possibly no-
body heard it. Holling still refuses to play my show in the Brick.
The luck of the annoyance draw has been such that am his I
bete noire, his summum malum. Breakfast customers therefore

get a steady dose of "Morning Edition.") had science, and
I
blindness, on the brain, because it was my day to visit the office

of Dr. Michael Robertson. Dr. Mike had brought his own EEG
machine and is seeking cerebral autographs from tout le Cicely.
showed up as requested at the appointed hour. Present were
I
Dr. Mike, Joel, and Maggie —

the latter two lately conspicuous in
their absence from our local theatrical endeavor. Joel asked me
to let him attach the leads, and I said, "Gee, guys, I don't think
so. It's against my religion."
"Come on, Chris," Maggie said. "Everybody's doing it. Michael
says we need a complete sampling of the town."
"Sorry," said. "I changed my mind. And any use of my brain's
I
broadcast without the written consent of major league baseball

is prohibited."
"Chris," Dr. Mike said, all manly baritone and movie star eyes.
183
" "
"I've heard your radio show. You're an enlightened person.

Not—
"Not like the rest of Cicely? Is that what you mean, Mike?"
He smiled with beautiful emptiness. "You don't like me, Chris.
Why?"
Ishrugged and smiled back. "I don't like exploiters, guess." I
"Whoa," Joel said and stepped forward. "Chris, believe me, I
can echo that sentiment, and I'm sympathetic. But we're not
arrogant anthropologists here, invading a habitat and upsetting
the balance. I'm here, Michael is here, to gather data. That's all."
"Come on, Joel!" I laughed. "That's what they told the natives
of Bikini Atoll. Then they shipped them off and dropped the H-
bomb."
"Chris," Maggie pleaded. "Don't be like this. Michael says
—
Inspired, I held up a hand: halt. "Has Dr. Mike had his skull
tapped?"
Dr. Mike said, "I'm not a resident."
"Then what about you, Maggie? And you, Joel?"

"Hey," Joel said. "You want do it? Fine. me
have no to 1
problem with that. Come on, Chris. I'll show you my EEC if you
show me yours. Deal?" nodded. "Great. O'Connell, care to do
I
the honors?"
And so he lay on the table, Maggie made a flurry of faces
(anxiety, distaste, concern, exasperation) as she affixed the

electrodes. I watched and an interesting scene unfolded.
The rule, apparently, is that the subject cannot speak. So I
was witness to a conversation between Maggie and Dr. Mike in

which Joel, lying inert between them, was unable to participate.
What complicated feelings exist between Maggie and Joel is a

topic of endless speculation around Cicely; everyone has their
theory (and I have mine), but no one really knows what's going
on with them. So I will report the dialogue and make no attempt
to elucidate the subtext.
"Frankly, Fleischman, it'll be a significant piece of data if we
record that you have a brain at all," Maggie said. Joel gave a fake
smile and twirled a finger.
184
"Now come on, Maggie," Dr. Mike said. "Don't tease my chief
assistant."
Joel frowned. Maggie saw this and smiled at Dr. Mike and
said, "He's an excellent assistant, isn't he?"
"First-rate."
"Yes, we're so lucky that he's helping us. By the way, Michael,
did you get the postcard I sent to your office?"
"I certainly did, Maggie, and 1 accept your invitation."
Joel frowned at this. Then, seeing I was watching him, he
flashed a quick smile that utterly lacked credibility. Maggie saw
this, too, and said, "Great! Then let's set a date."
I couldn't take it. Like an arrogant anthropologist, I upset the
balance and said, "Set a date? Hey, are you two kids getting
married?"
Mild amusement. Maggie said, "No, no, I've persuaded Mi-
chael to let mehim on a hike."
take
I said, provokingly, "Day hike?"
"My God, hope not," Dr. Mike said. "I mean, you can't really
1
do anything on a day hike. Don't you agree, Maggie?"

"Absolutely. We'll do an overnight," she sighed and moved
from the deadpan Joel to the machine to gaze at the skittering
pens and the Brooks Range of tracings they were inscribing. "I
mean, we'll take tents and sleeping bags
. . . although . . .
whether we'll actually get far enough away to fall asleep remains
to be seen. Maybe you'll tell me what the Rachtstoffel experiment
is."
Dr. Mike said, "Oh, that's not important. We'll talk about more
urgent things, would think."
1
"We'll see," Maggie said slyly. "How about the day after the
show?"
Dr. Mike allowed as how that sounded perfect to him, and
Joel's EEG —a profile, if you ask me, in anguish —was complete.
They then urged me to take a turn, but I demurred until Maggie
had complied. She assumed the position and Joel, with utter
professional cool, applied the leads.
Can you hear what is coming, brother? Right. It was Maggie's
185
turn to lie there and be still as the two docs conferred above her,
and the needles jumped.
"So, Mike," Joel began. "1 think we're ready to proceed with
the preliminary paper. Let's set aside some time to knock out a
first draft."
"You do it," Dr. Mike said. "You're a better writer, Joel."

"Sure. Why not." Joel then fake-smiled down at Maggie, who
was already fake-smiling up at him, and said, "Say, Mike, mind
if 1 use your secretary?"
"Maggie?" Dr. Mike said. "Not at all."
Maggie looked miffed and glared at Joel, who smiled with

fatal politeness. "Of course, I don't know," he pretended to
wonder. "I'm not sure I could get the caliber of work out of her
that you do. Do you think she would do for me what she does
for you?"
At that Dr. Mike gave forth with a downright salacious laugh
and said, "One way to find out." The two physicians shared a
chortle at this, and then Dr. Mike said, "No, no, I'm joking. Of
course she will. I mean she certainly will if I tell her to. Won't
you, Maggie?"
"She'd do anything for you, Mike," Joel said.
"Oh," Dr. Mike murmured. "That remains to be seen."
Maggie looked stonefaced. Joel, over at the machine, held up
her readout, waggled it playfully, and said, "Got her."
Then they did mine. Maggie asked me if wanted a copy, but I
Isaid no. Do you blame me? With all these nasty spirits adrift
and amok in the ether up here? repudiate any electromagnetic I
signature my mind might issue under these circumiStances. Life

without sleep is counterfeit life. Those tracings are a forgery.
Kesho,
C.
186
5/18
Marx
Law Firm
NY
Ricardo —
Hip-deep in writing the prelim, paper we plan to submit
about the so-called (by-me) "Cicely Effect," in which electro-
magnetic blah blah, induced by solar hoo-hah, affect the brain-
stem and etc.

Meanwhile, Mike is reviewing the EEGs and doing statistical
breakdowns of the patterns. Totally outside my realm of exper-
tise. He and O'Connell (cf. prev. correspondence) plan to take a
"hike" in two weeks. can't help wondering what this means.

I
Not that it "matters," but okay, I admit 1 am a little worried. Not

that feel the need to compete with her for his attention, but
I
what does she think this is? Is it all an elaborate ploy to go to

—
bed or, perforce, sleeping bag ^with him? So go already. Is —
she then going to follow him back to Phila. when his work is
done? (Because surely she doesn't think he's going to stay here
indef.) hope not. He's not her type. For a hike, okay. For
I
anything more, absolutely not her type.

