Ghost Writer: Letters to Chase

Reads: 90  | Likes: 3  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Brittney writes a letter to an old nursing colleague recounting her trip after leaving her nursing job and embarking on a cross country journey to find herself

Ghost Writer: Letters to Chase

The cold December Sun

A cold that blisters

 The hands of a working man

Wasted

 I'm waiting on the empty docks

 Watching the ships roll in

I'm waiting for the agony to stop

Oh, let the happiness in

 

Let the Happiness In, 1987

 

Dear Chase,

 

I couldn’t even tell you the last time I wrote a handwritten letter and sent one through the good ol’fashioned Postal Service before this trip. Well, ‘trip’ implies a beginning and an end, not quite sure where this one ends. It certainly began that night we all went out for drinks after my expedited exit from the best hospital in the nation, Lemon Regional Medical Center, sorry, Topaz Health. Because rebranding during a pandemic makes total fucking sense. Brainless.

Did Sade finally get tired of “your girlfriend” sending you letters? Haven’t gotten a text from you in a while and I’m sitting here wondering if you finally got offended by my “Sup, Breaux?” messages. Well Sade, if you’re reading this and have Chase held hostage, make sure you tell him his wrinkly geriatric ass never had a chance with me! But jokes aside, where you at dude? Maybe your kids got revenge for their 300-piece Lego set gone “missing.”

Hopefully you’ll be happy to know that I’ve taken some of your music recommendations to heart. I know we’re only a decade apart, but you have some eclectic (and vintage) tastes. The ones I’ve recently indulged on, Hats by The Blue Nile and Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian. The vibes on Hats nails my mood most of the time on the road. The solitude, vast landscapes, juxtaposed against the electric motor whir of my Neutron Light Cycle. I thoroughly miss us racing through shift-to-shift handoff to maximize racing up the Hutchinson Parkway. You still got your BMW bike?

Getting lost in the visceral sea of adrenaline is almost effortless until my hand cramps from writing these love notes to the select few friends I trusted enough to at least stash the unopened envelope in the stack of junk mail inside the house somewhere. I find if I go fast enough, all those ghosts from patients past might just decide it’s not worth the effort to come after me. Who knows, maybe when I decide to park my bike for somewhere longer than a day, publishing all this material into a book might be enough in royalties to pay for a Starbucks latte. Goals.

Luck has been on my side so far helping to stave off nasty encounters with strangers, but one night a few weeks back in Pennsylvania was definitely bizarre. I was trying to make up for lost time earlier in the day after a hangover (your warnings regarding my liver are now coming to fruition) and long story short, passed by this abandoned motel. Now you’re probably thinking what would be so noteworthy of something so ubiquitous, but there were people in some crazy argument. It looked like some shady shit and then out of nowhere, there’s a flash and the entire place goes up in flames. I kept my distance not knowing who or what was involved; we played enough ‘hero’ during COVID to know it doesn’t end well for us. Out of the corner of my peripheral view, a black, older looking, sports car dashed past and sped off. Spooked, I called 911 to let them know at least, and disappeared into the shadows.

Fast forward a few weeks and here I am, sitting at a hotel bar sipping a Negroni, the favorite drink of our late friend, Anthony Bourdain. Remember sitting in the cafeteria seeing Parts Unknown or No Reservations come on? For a hot minute, you’d be sucked into a world beyond cheap fluorescent lighting, beeps and alarms, overhead pages for codes, nonexistent PPE and lack of any competent staff.

My hand is starting to give up the ghost, so I’ll have to cut this one short. You need to text me you’re alive at least, each one of these letters costs me a stamp and an envelope so gotta trim the costs where I can! In the meantime, if you haven’t already, for fucks sake, GET A NEW JOB! Stop working in that shithole that’s only breaking you down further into a pit that you may not be able to climb out of.

Not so Sincerely,

Ghost Writer aka “Brittney”  

 


Submitted: October 10, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Justin George. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:


Facebook Comments

Other Content by Justin George

Short Story / Literary Fiction

Short Story / Literary Fiction