Shorthand for Nothing

Dear R,

I’m sorry I didn’t laugh at your joke. You had pretty clearly planned for it in advance, and I feel like I disappointed you.

This was September of 2008, I think. I was going off to Boston and decided to pay you a visit before I went. We met at the mall. When I walked up, your friend said, “Hi Rob, this is my friend Ashley.” I think it was Ashley, anyway. I’m sorry if I remembered that wrong. She pointed at you when she said it, and then you both laughed.

I don’t know what sort of reaction you were hoping for, but I am pretty sure a blank stare wasn’t what you were hoping for. I didn’t laugh or say anything or play along. I probably just said “Hi,” and probably “how’s it going?” It’s possible I even went so far as to say “What’s up?”

Even though I know it’s kind of arrogant to assume, I feel like you hoped I’d do something more than stare. It could have been a good joke. But I blanked, instead, and we both know I could have done better.

Yours,

RM

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Dear classmates from my graduating class,

I’m sorry I didn’t bother doing anything for my graduation. I didn’t even record one of the little speech things that you all had.

That second part isn’t exactly true, actually. I recorded something, and even then, at 18 years old, I bristled at the idea of saying the expected things. We were supposed to thank everyone we knew, I think, and say something cheerful about the future. Instead I wrote something like “I never really liked the idea of giving thank-you speeches because they feel disingenuous.” I still think that, really, but I’ve learned artful since then. In any case, the administrators didn’t like the message, and said I had to do another one, and I just said that I wouldn’t. For some reason they let it drop.

I wasn’t even at the graduation ceremony. I was in Florida, for a cousin’s wedding. I had no interest in going to graduation anyway, though. One of you thought it was hilarious to call me at four am and ask when I was showing up. I wasn’t sleeping very well because I never do on trips, so I was a little annoyed, and I’m sorry about that, too. I hope nobody missed me. I always assume that nobody does. But it had to have been noticeable. Did they call my name? Did they point out that I wasn’t there? Did they dress someone up like me? I know that when it came time for my section of the video, with the recorded speeches, they just played the music louder.

That part made me happy, at least. I hope nobody was offended. I hope you all had a lot of fun celebrating the end of your high school careers.

Yours,

Rob Mason

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Dear girls who hated me when I first started college,

This was about 2005-2006, I guess. You may remember! I was always hanging out on the couches, along with some of my friends. I think there were two or three of you. I only remember one of your names, and that one of you was blonde. Apparently one time you complained about me to the guy who works in the cafeteria, who knew me. “Do you know Robert Mason?” you asked. And when he said he did, you just said how much you hated me.

I have no idea what I had done to earn your ire. I suppose it was probably just a case of being completely different people who happened to share proximity all the time. Apparently your hate for me was pretty intense. I’m sorry if I caused you to lose sleep or something. I mean, I’m sure you aren’t terrible people. Maybe you are very nice, and I just rubbed you the wrong way? So, I’m sorry. I hope that you don’t think back of how much you hated me from time to time, unless it’s just to laugh about the follies of youth. We should all laugh about the follies of youth.

Yours,

Rob Mason

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Dear waitresses who served me in high school,

I am so sorry. I didn’t know any better.

We were young and stupid and loud and obnoxious. We probably never tipped, or if we did it was in small change that we just left on the table in an annoying heap. It was probably worse than nothing. We stayed for hours, we were loud, we didn’t order very much, we were demanding and took up a lot of space. I think we must have thought of you as some weird combination between a vending machine and the lunch ladies at school–someone who existed to give us food in exchange for money and occasionally complain that we were breaking rules or being disruptive.

In our defense, we were in high school. We hadn’t really learned that the world around us existed. I mean, we knew, on some level, but it seemed like remote knowledge–like knowing that Mt. Everest exists. I’ve never seen it. I can’t conceptualize it. It’s out there and I know it and I believe it and on most levels I just don’t care.

