THE MR. HENSHAW LETTERS

Dear Leigh,
Thank you so very much for your letter of encouragement. It’s so thoughtful of you to send an incredibly brief notelet explaining how much you appreciate my work. However, I do have one minor request for you. If you could put a bug in your parents’ collective ear (not literally, like Wrath of Khan) to buy you the book, preferably in hardcover. As delightful as it is to receive fan letters, it’s much, much more fulfilling to receive royalty checks.
Sincerely,
Mr. Henshaw

Dear Leigh,
It’s amusing you should continue to write me after I thought I had sent the message loud and effing clear that I’m disinterested in what you have to say. Seriously, kid, do you have nothing better to do than write letters to a stranger all day? Have you considered the Boy Scouts or little league, maybe taken an interest in girls or comic books? Also, your parents might want to invest in a penmanship class, unless you’re going for the hieroglyphic thing? Seriously, I need a Rosetta Stone to figure out what you’ve written, and half a bottle of bourbon to care about it. Bottom line: stop writing me!
M. Henshaw
P.S. I don’t mean to suggest that you and any friends you may have should stop reading and buying my books. Seriously, I have a Miata to pay off.

Dear Leigh,
I’m not really sure why I’m writing to tell you this, but I feel I need to confess to someone. I knocked off a bakery last night. I’m not even sure why I did it, I don’t really care for baked goods. I’m allergic to yeast, for the Chrissakes! I happened to wander in, with an unsheathed Bowie knife, and the owner just lost it, started throwing all the pastries at me, which seemed so antagonistic so I stabbed him. A lot. Till he died from it. He was screaming, “I have a wife and kids, I have a wife and kids!” And I can’t stand a braggart, Leigh, my instinct is to kill braggarts. This is why I hunt bear and also why I’m never allowed at spelling bees. So now I’ve been sleeping in the not-so-spacious trunk of my Miata. I’m not sure what to do next, but I’ve got a great idea for a new book.
Help!
Henshaw

Leigh,
So, did you end up joining the Boy Scouts? I’ve been sleeping in this ditch the last few nights and I could really use a Boy’s sleeping bag. This really nice family stopped by looking for the Methodist Church and they gave me half their egg salad sandwich! I have no idea where I sent them, I think to a wasp’s nest. Same dif, right? Last night I played charades with a beautiful woman, who turned out to be a muskrat. We’re getting married in July. Do you know what month it is? I’ve totally forgotten how to tell time.
Henslaw

Leigh,
I received your last letter, I think, though it may have just been the side of a cereal box. Do you have a sister named Fructose? You know, I never thought of myself as a hat person, but now that I have a fancy hat I feel naked and dirty without it. It’s nothing special, just a hawk feather stuck in a crown of locust skins. Also, I have a phone number. You can reach me at area code four one two, seven eight seven. Don’t be surprised if I sound a lot like a dial tone, my voice has changed considerably these past months. I think I’ve begun to slur my speech a bit, which is from all the alcohol. And loss of teeth, probably.
Toothless in a tree,
Hensh

L-word,
I am currently writing you from the surface of the sun! It’s not quite as hot as I imagined it would be. But still, I’m wearing sunscreen! I’m here with my new best friends Rainbow and Chad. They’re writers, too. They’re written all sorts of poems about dragons and unicorns and celebrities genitalia. We’re going to start a new society here, one that doesn’t fight all the time, one that doesn’t see race or anything at all! The sun makes you go blind but the good kind of blind. I’m sorry if there are any spelling misspellings. I kissed a man last night. I’m almost pretty totally certain he wasn’t my daddy, though he tried to convince me otherwise. Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there, here of course still being the sun. I’m having the time of my life and if you don’t hear from me soon, we’ve all burned up! Sweet Christmas, it’s hotter than a sauna full of saunas up here! This might have been a very very very very very bad idea. Not as utopia-esque as I had imagined. But I bet it’ll make a great book someday!
Salutations in reverse,
Henshawmeter.
P.S. You’ve totally got to come visit the sun someday. You’ll lick it.