HELLO I MUST BE GOING

Dear Janys:

I am writing you this letter, Janys with a Y (if that’s your real name), in the form of an old-fashioned snail mail, actually typed on an old-fashioned Royal typewriter (rescued from the attic), because doing it this way makes me, Scott, feel more in touch with reality. Reality, as I understand it, where people who care about each other (unlike people named Janys) don’t tell lies, lots and lots of lies, a dizzying amount of bald-faced falsehoods!.

It is time to say goodbye to you, Janys, even though, from your point of view (whatever that is. It changes so much), it must feel as though we have barely said hello, since we only met 2 weeks ago. That was my first mistake, saying hello. And as I write this farewell, I am wondering, is post office box 7602, the one I’m writing to, the one you wrote down on the back of that cocktail napkin, is it actually yours? What’s the over and under on that one?

Of course, as the rational non-crazy person I consider myself to be, , I would normally have called you on the phone to say goodbye, but what a surprise, Janys (or whatever your name is), that that phone number you gave me is not only the wrong number, it is even in the wrong area code and in the wrong part of the country! Remember, you told me that you were working in Spring Lake, New Jersey, that day we met at the laundromat? As an au pair for an uber-rich family on the hill, you said. But that phone number was in Arizona, Janys. As the crow flies, that's a good 2300 miles away from the Garden State. The not-Janys person who answered that phone was an elderly man who only spoke what sounded like Armenian. WTF?

Yes, I kept track of all our conversations. I’m a CPA. It’s in the blood. And it’s been too short, no, two long weeks of non-stop lies and misdirection on your part.

No, it doesn’t feel as though we just barely said hello, Janys. And I don’t feel that I know you even a little bit after these whirlwind two weeks, while at the same time, I feel that I know too much about you. And it’s all A to Z crazy.

Is there anything that doesn’t sound crazy about this so-called relationship of ours? Let's start at the beginning. And please read this letter from beginning to end. Don’t pretend that you have ADD and can’t focus, for just this once. You owe me that at the very least, Janys.

For starters, who the hell spells the name Janice like Janys? And didn't you tell me you were 22 when we met that second time in that dive of a coffee shop on the outskirts of town, where you said you were a part-time barista? That wasn't true either, was it? It appears from court records (yeah, I checked) that you are more like 32. What was it about those last ten years that you felt you had to erase? When I asked for Janys Columbo, the owner, who looked more like a bouncer, said, “You mean Ernestine Columbo ?” pointing at you over in the corner working a push broom, not an espresso machine.

Or maybe you have an identical twin with a compulsive lying disorder? I let it go because, well, I thought I was starting to fall for you. My bad.

And what about that apartment I walked you home to 3 nights ago, the one where you said you sometimes stayed with your cousin Eleanor, your legally blind cousin with the wooden leg? The one who used to work with a magician who used to saw her in half in the traveling circus show? Was that all pure fabrication?

Was that your idea of a joke on gullible old Scott ? You obviously never lived there because, yes, I checked on it later. It’s rented by a Korean couple with a bad-tempered Great Dane, who tried to disconnect my kneecap. They never heard of Janys or a barista named Ernestine. Or Freeda. Yes, Freeda.

That’s the name they gave me when I checked back with the laundromat. They never heard of Janys or Ernestine, but they remembered a young blonde-haired woman who sounded a lot like you, named Freeda , who claimed to be a day trader working on her MBA at Princeton!

A day trader? Princeton? MBA? You could barely figure out how much to tip the waitress when we were together.

And how about that fabled rich aunt of yours, Scarlet Fanning, the matron who lives alone with a toy pig named Ernest in that Fanning House mansion on South Street that we passed on our evening walks? Is she really your aunt, and is she really going to leave you everything, including the Fanning House and her stable of horses in Scottsdale, when she passes? Or, are you having a laugh and putting me on again? And did you throw in that pig named Ernest because that’s my middle name?

So, as I say goodbye (and wonder why I even said hello) to you, Janys , what I wonder above all is what has been the purpose of all these lies, fibs, fabrications, and big whoppers?

Of course, I can only ask myself because you are either not getting my emails or you are just ignoring them and me. It’s undoubtedly the latter.

Oh, wait, I remember! Isn’t this the week you– Janys or Ernestine or Freeda –said you might not be around because you had entered a contest with a grand prize of a trip to Gljúfrabúi Falls in Iceland, and you had a gut feeling that you were going to win big! Iceland? You told me you hated winter and would live inside a sauna all day if it were possible. You also told me you thought you were falling in love with me. And then you disappeared. Was that a lie, too, just like everything else?

Are you a pathological liar or a jokster or both? Or maybe you have gone undercover? Maybe you are wanted by the authorities for some terrible crime? Bank robbery, grand larceny?

Oh, I’ll have to stop now. Here comes Lisa.

“How’s my suggestion working, Scott ?”

“Lisa, sit down. I have to thank you, my dear editor. I have almost got this wacky character down for my book. Using this writing exercise to flesh out this character by writing her a letter and exploring her personality! Genius.”

“I thought you'd like it., Scott. “

“You don’t think she is too much of a stretch, do you?”

“Oh, not at all. And, Scott,....?”

“Yes?”

“The name is Lynda, not Lisa. Lynda with a Y. “