Mortimer Poindexter

Mortimer Poindexter

       by D. D. R. R. (the Stammererer)

Nothing I write is intended to instruct you.

(Bill Clinton in an open letter to the nation after the Lewinski affair)

There are in all my words no surprises or tricks meant to make you think that there are two immediate planes of being, one in which you reside, and one in which you might reside if only you figured out the secret of the message you are in the act of reading. I bring you words of good cheer. I bring you words of love. I bring you glad tidings. You will not find St. Paul in anything here. Neither will you find James, the brother of John. Women are quiet and stay in the background in my pieces. Women are loud and outspoken in my pieces. Women never stand for anything in my pieces. My name is Mortimer. I live on Wobeegad Street in a suburb of Pensicola. Yesterday, I had my third car accident in one month. It was a fender bender and the other driver got very angry at me and claimed it was my fault. I thought it was not my fault at all. I did not entirely stop at a stop sign and the other person drove too fast  and smashed into my front passenger side. I have a sister whom I have not seen for many years. She lives in Pensicola, too. My brother phones me each day and wants to talk for an hour at a time. Since I dislike the phone, I usually cut him off after ten minutes. My parents, Sue and George, were sharecroppers in Nebraska. They moved to California during The Great Depression, then to Nebraska again and purchased back their old farm. They had made a great deal of money picking oranges and now lived without having to farm the old place if they did not want to. My other sister, who lives with me in this house, sings all the time. She sings and plays the accordion. Her favorite type of music is blues. "Somebody else's mule's been kickin' in my stall!" she sings from the shower. My older brother, Hans, worked in the northern parts of Canada for a while, above Winnipeg, and he came back a bitter man after ten years. He is now living in an asylum where, he tells me, the nurses dote on him and treat him with special attention. If I ever catch the bugger who broke into my garage and stole my poitificator I will break every fiber of his body. I wish to leave you now and go to a better place, namely, to bed. I am always tired these days. My doctor is worried. I hope it's not incurable. Good night, everybody, and sweet dreams.

Love, Mortimer.