Of course, if she does accompany him back to Philly, the
plane will crash, she will miraculously escape unscathed, he

will die in a particularly showy and bizarre way, and she can
come back. So maybe it doesn't matter after all. Still I'm against
it. Although it is her business, of course. Not that it should be
necessarily; Maggie O'Connell is living proof that even if women
ought to have been given the vote by the whatever-it-is amend-
ment to the Constitution, not all women should be so enfran-
chised when it comes to selecting their own boyfriends. But
never mind. I've got work to do.
Methodologically,
Joel
187
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
21 May
Ms. Kim Basinger

coAVeisman, Miller, & Davis
1 1 00 Avenue of the Stars
Century City, CA
Dear Ms. Basinger:
1 am in receipt of your letter of the 15th and can confirm that

Monday, June 1 will be eminently suitable for your arrival in
,
and inspection of Cicely. My attorney tells me he has forwarded

to you his comments about the legality of your purchase of the
town of Cicely and the procedure that must be followed. As 1
read it, we've got smooth sailing ahead of us.
As regards the attitude of our population toward selling the

town, I have not yet broached the subject with them. 1 have
decided do so after your visit. will, of course, account for
to 1
your presence on June 1st by saying that you are interested in

investing in Cicely. can assure you that you and your entourage
I
will be afforded every courtesy.
1 looic forward to meeting your plane at 12 noon and to our

future business together. Many thanks.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
188
—
24 MAY
Col. Robert K. Semanski
Edwards Air Force Base, CA
9352-5000
Dad—
Just a quick update on what's up here in Cicely. We got off
to a rocky start on the show, but Maurice had the sense to
delegate. Three gals from the Lower Forty-Eight stepped in with

dancing, singing, and artistic expertise. So we're on track.
Acting-wise, it's catch as catch can, but we find our way. Maurice
is willing to take my suggestions, at least. Just between you and
me, he's terrible. Still, working for the Alaskan state police, how
often do you get a chance to act in a Broadway musical? Not too
damn many, believe you me.
People tell me how surprised they are to hear me sing. Well,
YOU wouldn't be. Not after my Vera in our high school Mame,
right? Dancing, that's another story. But Sarah Brown isn't much
of a hoofer, and 1 can move on my feet okay. Long as Charley
back home is feeding the dogs, I'm having fun.
Of course, that's not the real story up here. It's this sleep
thing. 1 haven't had shut-eye since I left home first of the month.
Feel fine is the funny thing, except for a stab of annoyance at the
hash slinger who works the grill at the local dive. Guy named
Dave. He shuffles out of the back room with a sack full of fried
spuds and I have to reign in my urge
choke hold. to apply the
But everybody has somebody they
Ask me, if can't stand.
you've got to sacrifice your universal love of humanity and hate
one individual's guts in exchange for a continual state of alert-
ness nonstop, hell, say: do it. Make the trade. Maybe I'll stay
I
here. Depends on what the Captain would say about a transfer.

But maybe it's easy for me to say, since I've only been down
here three weeks. The others have been up continuous since
March 1. think it's taking a toll. We're at rehearsal yesterday
I
I'm up next, so I'm loitering on the periphery and Chris Ste- —

189
" "
vens, our Nathan Detroit, is out onstage with a gal name of

Shelly Tambo, your basic teen queen bopper, doing Adelaide.
Their final number: she's going to leave him, reads him the
indictment of his malfeasances, and his response? "Sue me/Sue
meAVhat can you do me/1 love you." And so on, and on, and he
replies, "Sue me/Sue me/Shoot bullets through me/I love you
—
Suddenly Stevens waves everyone quiet. Starts to address the
group, not just little Shelly waiting innocently for her cues.
"YES!" he says. Nods, like he just grasped a vital point, and
starts to sermonize to those present. "We all know how Miss
Adelaide feels, friends," he says. "She's mad, and she's hurt,
and she's disappointed. But don't you see? This scene isn't
about how she feels. It's about how NATHAN feels! And how he
feels is, he's just being himself! He's saying, this is who I am.
Take it or leave it. But remember, I love you." He starts talking to
himself as much as to everybody else. I've seen this sort of
behavior before, of course. In my experience, it's the intense

introspective phase before an individual goes psycho. So I'm
primed to intervene, and he says, "Take it, leave it, or sue me.
Take me to COURT, okay? For being myself. Because of that, I
am guilty. And THAT, friends, is what we have to say to each

other now, these days
—
Maurice clears his throat and says, "Stevens, you want to save
and let's get on with it?"
this sort of thing for the radio,
"In a minute, Maurice. Because this is important. Sue me, is

Nathan's message, and Mr. Abe Burrows's and Mr. Frank Loes-
ser's and Mr. Damon Runyan's message to all of us. If we were
sleeping, this all wouldn't be necessary. But since we're not,

and since we're subjected to each other's unflagging subjectivity
all the time, then we have to give each other some slack, and
say, take me as am. Otherwise sue me."

I —
Now inmy experience, a man makes a speech like that, it's
an even bet he's on the edge. But these people must be used to
this kind of thing from Stevens, because everyone just nods and
agrees, and they all go back to work. Later, when Stevens does
his radio show, he plays "Sue Me" from the show's album three
190
—
times in a row and repeats the message, so the citizens who

weren't at the rehearsal will not miss the benefit of his insight.
Maybe won't move here
I after all.
Hope you're well.

Love,
Barbara
MAY 2 7
DearPhyl,
What am doing? Do you know?

I If so, kindly reply by return
mail.
1 have been working intensely with Michael for weeks now,
performing the drudgiest kind of work and fending off his . . . do
we still say "advances"? Not because I'm not attracted to him
hell, we're set to go off into the foothills for a night soon —but
because I can't bring myself to do anything here in town. feel I
terribly guilty: I ignore my friends, dropped out of this show

I
everyone is doing, which is the biggest thing around here in

ages ... I'm bickering with Fleischman like a bratty sibling . . .
I don't ask that this thing I'm in the middle of with Michael be
"love," but can it at least be palpably different from nausea? The
past, as usual, is no help. I'm not sure when I started out with
Dave —
mean, yes, it was love. No. But it was romantic. But he
I
was writing a book, we were going to Alaska the entire gestalt —

was romantic, waking up and getting dressed was romantic.
Glen, yeah, I felt love. I think. If you only think, is it love? Never
mind. Bruce, well . . . next question. Harry, oh, I don't know. It
was that kind of love that looks convincing as long as you don't
look at it. And then Rick. And yes, I would say definitely that that
was love. Of a kind.
With Michael? I'm not sure, but my hunch is, this is not love.
This is pastry. Here's my latest analogy: You're walking down the
streetand you stop before a bakery window. And you see the
most baroque, most touristy, most overdone sugary dolled-up
cake imaginable. Puff pastry filled with cream AND icing every-
191
where AND arbitrary nuts, dried fruits, chocolate sprinkles,
sugar roses, etc. At first you want it; the very muchness of it
looks "good."
But then you know, you consciously know that it's bad for
you, which, admittedly, sometimes doesn't matter. A lot of things
that are bad you are good for you. But with this, you also
for
know and faintly sick and self-loathing
that you'll feel stupid
afterward, and that you can have just as good no, better an — —
experience with something far less elaborate and pandering.
Well, I'm standing at the bakery window, and the thing looks
good. No matter what "know." 1
I wish everything would go back to normal. Cicely would go

back to sleeping, would go back to flying, Fleischman and
1 I
would go back to our mildly acerbic needling, Michael would

go back to Philadelphia. Is that possible? Kindly reply by return
mail.
Yielding to Temptation,
Maggie
MAY 30
Dear Anita,
Well, it's about 3 AM on Sunday, the 31st. I have just come
from our dress rehearsal, and must say
1 went very well. The
it
costumes are wonderful. It's funny how putting on a costume

gives everybody a lift and makes them feel more in character. In
this show, the men all wear big wide pinstripe suits and dark
shirts and light neckties. You can imagine how strange and
otherwordly I felt.
We ran through the whole show only stopping for minor

adjustments. I wings with Katherine, one of
found myself in the
Chris's girlfriends who taught us the dancing. She seemed to be

trying to conceal her laughter at the scene on the stage, and
when asked her how she thought the show was turning out,
I
she said, "Holling, it couldn't be any better."

