What I Look Like These Days

Dear J,

The boy racers are at it again. They're leaving fat, muddy tiretracks all over the front lawn. They're running all over the fledgling tangerine trees that we planted two summers ago. In the seat next to them, their Singapore girlfriends distractedly pick from the leftovers of their Malaysian red and white paper to-go food containers. The sound of their cars have faded, but I'm still unsure if it is safe to go outside or not yet.



Dear J,

No. Well, yes. I *did* see the film, but no, I didn't think of the main character as an eponymous hero, rather, I saw her as an inveterate cataloguer. Sort of like me. Father and I finished putting up the cement wall around the yard yesterday. If you were here I'm sure you'd say, “He's building a wall to keep me out.” But I'd rather you think with fondness about it as a security barrier for our tangerines.



Dear J,

I see what you mean. Yes, I *should* have a key. The only person I see any more is the postal delivery man, and I have to be careful to look like I am leaving my room inadvertently at the same time he arrives. Luckily, I can see him from my bedroom window when he comes around the corner.



Dear J,

I haven't heard from you in a long time. Maybe he's intercepting the letters.



Dear J,

I'm so glad you wrote. Father is building the wall higher. I can't see when the postal worker is coming any more. I can't see the boy racers and their Hong Kong raver girlfriends. I can't see the Korean BBQ stand across the street, but I can tell when they are cooking the pork, because the sweet smell of chili marinade and burning kimchi drifts over and through my open window. I can hear father coming up the steps now, because the third stair creaks.



J.

Please don't ever forget me.



J.

He's just about walled off the rest of the world now. It is all he does all day long. I've taken to throwing these letters over the wall when he isn't looking. I hope somebody will pick them up and deliver them. I pray that somebody will affix the proper postage.



J.

I'm so hungry that I can't stop throwing up. I tried climbing over the wall yesterday, but father has hired some of the boy racers to keep watch. They lean against the huge spoilers on the backs of their Toyotas and Mitsubishis and smoke thinly-rolled cigarettes. The bbq sizzles meat all day long. It makes me ravenous. I hate them and their teensy girlfriends too. I was wrong about the girlfriends though, they are from Laos, not Singapore or Hong Kong. Father keeps me locked away now, but I have other ways to escape, don't worry.



J.

It has been years since I've heard from you. The orchid only bloomed once, but it still sprouts leaves. I hope you are well. The tangerine trees are shriveled and nearly dead and I've chewed off all of my fingernails. Sometimes I chew the ends of my fingers until they bleed. I hope I can get outside long enough to throw this over the wall. I know the boy racers are waiting on the other side to intercept it, but what can I do. J, I'm not sure that you ever even existed. Did you?



Dear J,

Things are looking up. But I can't really talk about that right now.



J.

If I was able to receive the letters that you were sending, I'm sure you'd ask me what I look like these days. Let me tell you one thing , I'm still as beautiful as ever. I work out here in my little room. My stomach muscles are taut and I still have smooth, symmetrical little calves that run into my ankles. You remember the tattoos winding around? The duck and the feather. The vine and the grape. I look good enough to be a boy racer girlfriend, that's for sure. I'm a little more pale now and father says my eyes are transparent and it makes people uncomfortable, but my hair falls over my shoulders exactly the way you remember. I tell him that it doesn't matter because I don't see any people anyway. That shuts him up. I wish you were here to see it.



J.

I think he's dead, but I can't be sure. I poked his body with a fork and then with a rolled up Sunday New York Times. He doesn't move. It has been like this for a few days. He's played dead before though, so I can't be too sure. Still, if he wants to play dead that's his damned business. I found some stamps in the bureau, underneath the rusty paperclips. I found a picture of some woman I don't know there too.



J.

He still hasn't moved. It is creepy having him lay there, just pretending. It is almost impossible to sleep. I think I broke the skin when I poked him, but nothing really came out so I can't be too sure.



Dear J,

The boy racers have disappeared. And their girlfriends too. I'm beginning to wonder if they were ever there in the first place. If you were here you might ask me, “What happened to the Korean bbq?” And I'd have to just shrug my shoulders. I'm starting to think you've moved on anyhow. How many presidents have we churned through since I saw you last?



J.

The tangerines are falling off the tree like crazy. The little branches are so fat with fruit that I've had to prop them up with the left-over building materials in the shed. I've started taking the wall down too. The smaller it gets the more it seems to say, “Nothing can come between us.”