I know better now. We all do. We’re nice to waitresses these days. In Seattle they actually liked seeing us because we were fun and tipped nicely and gave them someone to talk to. I appreciate that you have jobs that are demanding and often filled with annoying people and I try to be as pleasant as possible. I know that doesn’t make what we did any better, but I hope it helps to know that I’ve learned my lesson, and I wish I could make it up to you somehow.

Sadly sincerely,

Rob Mason

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Dear guy handing out pens in the quad earlier today,

I’m sorry I thought you were ridiculous and a terrible idea for marketing. It’s not your fault your employers wanted to become synonymous with those cheap pens with company names on them that nobody pays attention to. I’m sorry that if I don’t lose your pen, your company name will probably end up getting scratched off to near illegibility. I’m sorry that those pens aren’t very good advertising, since most of the time the person who ends up with it has no idea where it came from, and even if they do they don’t care. I’m sorry I don’t like your pen as much as the one I stole from the Berkman center last year.

I’m also sorry that after I wrote “it’s not your fault” above I considered adding the clause “unless you came up with the idea, in which case I’m sorry that you are not very good at marketing, but I congratulate you on finding a way to get paid to hand out pens to college students.” I’m sorry that I’m not going to write out your company name here.

I’m sorry that it wasn’t a terribly good pen. It wouldn’t write for me earlier, when I needed a pen to write on a napkin. It’s one of those cheap Bic pens that has a cap and isn’t even clicky. I’m sorry that I’m probably going to lose that cap the next time I use the pen, and I’m sorry that I’ll probably either let a friend steal it or forget it at a restaurant somewhere. I would say that I am terrible at keeping pens, but that’s not true at all. I’m just terrible at keeping things I don’t care about.

Yours,

RM

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Idea for this shamelessly stolen from Dave Bry’s regular feature on The Awl.

Dear Canvassers Who Have Stopped Me At Various Times Around Northeastern,

I am sorry for wasting your time. I was never going to give you money, even if I had any to spare. But I feel bad and I really wish I could help in non-money-related ways.

The first time you stopped me, you were the guy who had just moved in to the place I’d just moved out of. It was cool or at least funny running into you. You needed to meet quota, and I appreciate that you were straightforward about that. I hope you managed despite wasting several minutes talking to me and only getting me to sign one of your little postcards in exchange. I am sorry I am broke and miserly.

The second time you stopped me, you were a cute girl who thought that the news article I read a few weeks ago that I was vaguely sure about was pretty neat. I signed yet another postcard, and I think I even checked the little box that said I would volunteer. You gave me a flier for working at Environment Mass, and we chatted about our majors and our lives and so on, and I am pretty sure you were hitting on me. If you were, I am sorry that we will never get coffee. You were gone when I went to get dinner later. I never got a call. I am sorry I am not helpful.

The third time you stopped me, you were very persistent, and I seriously considered saying “look, I have already signed like three postcards for you guys, I have no money, I am glad you exist but you don’t want to waste your time talking to me,” but I didn’t because you seemed so enthusiastic. You said a few things which were slightly dishonest, and I smirked and ignored them. You didn’t stop until I finally said I would not give you any money. I am sorry I found you amusing and entertained myself by making you come up with ways to counter my excuses.

The time you didn’t stop me, I was on my way to class. I’m sorry that I told you this instead of just continuing to walk. You hear that all the time, and it makes you wonder why they sent you to a college campus like they did, because everyone is either poor or on their way to class.

I am sorry that I embody the type of person you hate running into on college campuses, someone who is sympathetic and willing to listen and talk but has no interest in giving you money because that’s money I could spend on food or concerts or booze and at this stage in my life that’s a significant sum of money and I just can’t afford generosity. I am sorry that despite my attempts to be friendly and helpful you probably just sigh and shake your head and wonder why college students all suck.

Mostly sincerely,

Rob Mason

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