I must say that Chris Stevens has performed admirably in a
192
role none of us thought he was suited for. And his scenes with
Shelly are very touching. happen to know—the whole town
I
happens to know that Chris —

had suddenly found Shelly almost
intolerable. But tonight he told her she was terrific and he
apologized.
And she is terrific. Maybe it's the experience shehad compet-
ing in the Miss Northwest Passage and other beauty pageants,
but she is When she sings "Marry the Man
a natural on stage.
Today," about how she and Barbara Semanski should marry
Chris and Maurice now and worry about changing them later,
she really seems to mean it.
Now know you won't believe this, and you'll think it's only
I
because he apologized to Shelly, but I found myself tonight

feeling farmore kindly toward Chris than have in a long time. I
In fact ever since the end of February, when first started to I
detest him. Watching him do these scenes tonight and doing a

very funny one with me, where intimidate him as Big Jule from I
Chicago, suddenly found myself relenting. All the things that

I
—
had bothered me about him his overly poetic way of speaking,
the preachy way he talks about figures from stories and myths,
the way he lectures you on the outlooks of other people as
though your own outlook is pretty shabby, the way he has of
calling Beethoven "Ludwig" and Freud "Old Siggy" and so
forth —found myself forgiving all that. Don't ask me why.
1
Of course, at the center of all this is Maurice. He had originally

cast Chris to play Sky Masterson, the leading man, and Joel to
play Nathan Detroit. But when Joel dropped out, he shifted Chris
toNathan and took over Sky Masterson himself. Now 1 have
known Maurice Minnifield for twenty years. know I that he is a
person of broad capabilities and that he can accomplish pretty
much anything he sets his mind to, but playing Sky Masterson
may not be one of them. 1 don't want to dwell on this, so let me
just suggest that maybe he's being thrown off by the fact that
Barbara Semanski is playing opposite him as Sarah Brown, the
Salvation Army lady. Maurice has had a sort of unrequited
passion for her. And it sneaks in.
Still, he has managed to engineer this out of nothing. One day
193
we were an ordinary town in Alaska whose people stopped
just
sleeping. Now we're on the verge of Opening Night. take my I
hat off to him.

If I see you here tomorrow, this letter will be unnecessary. If
not, I hope see you soon another

I time.
Fondly,
Holling
5/31
Steve Cohen
His Firm
City, State
DearSteue,
It's done. I and gave it to

finished the preliminary paper
Mike for final vetting. out tomorrow
Supposedly he's sending it
with a cover letter. Just before he and O'Connell go on their

hike. She's home, in fact, cramming in last minute work before
tomorrow, which means she'll miss the show. But it's supposed
to run all week, so she — I
—
and I, think ^will catch a later one. I
don't really feel like mixing it up in society tonight.

Besides, the presence of O'Connell or me might put a damper
on things. The good residents of Cicely have not been reluctant
to imply that they felt betrayed at our abandoning the show. So
I've been cleaning up, seeing patients, killing time. As with any
big project, when it's even tentatively finished there's a big

letdown. I'll have
I'm back. There was a hiatus there for about five minutes as
Ed Chigliak, a local young man with a deep aversion to knock-
ing, suddenly materialized here in my office with his trademark
wave and grin. It happens every time. I'm writing or reading or
daydreaming, look up, and he's there, black jacket and all, like
I
he's just beamed in from the Enterprise. keep asking that he I
194
knock, but he just says, "Indians don't do that, Dr. Fleischman.
It's rude." Oh.
Ed said he came to give me "something important," reached
into his pocket, and came up empty. He left it in his costume,
you see. So he's gone to fetch it. What is it, asked. A postcard. I
It strikes me that if something comes of this paper and the
more rigorous one we will follow up with, may be in demand. I
Imay be summoned for meetings. MAY HAVE TO GET THE I
HELL OUT OF ALASKA AT LAST!

Be still my beating heart. Will you excuse me while I go eat
dinner? Maybe I'll cave in/muster courage and take in the show.
If they don't stone me for a traitor when I arrive. Not that I would
blame them. But science requires sacrifice, right? I'll tell the
angry mob you said so.
On the brink of stardom,
Joel
JUNE 3 (!!!)
Dear Jen and Phyl,

Sit down, both of you. You'll note this is a xerox. I don't
have much time to write this, let alone to tell it twice, so get
ready for installments. One day all three of us will get together,
and you two can meet. You'll have lots in common, starting with
the following:
The last time wrote either of you was a day before the big
I
opening here of Guys and Dolls, two days before my hike into
the hills with Michael Robertson. So let's pick it up there. Curtain
was scheduled for 8:00 PM. was not going to attend; first,
I
because felt guilty for having abandoned my friends and quit

I
the show, second, because Michael asked me to input into the

laptop a letter and introduction he had handwritten to be mailed
the next day. So was home, alone, typing, all night. Michael
I
had other work to do, calls to make, etc., and would join me for
a final review of the introduction at about 10:30.
These times matter. Take notes.
195
"
At about 9:30 there was a knock on the door. Michael, of

course, so I opened it in a good, if slightly anxious, mood. But
it wasn't Michael. It was Fleischman. He looked lousy pained, —

lackluster, hesitant. But of course as soon as saw him bristled, I I
ready for combat.

"What, Fleishman? I'm very busy."
"I know . .
." He had that baffled look he gets when he's not
in control of things.
"I want to finish inputting Michael's letter tonight so we can
go on our hike with no loose ends."
"Yeah . . . can I come in?"
I paused, looked less than thrilled, then moved out of the way
and let him enter. He moved like someone carrying a safe.
"Well what?" said. "Look, know we haven't been getting
along lately, so
I
just . . . let's just

1
—
"I don't think you should go on that hike tomorrow," he said.
I felt like I do when the keyboard freezes on the laptop:
mentally I'm still winging ahead, but something fundamental
has shut down and don't realize it yet. All could say was,I I
"What makes you think you have a vote, Fleischman?"

"Never mind do have a vote, O'Connell," he said, pacing
I
around. "I have an opinion. And in my very considered opinion,

just please don't go on that hike with him."
And then got it, and said, "You're jealous. You don't want
I
him to LIKE me more than he LIKES you. Fleischman, I'm just

the secretary, remember? You're the colleague. We're not com-
peting. We have different interests here. So what is the problem?"
"He's not what you think he is. He's ." He huffed, he . .
shrugged, he looked defeated. "Okay, let's put our cards on the

table. You're taking sleeping bags, right?"
"So?"
"And you'll be gone overnight, right?"
"At least."
"At least, right. So am I correct in assuming that there will be
a physical consummation of the relationship? And don't get
disingenuous with me, O'Connell, because I happen to know
196
that a physical consummation of the relationship has been on
his mind from the start."
"And how do you know that?"
"He told me."

I laughed. "Fine! I'm flattered! And maybe feel the same way! I
And having said that, let me now say that none of this is any of
your business!"
"1 know. Just let me ask you one more question."
know. 1
I
didn't say anything. So he said, "What are your intentions? Are

you like in love with this guy or what?"
"Fleischman!"
"Well?"
It wasone question, of course, didn't want to be asked.
the 1
So in a stupid way he got points for asking it. had to look away 1
and shrug and say, "I don't know. mean, no. But it could 1
happen. One thing could lead to another." turned to him and, 1
as though all this —the whole sleepless thing— ^were his fault,
said,"Because if Cicely is going to stay like this, don't know if I
Ican live here. If can't fly, I'll have to go somewhere and do

I
something else."
"Somewhere, where is somewhere like Philadelphia?" —
"Philadelphia qualifies as somewhere."
He looked away. He walked around. He started muttering.
"I've been walking around town for an hour now wondering how
to handle this."
"There is nothing for you to handle, Fleischman. Thank you

for your interest, and drive safely."
"No, you're wrong, because this is a very delicate situation.
Ethically very delicate, very complex. My motivations are not
unambiguous. I ask myself, why am doing this? say to myself,
I I
O'Connell? She's an adult. She's responsible for her actions. She

is capable of making her bed, she is capable of lying in it, ba-
boom, end of story."
"Thank you."
"But 1 don't want you to get hurt. I may have a ton of other
motives and secret agendas, but I don't want you to get hurt."
Dryly, very dryly, I said, "How kind of you. Can I go now?"
197
"
"Ed
— " He paused, then reached into his jacket pocket and
pulled out something. "Ed gave me this to give to Mike. It came
two days ago and got lost in the shuffle at Ruth-Anne's."
He handed it to me. And what the hell, I took it. It was a color
postcard of the Empire State Building. And all at once Fleisch-
man started laughing nervously and saying, "Of course maybe
I'm making this up. Maybe you already know. Maybe it doesn't
matter whether you know or not."
"Know what?"
"Read it."
"Fleischman, this is someone else's mail

