Birdie

Chancellor,

At this point, I figure we're skipped the fucking formalities, hmm, sweet boy? I know, you told me in your last letter not to call you Chancellor. I like it better than Robert. Definitely like it way better than Chance. Weebie told me that you weren't expecting me to be so polite, to be so..articulate. You thought I was going to write like I was raised in the gutter, yes? No. The country, yes. Gutter, no.

Anyways, ask Weebie to show you some pictures of me if you're curious. You have to be, right? I mean you are a man, even if this is only a budding friendship. Instead of beating around the bush, I'll just go ahead and say this: I want your picture. I want to see what you look like. You're the first person I've ever written, feel like I'm talking to myself, and what I am not is crazy. I hate dropping hints.

So, how are you? How has your work been since the last time I got a letter from you? Tell me everything, what you ate for lunch, what you wore, ev.ry.thing. I live for the details, boy. I really want to end this letter here, but I might as well get my money's worth, yeah? I guess I'll tell you what I've been up to then.

A few days ago, I tested out poetry. No go for me, bud. It sounded and felt like I was trying too hard, so I gave that up relatively quickly. I've read three books this week: Till We Have Faces, a volume of Poe, and Catcher in the Rye. I hate that book. I'm learning to sew, too. Cool, huh? Excuse the choppiness, I really don't know how to write, how to speak in my writing. I figure the more I talk to you, the easier this will turn out to be, so I'm not too worried. You seem really, really nice, and funny too, so I think we'll get along fine. I hope you have a great rest of the day, and I hope to get a response!

Carmen.

At the bottom of the letter, she had drawn a puppy with such care that Chance found he couldn't help the smile that he found growing on his lips.

Cute.

Her handwriting was really neat, unlike his own, like she had taken her time forming each letter with the black pen she had used. Even when he tried that, Chance found his handwriting somewhere along the equivalent of being the cursive version of chicken scratch. Nice.

Chance sat at his kitchen table, still grinning at the stationery in his hands. He looked down upon it once more, then stood up, in search of a pen and paper for himself. He had some time to at least start writing back.

Ms. Carmen,

Chancellor is fine, but only for you. Not even my mother calls me by that God forsaken name. To everyone else, I'm usually just Robert, Rob, or Robbie, though I'm sure you already know this. You seem to be a curious little thing from what I've gathered from Wesley, or as you say, Weebie. I'm going to have to try that on him sometime. I didn't mean any offense when I told Wes that I was...shocked at how well-spoken you are, I was just... feeding into a stereotype about the people who end up in jail, and that was my fault. I apologize. My momma taught me better than to assume, but sometimes I find myself doing just that without even knowing. Sorry again. I'll make sure it doesn't happen a second time. I'll also be sure to enclose a picture just for you it might take a while to find one, may have to ask my Mom for one, because I don't take them too often. No point, you know?

Work for me was fine. I had a long day today, and a strange call during my lunch break that turned out to be some type of office calling to see if I wanted a cubicle job. I told them that I didn't want it. I like working construction. We started on a Discovery Center for the kids around here, should be finished before the years up, but I don't know if my bosses are going to keep me on it, because a few days ago, they were talking about moving me to the new project that the company's doing on Broad St., tearing up all the roads and doin' em up all new, with a bridge too, to cut down on traffic. I wore the normal to work, jeans, boots, and my grey t-shirt, now covered in dirt and sweet. Cute, I know. For lunch, I just ran into some sandwich shop, and then when I clocked out, I came straight home, where I am now as I sit at my kitchen table and write you back.

You should let me see your poems, huh? I'll be the judge of how good or bad they are, and hey, maybe you can sew me up something sometime.

I just noticed that I'm answering your letter in a top-down fashion, but that's the way to do it, I reckon. I'll have to ask someone. Anyways, I don't think choppiness is going to be a problem, you're still learning me out. We'll be best buds before you know it, I can feel it.

-Chancellor

P.S. If my handwriting is too bad, you just tell me, and I'll type my letters if it's too much trouble to read my letters.

Like it did when he focused extremely hard on something, Chance's tongue peeked between his lips as he tried to doodle a little rabbit in the margin. It was mediocre at best, with two crooked, asymmetrical ears, and a nose that was too big for his little body. The tail looked like a tumble weed.

"And that is when I say fuck it," Chance mumbled as he dropped the black ballpoint pen he was using.

He hadn't even taken the time to take his shoes off, rushing to open the letter when he was who it was from. He had never felt so giddy to open mail, but maybe that was because it wasn't a bill for once.

The black steel-toed work boots were kicked off the second he realized they were still a part of his body, and they landed in two sound and separate thuds on the opposite side of his quaint little dining room.

The shirt came off next, followed by his pants, until he was standing in the middle of the living room, cell phone in hand. He dialed in the number he knew from heart, and then cradled the device between his shoulder and ear as he went to work closing the blinds.

"Momma? Hey. Do you have any recent...." He cut himself off as he fumbled with the blinds that refused to turn inwards, "Any recent pictures of me? Yeah? Could ya email me one or two of 'em?"

Now all he needed was an envelope, a stamp, and said picture, and then he could send the little letter back to little Miss Carmen.

He was feeling real giddy, like he did back when he was in Pre-K, and his teacher, Ms. Jackie had the class write letters to Santa, and then put them in the big mailbox at the end of the big kids' hall at the school. Just like back then, when he was barely four, he was praying for a speedy response.