THE INVISIBLE MAN

My Dear Mrs. C.,

I am hoping that you will be able to read my letter, considering the fact that I am apparently, invisible. Or should I say “transparently” invisible. Ha Ha.

No, I am not mad, as in crazy, as in koo koo bananas. This all started from the time I was a small child.

I grew up in the days where a child would be allowed to leave the house and play outside unattended for hours at a time from the age of three. I used to see the darndest things, m’aam. The lady next door inviting the milkman in for twenty minutes of what I realize now was a brisk round of copulation. I witnessed the woman across the street throwing her dog’s poo across the fence of her next door neighbor. Things like this. And I wasn’t hiding. The milkman walked right in front of me on his way into Mrs. Chasen’s house and Mrs. Gilrooty across the street almost threw one day’s poo right on top of my head, turning back into her house afterwards without seeing me.

I would return to my house to tell my mother this, but she would be on the phone and not see me at all, even though I was jumping up and down up and down, sometimes with bloody wounds from falling on the outside concrete. I would dress my own wounds and wonder at my human status.

Cut to today. I go to restaurants with my family and the waiter or waitress takes everyone’s order but mine. I sit in meetings at work where the boss will actually ask “I wonder what Gerald thinks of all this.” I am Gerald. He refers to me as absent even when I am sitting right across from him. Once I threw a spit ball at him and he looked up and said “That’s odd.”

I’m finally tired of this, Mrs. C. I have no idea what is going on with me. What can I do to finally become visible in this world?

Yours sincerely,

Gerald.

Dear Gerald,

Goodness, hon, you are missing some fabulous opportunities! Like taking the cash from a parked Brink’s truck. Or procuring your Christmas gifts at no charge. Though I really cannot recommend that as it would be highly illegal so don’t do those things. O.K. I never said that…….

You might never achieve visibility if what you suffer is a genetically inherited condition, and I suspect that it is. I’ve heard of these things before and they seem to run in families. I’ll wager your mom or dad had the same problems.

The most you can do is experiment with wild things. Go out and get a giant tattoo on your forehead that says “HONK IF YOU SEE ME!” Have your face pierced in your nose, eyebrow, ears and wherever else you can manage. I don’t like the tongue piercings. Too many cracked teeth. In your piercings, place little battery-powered lights that blink on and off. Have your hair cut in a mohawk and have a message shaved on the sides of your scalp. Something provocative I should think, like “I’m going to punch you in 3 seconds if you don’t say hello to me.” Then actually punch someone who doesn’t say hello.

Dress very punk. Lots of leather and chains. Take up chewing tobacco and spit it out right in front of people. Walk directly up to people and say things like “Excuse me, but your shoe is covered in shit.” Or, “Pardon me, but your private parts are exposed.” See if that gets any reaction.

At restaurants, when the waiter or waitress comes to take your order, stand up and shout it into their face. Perhaps carry a flare in your jacket and light it if they don’t hear you then.

Extreme measures are called for, hon. Lest you seep into a different dimension not of your own choosing. Tell your family what you’re doing, and if they do not hear you, cut messages into their clothes with scissors.

Best of luck to you Gerald. This is a tough dilemma, but with persistence and determination….with persist….hello? Helllllloooo? I must be talking to myself again….

I.B. Crabby

Just suck it up, hon!

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinteresttumblr

Tell Mrs. Crabby all!