—
"It's a postcard, O'Connell, Nothing private happens on post-
Read it. I'll I'll be in the next room
cards. . . .
." . .
So he wandered into my bedroom, I shrugged, and turned the

card over. It was addressed to Michael care of General Delivery
(ie., Ruth-Anne's store). A man's sharp handwriting. Dated last
week. And I read it . . .
Ihad to read it again while my brain caught up with my body,

because had started, if you can believe it, blushing. Growing
I
—
hot and red and feeling not ashamed, and not even angry, but
deeply embarrassed. Of course understood now what this was I
all about. must have stood there for a minute or so and then
I
somehow drifted into the bedroom. Fleischman was there, read-

ing or pretending to read the text on the laptop screen. He
looked at me.
He asked, "Did you know?" shook my head. He asked, "Does I
it matter?" nodded. He winced, took the card from my hand,

I
and read it aloud. " 'Dear Mike: Alaska? Unbelieveable! Take

pictures. Hey, your wife tells me you and she will be in NY end
of June. Dinner? Call and let's arrange. Wendy sends regards.
Stay warm. Hal.' " He looked up. "I'm sorry, O'Connell."
"Please go."
"Yeah. Sure." He sat down on my bed.
"Please."
"I will, I just—"
"Fleischman — !"
"I just have to finish reading this," he said. "Something's
198
weird." He bent over the laptop and scrolled the text and kept
reading.
I have to stop here. More in another letter. And believe me,

there is more. This isn't the half of it.
Looe to you both,

Maggie
6/3
Marx
Etc.
Dear Richie,
And suddenly we reach a climax.
On the night of Guys and Dolls, i.e., Erev the schlep into the
hinterlands of O'Connell and Mike Robertson, am leaving the I
Brick after dinner. the cafe be open, when Holling and

How can
Shelly and even scary Dave are in the show? Because Adam, the
world's greatest crazy/craziest great cook, has deigned to "pre-
pare a cold collation" for spare money, of which he is in
significant need now that Eve is pregnant. Which means I am

well fed.
I can't decide whether to see the show or not, but am spared
any need to ruminate on it because, clad in his big double-
breasted suit and dark shirt and white tie (his costume), Ed
Chigliak comes running out of the church where the show is to
be performed (thus shattering some presumed taboo about
being seen by the audience before curtain) and buttonholes me
on the street. "Doctor Fleisch-man!" he cries, like a kid in an old
MGM movie. "Doctor Fleischman!" And hands me a postcard to
give to Mike, who is otherwise engaged. "Ruth-Anne said this
got stuck inside Maurice's copy of Forbes." The mail must go
through. I take it.
Q: You are handed a personal postcard addressed to a famous,

or at least noteworthy-in-your-field, person. What do you do?
199
—
A: You read it.
Which did and proceeded to wander around town as the

I
opening night crowd gathered excitedly before the church,

looicing very much liice a New York theatre crowd would look if
you took every member of the New York crowd, forced each one
to gain thirty pounds, dressed them in old flannel tops and
lumberjack shirts, made the men all grow beards, made the
women all grow beards, got all of them drunk, and required
them all to openly display either hunting knives, dogs, or tattoos.
I'm exaggerating. Twenty pounds.
They shuffled into the church as read the card. The card I
well. Suffice to say the card was from one of Mike's friends in
NY, mentioning his (ie, Mike's) wife. Q: Did O'Connell know he
was married? A: didn't know. But assumed not. Q: Should
I I I
tell her? Good Q.

Actually bad for her, but wasn't sure what my motives
1 felt
would be were to tell her. Wasn't she an adult, responsible

if I
for her own actions, capable of making her bed, capable of lying
in it, ba-boom, end of story?

But realized that underneath that position was something
I
else.Something disturbing but indubitably there. Pleasure.

There was something satisfying in this turn of events. Why?
Because, after all of O'Connell's taunting, all her attitude, all her
smug little displays of territoriality, it turned out that she had
been merrily shanking her Titleist into the biggest, the oldest,
the most obvious sand trap on the course.
But also felt bad for her. don't mind seeing people proved
1 I
wrong, but don't like seeing them get hurt.

I
—
So went to her house the new one; her mom had visited a
1
few months before and burned down the old one. You know how
it is —
and after the inevitable jousting, gave her the card. She
read it and grasped the implications. It was terrible. had hoped 1
she would be angry, but I wasn't prepared for her to be humili-

me. No more pleasure.
ated. That got to
She asked me to leave. And would have, although arguably it
1
would have been worse for her to be alone. And, while presum-
ably there may have been a few dozen other people in Cicely
200
she would have preferred to go to for solace, the fact was they
were either in or watching Guys and Dolls at that moment.
So as I say, I would have gone. But.
After I gave her the card, I let her absorb it alone. went into
I
her bedroom. On
was the laptop that
a little table we had been
using on was in WordPerfect, writing a cover
the project. She
letter from Mike. So while was waiting for her to read the card I
and react, 1 read the letter.
And 1 couldn't believe it. So I finished it, zapped back to the
top, and read it again, just as O'Connell came in —numb,

reddened, a wreck.
"Please leave," she said.
"I will," I said, tapping like mad on the keys. "I just
— " I got to
the top and read the letter.Îs this what he told you to write?"
She looked dully at the computer. "I'm typing in what he
wrote." She showed me the handwritten original.
gaped like an idiot and said, rather eloquently, "But " Then
1
—
1zipped out of the letter, stored it, and called up the file of the
report.My report. The one had written. It came on the screen. I
"ICAN'T BELIEVE IT!" yelled. "HE TOOK MY NAME OFF IT.

I
HE'S CLAIMING ALL THIS IS HIS!"

Poor O'Connell stumbled forward, blinking at the screen.
"What?"
"He deleted my name from the file! And look
— " I called up
the letter again. "My work . . . several assistants and I ... I know
all too well my conclusions in the following . . . et cetera, et
cetera. Your Pal, Dr. Michael Robertson!" I —have you ever

actually "stormed around a room"? I did that. Try it. It's aerobic.
"That THIEF! That GONIFF!"
"Fleischman, I'm sorry," O'Connell said, looking like some-
one with a hangover. She turned and moved toward the window.
"I didn't know what your arrangement was with him. just wrote I
what he gave me."

"I know. It's not your fault, O'Connell." started gasping again. I
"What did he think, that wasn't going to find out?" I
"I know," she said quietly, staring out the window.
"Did he think I wouldn't MIND? That he would EXPLAIN it?"
201
"
"I know."
'That I would UNDERSTAND? That it was an OVERSIGHT?"
"I know."
I simmered down, or tried to, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The alarm clock on the night table showed 10:16. shook my I
head. "O'Connell?" said. "You want to learn some Yiddish?"

I
She walked over and sat down beside me. The bed creaked.
"Let's start with the word 'schmuck.' As in, You and are a 1
couple of schmucks. Now you try it."

"You and are a couple of schmucks."
I
"Not bad. But give it more self-awareness, self-disgust, self-

contempt."
"Schmucks.
"You and I—?"
"
"You and I are a couple of schmucks.
"Excellent."
We sat there, the clock ticking, a little tiny hum coming from
the computer. I looked at her. She was what, two feet away?
One? And the funny thing is, IVe been up here two years, and at
that moment felt as though had been looking at this woman
I I
my whole life. said, "Are you okay?"

I
She nodded. "You?"

