An open letter to Gail Marie
By Stephen Bonin
Battalion Reporter
ot a nasty note from Gail
Marie the other day. In its en
tirety, here is the nefarious
threat:
"Hey Clown! You owe me a
letter! Just thought I'd let you
know! That way you can ask me
what exciting news I'm not tell
ing you!"
Yep, she wasted an en
velope, one sheet of plain sta
tionary (probably 20 others to
write and rewrite), and a 15-
cent stamp.
To entice my curiosity? Ignite
jealousy? This is not what I im
agined love to be.
Maybe I should have ex
pected some complications
with a long-distance relation
ship. You be the judge.
January 19,1981: Exhaustion
and frustration from a hectic
first day are relieved by the
arrival of Gail's first letter of
1981. She bores me with news
of her busy schedule, her shock
at the "astronomical" cost of
textbooks, and her delight with
the beauty of snow-covered
Northeastern landscape. How I
long to be up there with her,
skating on ice.
The excitement builds. She
tells me her roommate gave her
a Mexican puppet for Christ
mas and she had fun teaching it
the bamba.
THE BAMBA!
^/Iy mind wanders back
to June 1980 when Gail Marie
and I first met on a missionary
trip to Mexico. She was a dedi
cated gringa, poorly attempting
broken Spanish. I turned her
into a bilingual Cinderella. And
when the Mexicn pubescent
princes attacked in droves, I
protected her.
Talk about chivalry — I the
valiant knight and she the dam
sel in distress.
I had to let her know she
touched me, so I phoned her
after 11 p.m. that night. We had
a wonderful conversation. We
reminisced and laughed.
Thus, our communicative cy
cle was complete. She wrote
me. I called her. Now it was her
turn.
Not by her book.
Thursday, January 5,1981:1
braved the inclement weather
and followed my nose to the.
mailbox, where Gail Marie's let
ter was waiting seductively.
On scented stationary no
less! Whether she bought it pre
sweetened or doused it herself,
the fragence was definitely
Gail. I was in Heaven.
But not for long.
The perfume was only a ploy
to draw me into her trap. She
said so herself.
"Even though you owe me a
letter and I really shouldn't
write until you write me...W-
RITE BACK THIS TIME!"
Didn't phase me at first. I
thought she was being cute.
That's how her sense of humor
works.
She wasn't kidding
around. She was armed and
ready for battle.
"I have about eight parties to
attend this weekend, plus the
Keenan Review. The tickets are
hard to come by, but /have con
nections.
"I've also been invited to
three guys' dorms tonight, and
I'm going shopping tomorrow
afternoon—if I live through the
parties tonight!"
She boasted of her newly rec
overed figure (eight pounds
shed) and a body wave in her
hair, which everyone admired.
I had to let her know she touched me, so I
phoned her after 11 p.m. that night. We had
a wonderful conversation. We reminisced
and laughed. Thus, our communicative
cycle was complete. She wrote me. I called
her. Now it was her turn. Not by her book.
But this took the cake. "I
think I'm going to shut my eyes
for awhile and find it 7 s Monday
morning!"
That does it, Gail Marie,
you've got some nerve.
You didn't even mention my
43-minute phone call, which,
incidentally, cost more than all
your silly letters combined.
I'm a busy man myself, Miss
Popularity. But do I flaunt my
social life on scented sta
tionary?
Do I call you just to say you
owe me a phone call, then hang
up?
X think the verdict is ob
vious. I am a gentleman and
you are an arrogant bitch (I
could add an exclamation point
if I were cruel).
But I'm not. I am a gentle
man. Even though you didn't
send the sentiments of the sea
son, I can find forgiveness in
my heart.
Happy Valentines Day, Gail
— I'll call soon.
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