Dear Rosalie Carson,
Felicitations right back at you.
Thank you for your interest in my condition, as advertised in the newspaper. The doctors would agree with you in that it is quite anomalous—indeed, they are beggared for any explanation as to why I’m slowly reducing in height. In my quiet moments I suppose I find it fascinating that my reduction is entirely, precisely proportional: when I look at myself, outside of any other context, when I study my fingers upon my knee, for example, I could easily believe that nothing is wrong whatsoever. It’s only when… well, I suppose this goes beyond the scope of your interest. Indeed, your letter (and the dozens like it) seemed intent on only one thing.
I must remind you, the responsible journalists did in fact mention that I am married. The moral decay of our nation’s youth notwithstanding, I do still revere the tenets of marriage and the sanctity upon which this is built. My lovely and enduring wife, Louise, is the picture of patience as I suffer this horrifying abnormality. That’s not to condemn you and your interests, certainly, we all have our kinks and secrets. Please do note that while I sympathize with your longing, and while I am, as you put it, the “genuine article” for the fetish you describe so vividly and at length, I most assuredly am not available for entertaining your exclusive appetite. I’d wish you best of luck in finding a more suitable suitor, but as you and I both know, this could only happen to me.
# # #
Good afternoon, Clara Hogan,
And a top o’ the morning to you as well, as Hollywood would have it, though I must resolutely state that my family hails from County Kerry and in that region, at least, no one has heard of such an expression.
To answer your first question, yes, I have received quite a few letters just like this one. That’s not to make you feel any less special, of course, simply a statement of fact. Just as surely as I’m a full foot-and-a-half shorter than I was not that long ago, so surely do I seem to have plucked a resonant chord to which a not-insignificant fraction of the nation’s women are ready to sing.
And men. It baffles me in the first place that women should be interested in a man losing his height, but I shudder to imagine in the least wise what a man should want with one such as I. Well, good luck to any who finds me, for I won’t go down without a donnybrook.
To your second question I must tender a cautiously sensitive yet firm “no.” No, I haven’t thought of such boudoir caprices before, as you aptly phrased them (and categorized with the rigor and clarity as befits a professional indexer, such as you claimed to be). And while some of them seemed feasible from a strictly physical consideration, all of them—I’m sad to report—stand without the jurisdiction of my sacred wedlock to Louise, my adoring wife of so many years. Truly, one can only consider what I’m throwing away by turning your emphatic and ardent solicitations down, yet turn them down I must. I don’t know about your part of the country, but marriage still means something around here, and even until I can easily fit within some of the orifices you cited (and illustrated—your watercolor skills are commendable), still will I observe my vows.
You have considerable skill as a writer and an artist. I don’t know why you wouldn’t capitalize upon these, rather than pursuing the wild goose chase of this unlikely fetish. Mayn’t the two be combined? I can assure you there is an audience waiting for your vision.
# # #
To Cornelius Boone,
Tersely: yes, I have received all your letters, assuming four is all you’ve sent. No, I’m entirely uninterested in your suggestions. You have my sympathies, lonely and tormented soul that you are, but you scratch at barren ground. Kindly do not contact me again or I will engage the authorities in your region.
# # #
Dear Benedita Nuñez,
Thank you most kindly for your entertaining letter. Were it pursuing anything but prurient and deviant interests, I should have liked to retain you as a pen pal, perhaps twenty years ago when otherwise unencumbered by matrimony. Your handwriting is something close to mesmerizing, as is your command of vocabulary and the cunning turns of phrase you’ve mastered. All this, all the more impressive as English is your third language. You are a fascinating individual, indeed.
Despite all this, I cannot permit further conversation between us. I might gently suggest that the allure of your penmanship and prose would have a heady effect upon me, over time, and I might not be responsible for my actions. As well, thank you very much for your highly suggestive (to put it generously) photos. You are a ravishing woman, and while I do not relish my relentless diminution, some of the POV shots you dreamed up do make my predicament seem less distasteful than I’d previously conceived. Alas, it is not with you I explore this wild new terrain but can only hope my dearest Louise is open to suggestion. I am a disappointment and a failure to her on every other level, but perhaps the opportunity will come that I may prove my worth in the noblest application of husbandry and… well, I needn’t belabor this sordid point with you.