I nodded. said, "He lied to you. At least implicitly."
I
She said, "He stole from you. Almost."

"I'm sorry had to tell you."
I
"I'm glad you did."

We looked at each other. And it seemed appropriate for me to
put my arm around her shoulders and sort of draw her to me in
a comradely way. Because that's what we were, wasn't it?
Comrades in betrayal. So that's what did. put my arm around I I
her and drew her to me. And she you know she let me,
. . . . . .
she helped me by drawing closer.

I'm stopping here. You want to learn what else happened? Do
what I did, boychik. Pay your dues. COME TO ALASKA.
Joel
202
"
JUNE 4
Dear Jen and Phyl,
And now the conclusion of our drama.

The reason Fleischman refused to leave when asked him is, I
he had discovered that Michael had intended to submit the

preliminary paper under his (M's) own name, with only a vague
reference to Fleischman who, remember, had written it. So we
were both victims. Fleischman stormed around a bit, and tried I
to stop thinking and feeling. Finally Fleischman sat on the edge

of my bed and said we were both schmucks. He was right. sat I
next to him.
He asked me if was okay, and said yes. He said, "I'm sorry
1 1
lhad to tell you."

I said, "I'm glad you did."
He said, "He stole from me. Almost, anyway."
1 said, "He lied to me. Implicitly."
We sat there. We looked at each other. Then he put his arm
around my shoulders, and leaned toward him it was broth- 1 —
erly/sisterly, almost. And he held me like that for a few seconds,
and then we both sort of fell back onto the bed, on our backs,
and turned to each other.
"Why did you do that?" asked. "Lie back like this?"
1
He blinked and said, "1 dunno, all of a sudden I'm tired. It's
been a rough day."
"Me, too."
"O'Connell, uh . .
."
"Fleischman . . .
?"
He said quickly, "You know, I don't believe in wallowing in

self-pity or in feelings of victimization. I mean, 1 do it. All the
time. But I don't approve of it."
"Neither do 1," I said. "I believe in honest, sincere emotion."

"Exactly. Honest sincere."
"But self-pity, victimization
—
"Forget it. Don't believe in it. Never did, never will." I nodded,
and we looked at each other. Then he said, "But it's hard. It's
203
—
hard to be betrayed. It hurts. It's hard to be hurt. It hurts to be

hurt. I'm a doctor, I can tell you with institutional authority
pain hurts."
"It does," I said. We were like two drunks growing philosoph-
ical. "Pain hurts."
"So," he said carefully, "It's nice, and I think it's perfectly
legitimate, when in pain, to seek analgesic relief."
"Solace, succor, comfort."

"Comfort, exactly," he said, and then he did an odd thing. He
yawned. "We can mutually provide comfort, due to the symmetry
of the pain, the hurting pain, in which we are bilaterally in right
now, don't you think?"

"That would be nice," and because he had yawned,
I said, I
yawned, which made him yawn again. So we yawned at each

other for a few seconds, and then he put his hand on my hand
our eyes were tearing from all the yawns and said, "Can just — I
. . . stay here with you for a little while?"

I said, "Yes, that would be good. Oh hell."
"What? Oh hell what?"

"The time. Michael is due here in about five minutes."
By then we were locked onto each other's eyes. "So," he said,
"If he comes here, he'll find us here. He'll walk in the front door,
which is unlocked because this is Cicely, and he'll swagger right

on in and encounter us here. Together. Explicitly seeking succor
and being blatantly comfortable. Alone. Here. Together."
"Yes. He will."
Fleischman's face drew closer to mine. "Hey," he said with a
wicked smile, 'let him ..."
And that's all remember about that night. Honest.
I
Very truly and sincerely yours,

Mary Margaret O'Connell
204
6/4
Cohen
Dear Steve,
And so, to conclude:
At one point the clockon O'Connell's night table said 10:31.
She and had a nice tete-a-tete, and the next thing knew, the
I 1
clock said 3:12. Light outside, so it was the afternoon of—what?

Ifelt like Rip van Winkle. My beard was not the usual scratchy
sandpaper of an overnight's sleep. It was soft and thick. Next

puzzle: was under the blankets, fully clothed, as was she. She
I
was still asleep —ÂSLEEP.

I got up, turned on the radio, and got nothing from Maurice's
station. And for a few seconds was absolutely at a loss. had
1 I
no idea what day, time, or even year it was. was like a character 1
from an old "Twilight Zone" who suddenly realizes he has

amnesia. So groped for the phone and called information.
I 1
asked what time and day it was, and after arguing with the —
woman, since they're only allowed to use a vocabulary of about
six words — that's how 1 learned what had happened.
We had slept for a day and a half.
Presumably, during this epic snooze, each of us managed to

crawl under the covers. And, of course, I was starving. washed
1
up, made coffee, ate whatever was there (Cereal. Trust O'Connell
to have only Raisin Bran.) and waited for her to wake up. Maybe
I made a little more racket than was absolutely necessary. Finally
she did wake up, and we looked at each other with an eerie
combination of embarrassment and mystification.
She said, "Did we—?"
I said, "No."
She said, "Oh."
I said, "But almost . .
."
She said, "Well, we were so . .
I said, ". . . hurt?"

She said, "Confused."
205
" " "
I said, "Disoriented."
She said, "Vulnerable."
I said, "Feshtoodled."
Then we sat there like two old geezers, nodding in the silence
for a bit. Finally 1 said, "O'Connell, 1 don't know . . . don't take
this personally, but lately have found you so how to put
it . . . not hateful, exactly
— 1 . . .
"Annoying?"
"Yes."
"Fleischman, you have been unbelievably irritating for the
past three months." She paused and shrugged. "But now . .
."
I said, "It's passed, huh?"

She nodded. More old geezer reveries. Then she said,
"Fleischman? What's the Rackstoffen experiment?"
I had to make a decision. But after all this, 1 couldn't not tell
her. And it didn't seem to matter any more. "Rechtschaffen.

Allan Rechtschaffen. Sleep researcher. Did a major experiment
in 1983 on sleep deprivation. He gave two rats unlimited food
and water and identical living conditions with one variable. One
rat was allowed to sleep at will. The other poor bastard was
jolted awake as soon as he dropped off. There were some

interesting results ..."
"Well?"
"The rat denied sleep ate more and more but suffered drastic
weight loss. Total metabolic dyscontrol. Finally he failed to
regulate body temperature and died."
A respectful silence descended, as we thought about a dead
rat. Then O'Connell said, "Michael was right. It isn't relevant."
"MICHAEL? was I the one who said it wasn't rel—

"Oh my God."
Isaid, "What?"
She looked aghast and said, "Michael. He was on his way
here when we fell asleep. He never made it."
"So?"
"So, that means he fell asleep when we did. IN HIS CAR.
Which means
—
I winced. "You lost another one?"
206
"No! That's not fair! We hadn't done anything. We had no
relationship whatsoever."
I shrugged. "You almost did, though. Maybe it's the thought
that counts. To know, know, know him is to kill, kill, kill him."
"Fleischman!" She leaped up, grabbed her jacket, and tore
outside. I had to hustle to catch up with her. We drove toward
town and found him a quarter mile away. His car had gone off
the road and plowed into a tree. He was groggy; he had sustained
some cuts to the face and neck when the windshield shattered;
but he would be fine. We drove him to town, where people were
staggering around out on the streets like the survivors of an
atomic war.
There's more, but I think I'll let it go at this for now. (Time for
some shut eye.) Oh yeah — at my insistence we submitted the

paper under both our names. Robertson pretended to apologize
and I pretended to accept it. I expect the paper to be rejected,
but anything's possible.
In pajamas,
Joel
JUNE 4
Dear Tony,
And then came May 31. The premiere of the

the night of
Maurice Minnifield production of Guys and Dolls, with none
other than our own Chris Stevens in the role made famous by
Sam Levene and made strangely anticlimactic and irrelevant by
Frank Sinatra.
It was on an extraordinary thing happened
that night that . . .
Ifound myself on the streets of Cicely, where and, indeed, I —

