Chapter Twenty-Six
What is Right, Write
Song: Barracuda—Heart
I was growing tired of waiting to hear from Darren or the band.
And my customer service skills needed to improve.
I needed to act before accidentally releasing my anger on an innocent customer at Grocery Outlet for wanting to use an expired coupon when they were penny-pinching like I do.
Collecting coupons and controlling how much you spend gives you control over your life, but when you are on the other end and can’t accept the coupon, it’s easy to lose sight of its purpose.
My momma was doing a little better because she started cutting hair more regularly.
Cutting hair made her happy and made the bills less overwhelming.
I was proud of her for choosing to get out of bed each morning for something.
I knew how difficult it was to put one foot in front of the other when you felt like brushing your teeth was impossible.
One day after work, I grabbed my favorite blue pen, a piece of paper from the desk set James had bought me, and sat down in my chair.
I placed my new Elvis 8-track, which Betsy got me for my birthday, into the machine and began to write.
My anger was rising to a head like a pimple that needed to pop to release all of its disgusting pus.
Writing was the most efficient way for me to get my thoughts concise.
My pen swooshed across the page, forming a music critic piece I never expected to create.
I liked writing fun pieces about new albums, songs, or drama surrounding a band.
One day, I planned to use my binder of writing to apply for jobs at music magazines when I got out of high school.
I knew I wouldn’t become the next Lester Bangs, but I could be Penny Hartley.
When I finished, I pulled the page up to my lamp and read over what I wrote.
To whom it may concern,
Jesse Young and The Matches is an outstanding band with many top hits and put-together albums. Still, their new single, “Pitiful Peaches,” has a rather disturbing origin that correlates with theft, drug addiction, and solo careers.
I would like to stay anonymous for my own well-being. I have spent personal and close time with Jesse Young and the Matches and hope to alert the public about the crimes they have committed.
First and foremost, “Pitiful Peaches” was a short ditty that Darren Lawerence created using sheet music he found at the Moose Creek Library.
He wrote the chorus and showed it to Jesse Young in confidence.
He did not give the rights to the song to him, but Jesse took the initiative and added his lyrics and band to the song.
Afterward, the band failed to give Darren, a high school student and aspiring music teacher, any credit or financial royalties.
If theft wasn’t bad enough, Jesse Young has been proven to have addiction and anger management issues. He has endangered children and his bandmates by throwing glass bottles at them, verbally abusing them, and threatening them.
Jesse Young has been allegedly telling his bandmates that he wants to leave the band for a solo career because he is better and more talented than his co-workers.
Despite his cooperation and collaboration with The Matches on the track “Pitiful Peaches,” he still has proven to be a rockstar who likes throwing tantrums when things do not go his way.
As you can see, Jesse Young and The Matches have fallen from stardom and have resorted to incredible lows to release their new top single. If you believe in the unworthy getting what they deserve, I think you will do something about it.
Sincerely,
Someone who wants the truth.
My letter was raw, unfiltered yet professional, and perfectly conveyed my feelings. Jesse Young and The Matches had been my favorite band since James and I found their record. Sending a letter like that to magazines would put a nail in the coffin of our relationship.
Who was to say what was right and wrong?
Jesse told everyone in Moose Creek that James took his own life and stole Darren’s song, so maybe he deserved backlash.
I pulled a clean envelope from the bottom drawer of my desk, folded the paper to fit inside, and licked it shut.
Then I wrote on the cover, “Harold Hayes, Zipper Magazine Inc, 1387 N. Kirby St. Butterfield, ID, 82389.” I left the return address blank.
Zipper Magazine was a newer journal that wrote columns about famous musicians, music reviews, and information about local concerts.
Every now and then, when an issue came out about something I was interested in, I would buy a copy.
My friends from school and I liked to get them to cut out pictures of attractive singers to keep.
When I was finished analyzing the columns and choosing the photos I wanted, I would pass the magazine to my friends so they could plaster their favorites on their blank walls like a collage.
I doubt they knew who their idols were under their facade.
The letter was complete and addressed to the magazine’s main writer.
I wasn’t planning on sending it. Sending it would add another layer to it.
When I returned from work, I would politely shove it into my binder and forget about its existence until I wanted to reflect on my writing.
I tore down the posters of Jesse Young and The Matches from above my bed, using my bare nails to tear the paper into tiny shreds.
There wasn’t a need for that type of memorabilia to be in my room.
Idolizing people you didn’t know was stupid in the first place.
I took down all my records on display and put them in a pile at the top of my closet to tuck away the past. It was time for me to go to work.
I left the letter on my desk and hurried to James’s truck because it was also payday.
I was impatient in getting my check to finish paying last month’s rent.
My momma arranged a payment plan with our landlord, and I had to follow through with our word.
****
When I got home from work, I was worn out and dehydrated.
My earlier rage had melted like the ice cube in the glass of water I drank.
I slurped down the water and yelled at my momma that I was home.
I moseyed down our hallway to my room to get changed out of my work clothes when I noticed that the letter on my desk had disappeared.
I looked under my desk, on the chair, behind the desk, and on the floor.
I still came up with nothing. A letter could not grow legs and walk away. It had to be in the house somewhere.
“Hey, Momma. Have you seen an envelope? It was sitting on my desk before I left!” I hollered.
My momma stuck her head into the doorframe of my room, swinging blonde strings of hair through the door, and tenderly said, “Yeah, I saw it. I put a stamp on it for you and mailed it today. I figured it would save you time, so you wouldn’t have to mail it tomorrow!”
Something in my gut wrenched.
My momma was merely trying to do something good. I couldn’t tell her I didn’t want it mailed because she was fragile. Seeing her walk around the house and fold laundry was an accomplishment, so I imposed a weak smile of appreciation and mustered out the word, “Thanks.”
A day working with the public made a person understand that everyone had their quirks.
I was ignorant to think that celebrities and rock stars weren’t perfect.
The entire world would see Jesse Young and The Matches in a different light as a consequence of my writing and my momma’s obnoxious kindness.
I couldn’t tell if our mailbox’s flag was raised or not.
I wondered if I could save it. I dashed out the front door, through our yard, and arrived at our mailbox out of breath.
I put my hands on my knees before I opened the flap.
My knees were spotless and smooth. The previous scars faded over the weeks I was home.
I flipped the flap open to see the metal box was vacant, and the red flag was down.
It was too late. I anticipated the worst outcome as I sat alone on the road’s curb, letting the loose gravel fall through my fingertips.