May 23, 2028
Dear Michael,
I have to say, the past six days have been nothing short of a trial, but I imagine they've been the same for you.
I arrived this week in a ghastly wooded town the name of which I'm sure I don't know. I'm sure it was quaintly carved in relief on a Boy Scout Jamboree arts-and-crafts project sign and posted in clear sight on the one road leading into, or out of, what I can only imagine would referred to in punched up copy as a "quiet little 'burb", or possibly, a "great place to escape the modernity of the world" (which as I'm sure you've learned in all your travels means little more than "best of luck finding brioche".
I sauntered in at dusk looking for nothing other than a slice of rest and some spirits to ease my mood before continuing on this little quest of mine. Firstly, for a town that has nothing attracting people to it, and no one out and about that I can speak of, it was near impossible to find a place to hang my hat for a day or three that didn't already have some wretched body making a mess of the linens.
Secondly, you'd think the "folks 'round here" had never been informed of the Twenty-First Amendment. Every self-service watering-hole I stumbled upon here seems to have been picked clean with an efficiency I could only attribute to Andrew Volstead himself. I managed to scrounge up a few bottles of Pinot that I have nursed for these past six days, but I am dangerously close to drying up, if you'll excuse the pun.
In my last letter I told you of my growing despair at feeling as though I'd not had a conversation with another living being in what felt like a coon's age. I can tell you this quaint little 'burb has provided me little opportunity to rectify that. You'd think based on the silence screaming through the streets (or street, as would be apt) that the working day started at 8:00 sharp, and there was some town ordinance-d bed-time that kicked in at 8:01.
How are things in Southhold? Marie told me, last time we spoke, you were working with animals now. Curing their diseases or something of the sort. I never pictured you the veterinarian type, but thinking back on our University days, you always had a way with curing what ailed us. I do hope you're not subjecting those poor little doggies with your Brandy Alexander’s, or whatever it was you used to fashion from all the rums and juices we could scrounge from the kitchen. I never thought they sounded pleasant, but in this state, I'd quaff it down with great speed.
Speaking of drinks (and when have you ever found me otherwise?) there doesn't seem to be a single functioning percolator in this entire damned town. I spent two days yearning for the sweet release of natures perfected bean, and, as you'll see in the enclosed photograph, I've gone to great depths to find it. The pictured cafe is where I currently find myself, enjoying a fine cup of coffee and writing you, all the while trying to keep the locals form accosting me at every stoke of the pen.
I suppose its about time to seek closure in this letter. I'll drop it in the post box outside the passable inn where I've been resting my weary feet this week. I do hope it reaches you, although I fear it may fall short as I feel I haven't seen a mailman in weeks.
Give Joanne my best, and tell little Bryson and James that I'll have plenty of stories to share with them the next time I'm in Gardiners Bay.
With love,
Wesley
PS: I read a headline in the paper saying this whole mess may have started in your area. I hope you're not involved in any of this. What would mother say?