everyone I
—
knew ^was dressed in a rummage sale version of
Depression-era Broadway finery: big-shouldered, double-
breasted baggy-trousered suits, dark shirts, and light ties for the
men; racy, tight dresses and lots of hot-cha, kiss-me-but-don't-
muss-me-darling makeup for the women. But of course, it was
show night, and we were dressed to kill or at least to knock 'em
207
dead. And, naturally, as everyone on the street seemed to be
going to the same place, I followed the crowd.
Our destination proved to be the church, where have been I
known to give the occasional nondenominational sermon and

where town meetings are held. This was where we had per-
formed the show. Somehow, though, the show was over both — I
already knew this and was surprised by it and the stage had —
been dismantled. What remained resembled more a courtroom
than a church.
But a stylized courtroom, to say the was no gallery
least: there
for onlookers, and no ordinary jury box. The jury box was the
gallery. Indeed, the entire population of Cicely, all in their killer
Broadway duds, was seated in the jury box. At the front of the
room, elevated on the bench, sat the judge: Dr. Michael Robert-
son, the Philly doc I've told you about, clad in robes, yes, but
the white robes of the lab scientist. Still, he had the gavel, so we
knew he was the boss.
Below him and to the side, where the witness box should
have been, was a table —padded, as though from a doctor's
office.And even as all this struck me as increasingly weird, I
nonetheless knew that had a prominent role in what was about

I
to unfold, and so, waving greetings to the jury/gallery, I pro-

ceeded to one of the main tables opposite the "judge."
In fact was defense counsel. But for what and for whom?
I
It became clear immediately. Holling Vincouer, one of our

most venerable citizens and until recently the actual Mayor of
Cicely, left the jury box, went over to the padded table, and lay
down on it. The judge said, "You may proceed. Mister Prosecu-
tor."
I looked to my
up stepped Joel Fleischman, our doctor.
right:
"Thank you, your honor," he said. It was then that noticed an I
electroencephalograph standing near the witness table. Joel

attached the electrodes to Holling's head, turned on the ma-
chine, and the needles recorded Holling's brain activity.
"We will prove, your honor, that Holling Vincouer is guilty,"
Joel said. Grave, concerned looks among the 800 or so "jurors."
208
Then Joel tore off the EEG trace, held it up to the judge, and
said, "There you have it, your honor. The prosecution rests."
1 found myself leaping to my feet and crying, "Objection!

Holling is just being himself."
Dr. Mike, the judge, nodded. He said, "Not guilty," gave his
gavel a firm rap, and said, "Case dismissed."
Everyone (including 1) applauded as Holling
dapper in his —
dark pinstripes and carrying his oversized hat got off the table —
and returned to the jury box, where he shook hands and traded
smiles and laughs. Somehow we all felt vindicated, except
maybe for Joel, who scowled at the machine, kicked its stand,
and said, "I can never get any decent equipment up here in the
sticks."
Then Judge Dr. Mike rapped his hammer again, said, "Next
victim!" and Maurice Minnifield left the box and reclined on the
table. Joel hooked him up, demanded a guilty verdict, objected, I
and again, the judge ruled for the defense. This process went on
and on, each resident of Cicely being judged not guilty for being
him or herself, until woke up. 1
That's right: woke up. Old Sol has cleaned up his act, the
spots have receded, and Cicely is sleeping again. With exquisite
pleasure we take leave of each other at night, head for home,
and submit to that voluntary extinguishing of consciousness that
isthe brain's hard-won legacy over ten million years of evolution.
The "anomaly" is over.
For good? Most likely. Maurice's contact at NASA says its focus
on our town came in at odds of roughly one to one-and-keep-
writing-zeroes-until-l-say-stop. What have we gained from it?
Hard to say. A lot of people got a headstart on new hobbies.
Shelly managed to receive upwards of 12,000 books, some of
which are worth reading. Most Cicelians got their brain waves
measured and received copies of the result suitable for framing
or, if you prefer, for sticking on your refrigerator.
None of which is all that extraordinary. No, what alluded to I
at the top was the fact that when sleep did descend, and felled
us all like a scythe through ripe wheat, all of us — or, at least
209
—
everyone have spoken to, and who has called in to my radio

I
show —
morning had the dream described above. The same
this I
dream, with the same setting and events, at the same time.
Now, have always been ambivalent about Jung's notion of
I
the collective unconscious. Patterns persisting in myths, yes.

The stages of human life reflected in stories separated by oceans
and centuries? No problem. But in the actual brain cells of
individuals? The Lamarckian flavor of it leaves a bad taste
because doesn't it imply that? The inheritance of acquired
characteristics, which is as bogus as Piltdown Man? Besides,
one knows too well how much Carl Gustav had a stake in
creating and promoting his own psychological system at the
expense of old Siggy's. But the evidence is the evidence. Eight
hundred loyal Cicelians and true, dreaming a single coherent
dream as though attending the same drive-in movie in their
heads. That's entertainment.
We know ofmass delusions and the madness of crowds. We
know of states of communally induced ecstasy, of religious
visions. We know, in other words, that there are more things in
Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in Freud's (or Lamarck's)
philosophy.
Besides, neither of those two gents had the experience of
staying awake with their friends and neighbors for three months
straight. Who's to say that in that time we didn't become some
advanced form of volvox, that communal creature formed of

thousands of individuals linked together in a spiky ball, that
moves, eats, and, for all I remember of high school bio, lives
and dies en masse?
Kay told me of a summer in which her sister worked as an
actress in a dinner theatre production in North Carolina. Far
from their homes and routines in New York, the small cast of the
show began after about three days on the road to dream about
one another. And women, we know, will start to coordinate their
menses when they work together for any length of time. Given
all that, after so much intense and unfathomable experience
together, why should not the residents of Cicely share on the

occasion of their reunion with Orpheus the same dream?
210
Easy to say. Vexing to contemplate. leave the hard-science
I
theorizing to Drs. Robertson and Fleischman and the other

professionals. As for me, I could use a nap.
Let's stay in touch, Teach.
Best regards,
Chris Stevens
CICELY, ALASKA
907-555-8610
5 June
Ms. Kim Basinger

do Weisman, Miller & Davis :
11 00 Avenue of the Stars

Century City, CA
Dear Ms. Basinger:
1 hardly knov^ v^here to start, other than to beg you to accept my

apology you received, or rather did not receive,
for the reception
on the afternoon of June 1. can well imagine your discomfort
1
and perplexity upon debarking from the plane. There you vêre
with your entourage, expecting to be met, as I had promised, by
me and my entourage. Instead, no one was there.
The explanation is, Ms. Basinger, that we fell asleep —suddenly,

totally, the entire town. Which means, as you no doubt have
inferred, that the sunspot anomaly that had kept everyone awake
has abated. It seems to have disappeared forever, or at least thus
far, which means that once again we are sleeping and waking
normally.
211
I am under no delusion that a normal Cicely in which people hit
the hay at nighttime like everyone else in the world is as

attractive an investment you as the previous, anom-
possibility to
alous Cicely. But let me add that what we now lack in electro-
magnetic brain-altering potential we more than make up for in
gorgeous scenery, ample outdoor recreational attractions, and a
congenial local population the likes of which guarantee you I
won't find within a two hundred-mile radius of Los Angeles.

Believe me, have spent time there visiting JPL, and
1 know I
whereof speak. 1
If that sounds good to you, either for investment or personal

recreational reasons, then do not hesitate to contact me. I
promise to meet your plane next time. And thanks for your
interest in our town, Cicely, the Saint Tropez of the Alaskan
Riviera.
Yours truly,
Maurice Minnifield
JUNE 7
Dear Rudy and Matthew,

Well 1 hardly know where to start. In any case, you'll notice
that this is a xerox. I have no intention of writing this twice, and
I want
don't either of you to feel slighted. So I'm keeping the
original and you both get copies.
know my good friend Ed has been writing to you boys,
I
keeping you up to date on the events of the past three months.

