sʃʃıɥ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ pǝpɐǝɥ

Dear Mr. Salinger,

After years of announcing you as my favorite author, and the sole writer i regularly (once a decade) enjoy actually re reading the work of, i am embarrassed to admit that today, this very day, i discovered a short story written by you two months before i was born which was previously unkown to me.

I admit that i am beside myself.

I didn’t know that ‘Hapworth 16, 1924′ had ever been written, and while i am suddenly awake with joy, grinning like an idiot and unable to answer passing associate’s “what’s with you” or “what’s so happy?” because i know that my answer would only disappoint most people in this gloriously lovely world of avid ‘Friends’ enthusiasts and people who think you wrote ‘Bright Lights, Big City” and didn’t like it very much.

Lately i have been defending the Fat Lady. She’s taking a beating Mr. Salinger. I realize, too, that it’s not my arrogant, self-centered place to defend anything (aside from my astonishment at the supreme court’s soon to be chief announcing that he didn’t see anything wrong with the reunion of church {his} and state {also his, sadly.} Jesus, i could see the evil little glint in his bulgy eyes, and the shiny spittle lingering in the corners of his very non judicial looking mouth, and the propaganda machines that never sputter in this great wheat field of a country we endure.

I was actually paid to travel to Japan last week and play records for three fine groups of people. While i’ve never enjoyed the surface level of things too much, i did enjoy the surface level of Japan. I dug, really i did. But it soon became clear that the surface was all i was going to be allowed to see. And in so realizing, i found the escape hatch.

I brought Franny and Zooey with me on the plane, but somehow the dreary movie which had been edited for content and the format of the screen got the better of me, and i only managed the first few pages. I have always been in love with Franny. All my life i have known that my discomfort, and feelings of insecurity stemmed from the conviction that i would never be quite brilliant, nor dazzling enough to catch the eye of Miss Glass. Yet, i have always been preparing for our moment, as it were. Regardless, Franny is the measure of all women to me, for better or for worse, i long to met her one day (even if she’s probably 105 by now, i bet you know what i really mean. at least i hope so.) Shit, did i say that out loud?

In Japan, something curious happened. After i’d enjoyed two days off, where i squandered them entirely on my book, and room service, i then traveled to Osaka (from Tokyo) and was not well received. Crushed, i caved emotionally, and considered getting out of the dee jay business entirely. But there were these 100 or so people, and remaining 4 hours of my “set” to consider as well.

So there i was, sweating like an idiot, crouching over my anvil FAA approved record box, not sure if i was going to cry, or throw up in it, when i saw a vision of an obese woman in a moo moo standing on her porch steps, fanning herself, swatting flies, and looking wearily into the distance. At once my mind said “do it for the fat lady bub!” Smiling generously, i selected the next record and did exactly that…

She is lovely when she dances. Still, not anyone i would want to go home with, and i bet i’d groan and make up some excuse if she asked me for a ride.

I have not yet begun to read this new story i discovered. Rest assured i will, i know you must be on pins and needles to find out what i think of it, but i don’t have to read it. I am so selfish, and thoughtless. But still i feel that i have already read it. The Glass family have long ago replaced my own, and the cleavers as my ideal. Broken, weary, and standing up straight with questions, and the bravery to seek in such closed and fearful days. I think, because i’m sure you were going to ask, that we are all members of the Glass family. Maybe i do anyway. Ok, sometimes i do. The rest of the time i seem to fail in my ability to accept, and to love. But even my bitterness is a kind of love. Maybe it is.

I hope you are well, and can still see.

love,
Sunshine Jones
San Francisco, California

and for anyone interested enough in my selfish epiphanies here is the story i found: Hapworth 16, 1924