I Must Say

i got the funniest rejection letter ever, from Thieves Jargon, this morning. I'd heard that their rejections were unique (i vaguely remember something about them 'having the balls' to tell it straight, or something), but i hadn't suspected what i got; it was exceptionally so, to say the least. Oddly hilarious, hilariously odd; a great, stringed non sequitur. Though the messenger, Mark Baumer, does write pieces like this, and others with titles such as 'Take Your Mustache and Leave'. It was practically a piece in itself, and as such i've asked Baumer permission to put it here. I hope it's okay.

3/9/07: Have the go-ahead. I really am inclined to consider this a piece of non-fiction, and perhaps thus a guest blog. . . . I'm just confused and happy.

Dear Mr. Doran,

Your story, the "Mochafucka-Anus Grande," is being rejected by Thieves Jargon. I did not make this decision. I do not make these decisions. I am only the messenger. It's a new gig, sending regret to rejected souls. I am not quite sure what my limits and responsibilities are. I like to think I'm as capable as any average functional human.

As I was reading your story, I was reminded of when I was a child and my mother took me to get a haircut. I don't remember what style I asked for, but I'm sure my mother told the hairdresser to give me the little boys cut.

Not that I want to get completely off topic, but there was another time when I went to the hairdresser and asked for a flat top. It was early 1991 and I was watching a lot of Atlanta Braves games. An outfielder named Lonnie Smith introduced me into the world of black style and, like any rural New England white boy wishing he were black, I wanted a flat top just like him. Of course, the hairdresser would tell me I didn't have the necessary hair qualities to support a flat top. My hair was straight, stringy, and fell in my face. Later in 1991, Lonnie's base running blunders would eventually lead to a World Series defeat.

Now, getting back to the original reason why I brought up the topic of childhood haircuts and the particular memory your story invoked. The hairdresser, forever a novice in my mind, had trouble around my ears and snipped the right one with her scissors, leaving a little scratch. I imagine your character would have done the same thing. Only he wouldn't have been apologetic. "That was no mistake little boy. Bleed child and let your mind get woozy," he'd say only in a semi Irish accent that I refuse to attempt. In fact, I'm not sure he wouldn't cut off my whole ear and wear it around his neck as a trophy or maybe he'd staple it to his forehead and go laugh at the cheetahs in the zoo. A big joke to him, the laughter an endless stream, but if he cut off my right ear, then I'd never hear a single chuckle because my left ear has always been lazy.

I'm not sure why the editors of thieves jargon didn't accept your story. They had their reasons. I only know that I didn't enjoy indirectly thinking about getting my ear cut off while reading your story. If your story had been straight forward about a twenty-something college graduate coming to the realization that he was a deaf and had been missing his right ear for fifteen years after a crazed barber took the ear as a trophy and wore it as a medallion then I would have very much enjoyed your story. Of course, then you would have to worry about not having an audience of more than one.

"The power of an attitude is amazing."

As for the "Mochafuckaanusgrande" part of the story. I understand your attempt at humor, but my previous work history leaves me with little sympathy when dismissing it as childish and petty. I'm afraid I have to add another enemy to my list. The days of serving up ten-thousand coffees in an hour are behind me, but there is still a little bitterness in having to remake a person's coffee three times because according to them I put in too much sweet n low and then too little before settling on the right amount. All the while I had been putting in the same amount of counterfeit sugar.

"And I sat in the seat and faced what I had concealed from myself."

It basically comes down to the fact that I don't really like the word anus. I never laughed at the jokes about the eighth planet from the sun. It now gives me shudders. One day I may write a short story about a character named anus and then eat the story when I am finished. You may laugh at the mental picture of me eating my own...but I think this is what it will take to overcome some of my apprehension surrounding the word.

"My departure was flight, but I did do one formal and sentimental thing before I turned my back."

My father took me to a naked bar once and the whole evening these cowboys drank and threw little pieces of wet napkin at me. It was when the blonde one, her face a setting sun, hit me in the eye that I began to cry.

Sincerely,

Mark Baumer