I'm sorry couldn't do it myself, but you will have to believe me
I
when say that this is my first free moment have had. Running
I I
the Post Office alone has been a full-time job, and by "full time"
I mean during this period. mean 24 hours a day. People were
I
writing letters like you wouldn't believe—which is not so bad for

me, of course, since all have to do is sell them stamps and fill
I
212
up the canvas bags. But they have also been getting mail,
magazines, and catalogues. Poor Leon, wha flies in the mail
from Anchorage, pulled a muscle in his back unloading one of
the bags and is filing for workman's compensation. He deserves
it.
So do 1, although I have had help. Ed, Maggie, and others have

been just wonderful. The store has been besieged
^when you're —
awake twice as long, you use up supplies twice as fast. Espe-
cially snack foods and light bulbs. And all that incoming mail
has to be sorted, you know.

One of our girls joined some book club and has been receiv-
ing hundreds, thousands of books. They're piling up in boxes in
the back. And this is a girl who rarely reads anything more
challenging than teen magazines. I've been nominal librarian of
Cicely's nominal library, but until now it's consisted of three

shelves of remainders and paperbacks. Suddenly we've got a
catalogue bigger than the Anchorage Public Library. Fortunately
Maurice Minnifield said he would contribute the storefront
where Dr. Robertson had set up shop. So Cicely will be getting a
new library, all thanks to Shelly Tambo. My god, life is peculiar.
Speaking of Dr. Robertson, he's gone back to Philadelphia. 1
don't know what if anything will come of his research. Maggie

O'Connell is flying again and is just delighted. And speaking of
Maurice, he strikes me as looking rather sad. He claims he
almost arranged for Cicely to be bought by Kim Basinger, the
actress! But the deal fell through when she and her entourage
arrived on the 1st.
You should hear Maurice describe what happened when Miss

Basinger and her people came to inspect Cicely. We were all
still no one met them at the landing field. Somehow
asleep. So
they made their way into town and discovered the entire popu-
lation just snoozing away. Maurice says Ms. Basinger thought
that we were all dead. She took one look at all the bodies lying
around on the street and in the church and deduced that there
must have been so much opposition to a Hollywood movie star
buying Cicely that we all committed suicide, like at Masada. Her
213
assistant said something like, "My God, it's another Jonestown,"
and they all fled. I wish I could have seen that.
Still, I'm not really sure it actually happened. Most people find
the very notion of anyone (let alone Maurice) selling Cicely to
be so outrageous, they simply don't believe it. It's probably a
good thing for Maurice they don't.
Another thing that was hard to believe was our production of
Guys and Dolls. had a small role as the commander of the
1
Salvation Army. It gave me an ideal perspective from which I
witnessed what was certainly the most absurd and ridiculous

theatrical production in history. And I include in that the version
you were in, Matt, of Death of a Salesman, in high school, and
Rudy, your famous Thanksgiving Pageant in 4th grade. Or was it
vice-versa? Did they do Death of a Salesman in fourth grade?

Even if they did, this was worse.
For one thing, Maurice cast himself as Sky Masterson, the
dynamic and sexy gambler who wins the heart of cold, upright
Sarah Brown, a Salvation Army sergeant. And he cast Barbara
Semanski, a state trooper he's sweet on, as Sarah. It was a
prescription for musical comedy disaster. Maurice may be dy-
namic, and there may be some who consider him sexy (I don't
think Barbara does), but he cannot act his way out of a paper
bag, and his singing compares unfavorably with the mating call
of themoose who walks through town once a month.
Sky has a song, "My Time of Day," with an odd, modern-type
melody. Well, Maurice must have decided the hell with it, that
he would do a Rex Harrison and just talked it. It came out like
one of his blowhard monologues —terrible. Now Barbara has a
surprisingly serviceable voice. But she has to giggle drunkenly
and say, "Ask me how do feel" at the start of "If Were a Bell."
I I
Well, her "ask me how do feel," delivered in her gruff state-

I
trooper voice, came out like a dare, as though if you did get up
the nerve to ask her, she'd sock you in the chops and tell you it
was none of your damn business.
When they sang a duet, "I've Never Been in Love Before,"
people in the audience just looked at each other. Backstage, I
realized that if I gave in and started to respond to this perform-
214
ance with the laughter it deserved, might never stop laughing I
for the rest of my life. They would have to cart me away. Still, it
might have been worth it, for a laugh like that.
It and for a second or two

got worse. Chris Stevens tried hard,
did make us believe he was Nathan Detroit; and Shelly, opposite
him, was just darling as Miss Adelaide. But the supporting men
were dreadful, and their dance in "Luck Be a Lady" was like
watching men do aerobics at gunpoint. The women in the
chorus behind Shelly ('The Hot Box Girls") sang 'Take Back
Your Mink" and danced in their chorus line like little girls playing
dress-up.
And then . . . well, a little into the second act, I began to
notice that the response from the audience was getting less
enthusiastic. had thought that was due to people realizing what
I
a travesty they were witnessing, but when had a scene onstage I
1 looked out, and sure enough: some people in the audience

were asleep!
can't tell you how strange that was. At one point, everyone
I
in the cast realized what was happening, and we all knew it was
a race against time. We had to get to the end of the show before
everyone passed So people began rushing their lines,
out.
motioning "come on, come on" with their hands, fighting off
yawns Those who managed to get through a scene with all
. . .
the characters still awake would beam delightedly at each other,

then run off and make room for the next scene. Chorus members
and people without would simply collapse onstage, like
lines
soldiers being shot. mean
they would simply crumple without
I
warning and lie there. Pretty soon the bodies were falling faster
than stage hands could drag them off. At one point Maurice,
who was the director, stopped in the middle of a line, yawned
like a great big lion, stepped up to the edge of the stage, and
spoke to Marilyn, who was at the piano.

"You're the lynchpin, Marilyn," he said grimly. "We can do
without anyone except you. Stay with me, little lady. We can
beat this thing." Marilyn just nodded and kept on playing. You
know, it reminded me of that movie, A Night to Remember, about
the sinking of the Titanic. The orchestra kept playing even as the
215
ship listed terribly and sank faster and faster. Well, that was
Marilyn — game, stalwart, a trouper to the end. Finally, Maurice
himself couldn't take it any more. He sat down on the stage,
leaned up against some scenery, and said, "Marilyn, 1 take back
everything said about you. You've been superb," and fell asleep.
1
Ed Chigliak did a heartfelt rendition of "Sit Down You're

Rocking the Boat" with exactly two people backing him in the
chorus, yawning and leaning on each other and wiping their
eyes. After the final crescendo he turned to the audience, arms
out, and four people clapped. They were almost drowned out by
the snores. Ed shrugged and lay down on the stage and then he
was gone, too. The last thing saw before dropped off was the
I 1
—
few visitors we had two of Shelly's friends from Dawson City,
John Newton from an Anchorage radio station, Chris's brother
—
Bernard from Portland standing up in the audience and watch-
ing as everyone around them snuffled and snored away. The
stage was covered with bodies, like the end of Hamlet. Marilyn
closed the cover of the piano keys, folded up the sheet music,
and put her head down.
Needless to say, there was no curtain call.
We all slept for a day and a half, and it felt wonderful. We had
all thought that our continually being awake was not having any
adverse effect on us, but things did seem nicer after that long
sleep. Looking back I think we were all under a strain whether
we knew it or not. Everyone was surly, irritable, and carped
about things concerning other people they normally just ignore
or don't even notice. Did mention that we all had the same
I
dream? That was unusual.