Best of luck in finding a partner. A woman of your skill and assets shouldn’t have any difficulty at all in securing a brace of suitors, among whom one might meet your particular tastes.
# # #
Dear Bessie Weaver,
How lovely to hear from you again, Ms. Weaver! Yes, of course I remember you from elementary school: you failed me in mathematics, the first time I took it. At the time I was quite put out, but as you’ve breached the seal of decency with your solicitation, I will avail myself of the momentary liberty to relate the budding hormones as I entered puberty the following year, and your enlarged, bulbous, swinging derriere somehow transformed from a comical target for spitwads to a luxurious and inviting landscape for another bodily fluid entirely.
That is to say, the memories of this yet linger in my head, and thank you for your assurances that you have lost nothing “back there.” But it’s one thing to perch upon a randy teenager, quite another to envelop a tiny man between your considerable buttocks. Where once I would have invited this without a second thought, now today I must decline on two counts: I’m happily married to my lifelong girlfriend, Louise, and the very thought of those sensuous planets descending upon me scares the bejeezus out of me.
There, in all candor, is the interior of my psyche. With the closing of this letter, so too must close any further communication or intimacy between us. If it’s any consolation, your letter will be one of the few I will not destroy but instead shall preserve under… well, let’s just say they shall be near at hand, to take the edge off the dark and oppressive days to come.
With real affection,
# # #
Dear Lisette Schroeder,
Thank you for writing to me! It was lovely to hear from you.
Yes, a lot of women have written to me from that newspaper article. No, I didn’t realize it made it up to Canada. No, I don’t believe I’ve ever spoken with a Canadian before.
Yes, I do love my wife very much. That’s one reason I must turn down your offer. I’m very grateful for your kind attention, but what you suggest isn’t appropriate for a few reasons.
My wife is one reason. Another reason is that I am quite frail now at this size. I value your curiosity, that is a great asset that will help you throughout life. I myself am quite curious, and I wonder how it is you first decided you were interested in “tiny men,” as you put it. I’m not quite tiny yet, but I will be someday soon (and you shouldn’t write to me then, either). As I said, I’m frail, and some of the things you have described would shatter me to bits or crush me to a paste, and what would you do then?
But another very good reason is that you are far too young for me. I’m very flattered by your attention, and you seem like a very pretty teen who must have many boyfriends. But right now you shouldn’t think of such things, and you definitely should not think of me like that, especially in my condition.
Please be a good young woman: eat all your vegetables, study hard in school, get plenty of sleep and plenty of exercise, and clear your head of these unwanted thoughts.
3 thoughts on “Scott Carey Doesn’t Get It”
Dear Mrs. Carey,
I read about your husband’s condition in the paper and I was quite moved by your family’s plight. You must be very brave to soldier on in the face of such adversity. I am sure you are setting an excellent example for your daughter.
While our country was built on self-reliance, there is no shame in accepting heartfelt help in time of need, and that is what I am offering. For a modest remittance, I am available to you and your family to assist with whatever household chores or projects that require attention while your husband’s condition persists. My skills extend to the full range of home and automotive repair, yard maintenance, and even shopping and child care. A copy of my trade union membership card is enclosed.
I live less than five miles from your residence, I own a car in tip-top condition, and I have no other attachments that restrict my availability. Louise (may I call you Louise?), I appreciate that you are effectively raising your daughter single-handedly and how that can be isolating. Having another adult around the house—I mean, one that can turn a doorknob and take out the trash—might be more of a relief than you realize.
I am also fascinated by your husband’s condition itself. Every day he wakes up in a new world where he is the first pioneer. That kind perseverance of earns my complete respect. Once your family gets to know me better, I am confident that I can also assist with his personal safety and welfare.
I make this offer in the best of faith. I look forward to your considered reply.
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