Here begins the saga of the pajamas letter.
One evening several weeks ago, I stopped by the Wells Fargo branch at 17th Avenue and Broadway to deposit the considerable amount of money I regularly make as a gainfully employed writer. Unfortunately, the deposit-envelope receptacle next to the machine appeared to be empty. Desperate to start earning a 0.15 percent interest rate on my money as soon as possible – that shit builds up, you know – I reached deep into the slot, hoping to find an errant deposit envelope crammed near the bottom. I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I did pull up this:
“How unusual!” I thought. “Could someone have mistaken the ATM for a mailbox?” Possibly there was money inside or, better yet, drugs. Maybe this was a special ATM where people could deposit and earn interest on their drugs! I wondered who the letter was for – until I flipped it over.
It was for me! Excitedly, I popped it open and withdraw a card.
My excitement building, I flipped it open.
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Now everything made complete sense. Well, except for the question of what the hell this letter was doing here, and how long it had been waiting to be discovered. And who, exactly, would be so interested in me drawing a picture of my normal pajamas and sending it back to him or her in the self-addressed envelope. And why they had to be my pajamas (note the underline on the card), as opposed to, say, my fashion-forward neighbor’s. And, most importantly, why I couldn’t sketch my abnormal pajamas – you know, the ones I save for those, ahem, special occasions.
Some people would find the answers to these questions by, for example, looking up the individual who lived at the address on the envelope and giving that person a call. But those people don’t have any sass. Instead, I decided to do what the letter requested – with a few creative additions. I was ready to dive head first down the rabbit hole, screw the consequences and the fashion faux pas.
Now, as for those normal pajamas…
Stay tuned for part two. -- Joel Warner