As for me, I'm glad it's over. I'm finally cleaning out the store
and the post office. found some junk mail that "forgot" to
I I
sort, some old magazines, and oh, there was one thing do feel 1
badly about. It was a letter written by Joel Fleischman the first
day he ever came here. It was addressed to his fiance (at the
time), Elaine, and it has me wondering whether their relation-
ship might not have endured if had not misplaced it. I guess 1
we'll never know. Perhaps it might have ended sooner! have no 1
idea what is in it. 1 intended to give it to Joel, but when asked 1
216
Ed for it he said he sent it out with the rest of the outgoing mail.
So maybe Elaine will receive it after all. I wonder what she'll
think?
I'll tell Joel what happened, but how he'll react I haven't a
clue. 1 would not even begin to try to fathom his personal affairs.
Now that we've returned to status quo, the whole town has shook
hands and made up. But Joel and Maggie keep right on bicker-
ing— not as harshly as during the past three months, but still. It
has always struck me as somewhat unfortunate. The entire town
can see that they're made for each other, but they refuse to
acknowledge it. Maybe that's the new way.
But what do know? You'd think that the older you get, the
I
wiser you become, and the more you understand life. The
opposite is true with me. All see now are contradictions of
I
what assumed a wise person would "know." Is that my wis-

I
dom? That, in the end, wisdom itself is baloney? It looks like it.
AH can say after this whole odd experience is you boys do
I
yourselves a favor: get old, but take nothing for granted. Nothing.
Not even sleep.
Love,
Mother
6/12/90
My Darling Elaine,
This is unbelievable, a total outrage. They've stuck me in
this cabin, this hunting lodge in the middle of nowhere, I'm like
a defector in a Le Carre novel, in a safe house somewhere in the
German woods. My landlady is this snippy girl pilot, you know,
—
Annie Oakley/Amelia Earhart ^who, okay, made the mistake of I
speaking to her thinking she was a hooker, so she was conceiv-

ably justified in being offended Actually you would have . . .
been pleased at my response to her, something like, "No thanks,

honey, happen to be engaged to a knockout." Which you are.
I
But this is a nightmare. Waiting all day for your call at that
cafe — I felt like a leper, no, check that, I felt like a healthy
217
person surrounded by lepers. Of course the owner did bring me
a sandwich, gratis, without my asking, which was nice of him.
But this is not my scene. These are not my people. Lumberjacks
with beer bellies and flannel shirts? 1 didn't sign up for this.
So, seriously, 1know you're busy, but please, pull every

possible string, make every possible phone call. We're talking
about four years! You have got to get me out of this. This two-
block main street with storefronts and moose antlers all over
everything! This cabin — ^you heat it with a wood stove. And the
natives, my will eat me alive. YES. IT IS
God, what a group, they
A QUESTION OF PERSONAL SURVIVAL. A runty, fast-talking Jew
from New York is going to ask them to take off their clothes (and
their wives' doihesW) and touch them? And play doctor? This is
all wrong. For everyone's sake. Everyone. Help. For God's sake,
honey. I'm in big trouble here. Help.
/ love you.
Joey
PS — I don't mean to be obnoxious. But there is just a complete

mismatch of doctor and community here. can't even approach I
it like an anthropologist and be "interested" in the primitiveness
of it all. Not for four years, my God. Quaint for a day, okay. BUT
FOUR YEARS! It would NOT be "good" for me, like that duplici-
It would be bad
tous, disingenuous, lying jerk Pete Gilliam said.
forme. For everyone. Very bad. These people don't want me,
and don't want them. If they can't trust and feel comfortable
I
with their physician, what's the point?

And as for me, my God. What can I possibly learn from these
people?
218
I
If
I
N ALASKA, THE SKY IS BLUER, THE AIR IS CLEANER, AND THE
>EOPLE ARE STRANGER...MUCH STRANGER. NOW, FROM THE
OVERSTUFFED MAILBAG IN RUTH-ANNE'S GENERAL STORE,
ENTER THE WILD AND WACKY WORLD OF
NORTHERN
EXPOSURE
March 12
Dear Jeff,
So you found me, eh? I assume my mother told
you on the phone what she tells everyone else
(and me) when she refers to my current
situation: "Jo-el is giving checkups to Eskimos
at the North Po-el. " This is a gross distortion of
the truth, which is already horrible enough.
They are not Eskimos. They are Inuit Indians.
And we are hundreds of miles from the North
Pole.
But it is Alaska.
Picture a small town in the moimtains, lots of
woods and meadows, deer in your backyard,
bear at your back door, a native population of
Indians, a non-native population of eccentrics
and loners and visionaries and wackos, and
about ten feet of snow each winter. Which starts
around Columbus Day and lasts imtil further
notice.... Whichmeans, alas, that I will not be
able to attend your birthday party. So Happy
Birthday in advance.
Putting the Alas back in Alaska,
rious, touching and downrishf&^^culiar, LETTERS FROM CICELY

,!!! and*^^
eals the innermost thoughts of the whole "Northern
—
xposure" gang Fleischman, O'Connmkâurice Minnifield, Chris "In
the Morning" Stevens, Ed Chigliak, arwôre. Grab this chance to
lore the lives of the colorful denizeri|<Df Cicely, Alaska. It's like
barstool at Roslyn'&gafe- -without the
mooseburgers.
PRINTED INU.§.A.

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A book by El

Based on the Universal television series "Northern Exposure"

For details write the office of the Vice President of

An Original publication of Pocket Books

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

Copyright © 1992 by MCA Publishing Rights, a Division of MCA, Inc.

from Cicely / by Ellis Weiner; based on the Universal television series

First Pocket Books trade paperback printing May 1992

Printed in the U.S.A.

means the meadows around my house will be blooming with a

you're in Pittsburgh! They say, contrary to what they say, it's

nice. And you're a Legal Services attorney. I'm impressed. But

for four years.

This is not exactly where I expected to end up after med

I serve as in-house doc for four years in a sub-Arctic hellhole.

plan to get used to any day

stop halfway down my forearms. look like one of those de- I

hillbillies you see on Appalachian

"hillbillies" politically incorrect? I meant, "Lower-Class, Rural,

Gene-Pool Challenged Americans.")

PS — I know. At camp we were seventeen. Now we're — ^well,

you're — thirty. (Me, not quite.) Sorry.

Okay, I know 1 wrote you three months ago,

moved and said let's stay in touch. You wrote

swear —and feeling very . . . thoughtful.

saving for a new one.

Sound vague? It is vague. don't approve of him, but kind of

White Plains? It's "next to impossible" to find a "really first-rate

Staph-Bdised Forms of Acute pyelonephritis Infections" will be

up here, where most people's idea of medical intervention is to

Meanwhile, in answer to your question, do not "scope out" I

the "babes" up here, because we do not have

Tops, total, all-inclusive, the entire

an ingrown toenail. (This is what get in my "practice." Ingrown

toenails, wives stabbing their husbands with vegetable peelers,

of a lab coat should wear a barbecue apron with big letters

reading FOR THIS WENT TO MED SCHOOL?)

Egyptians worshiped? Whose dogs were they the reincarnations

women do you suppose can be assembled?

see her tomorrow —^which is actually today, since I'm writing

got crushed when he tried to open a can of Bud with an axe.

What about Hello, Dolly!?

cause am a native Oklahoman, and because that show's

guess 1 should say challenging letter. I'm extremely gratified that

describe me as "the most important person in the universe." I

mean to say, yes, an improvisatory way about

certain philosophical and religious subjects, but then so do

chemically dependent on the sauce.) So while I'm glad you find

no way to have a peak experience. But unless there is perspec-

body on the night of last December 16th and encountering yours

it returned to my body, which, you say, was "clad in red tartan-

I finally read a review in a magazine of that biography

snow. By the time you get to your destination you expect it to be

Holling says to find a hobby, like learn a foreign language.

speak English anyway. 1 mean, what am going to do, go to

not all it's cracked up to be." So we decided on a compromise.

I'm going to learn to drink drinks with labels in foreign lan-

night, for the second night in a row. It is Monday night, and we

around. We write letters, we watch tv, Holling looks at photog-

you'd be home by now.