Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

14

Dear Larry,

I ought to know better than to write you this letter. You’ll probably send a copy of it to my father, or to The New York Times, or God only knows where. And I get the feeling that the more I ask you not to, the more likely it is that you will, which gives me pause. I’ve always said that you were the strangest person I’ve ever known. That’s your charm, sugar loaf, but it’s also your downfall. I think right now your madness has taken its strangest form to date. I’ve heard of dancing manias and praying manias. There was a poet, Christopher Smart, who used to make his friends fall down in the streets of London and pray with him. They tucked him away in Bedlam. Samuel Johnson said he didn’t think the man was all that mad, and that he’d as soon fall down and pray in the streets with Kit Smart as anyone else in London.

Why am I telling you this? I think it’s because there’s nobody to talk to about anything much more complex than the weather and baseball. Dammit, I miss New York. It’s nice breathing fresh air, but it gives you all this energy, lover, and then you have nothing to do with it because you’re in Richmond. Or rather I’m in Richmond.

But to get back to you. You seem to have a correspondence mania, and I don’t understand it, but I can see where it might be fun. And at least you’re writing something. You know, sometimes I think that’s why I left you. You were a writer and you weren’t writing anything, and that went against the grain of the old Protestant Ethic, of which I suppose I’m still a willing captive.

Hmmmm. Why, indeed, am I telling you this? I guess to warn you to be careful of Father. You know about his bark. His bite is even worse. Please do not provoke him.

You’re going to send him this fucking letter. I just know you are. Dammit, don’t.

Well, Richmond is beginning to get to me, as I think I said. I’m getting the old urge for a trip to Big Town. Thought I might come up next weekend and take in a couple of shows. Maybe I’ll give you a ring and we can gripe about old times or something.

If I thought you could be trusted, I would make you a deal. I know you can’t, but I’ll offer the deal anyway. If you’ll quit mailing things to Daddy, especially this letter, I’ll stop trying to get blood from your turnip. In other words, I’ll lay off on the alimony demands until you start to get things together.

On the other hand, Larry love, if you decide to be a total rat bastard and send this to Daddy, I’m going to drop the reins and give him his head. He has been telling me to have you thrown in jail for nonpayment of alimony. I have been telling him not to be silly, because how could you earn money to pay me if you were in jail? Still, prison would keep you from mailing any objectionable letters, so if you force my hand, you’ll get locked up, darling.

You can still send me letters, though. Stories about your various escapades and all. I’d like to hear more about your role as Mad Poet with those damsels, for example. It’s something to read whilst playing with myself. I’ve rediscovered masturbation lately, which should give you an idea of the social swim here in Richmond. Incidentally, masturbation is a lot more fun when you’re old enough to know what you’re doing. Like youth, it’s largely wasted on the young.

I’ll call you when I get to town.