My Final Letter to Ed McMahon
.....Copyright 1999 by Joseph P. Infranco
Dear Ed:
Got your letter the other day. I knew this day was coming eventually, but that didn't make it any easier. I guess it's the same old story, but you know all about that Ed, don't you? The message arrived in the usual envelope . . . my name in Huge letters with a quick glance stunner about a fortune that would soon be mine. You were good Ed . . . you know you were good. Then there was always the sweet little disclaimer. The same old line . . . how did it go? "JOSEPH P. INFRANCO WINS ARMORED TRUCK FULL OF DOLLARS if his number is picked." That's how it always was with us Ed . . . "if." But why go through all this? Why dredge up what never was and never could be? It was always that way with you, Ed. You never liked sticky situations; I was okay to solicit, but the prize would always go to Emma Fitznoodle from Wichita, or Ted Frammis from New Jersey. You just liked to put my name next to them for effect.
I'm getting maudlin now. It gets a little tough when I remember the promises. There was always a picture of the house . . . remember Ed? A big redbrick job with a swimming pool and circular driveway. The big gate was open and the red jaguar was in view. Just tear out the stamp for my magazines - Cosmopolitan or Soldier of Fortune - it made no difference. You were never fussy. Enjoy my latest issue of Popular Mechanics, and then picture myself driving that red jaguar into the circular driveway. And what about the other promises? My favorite was the bank statement showing the deposits over the next twenty years. That one was sweet, Ed. Take the dream vacations, pay the kid's college tuitions, and dazzle the relatives. But it always came back to the magazines . . . buy the magazines . . . or else.
Then the pressure kept increasing. If I wouldn't buy, I had to be humiliated. Find the red sticker with the "status alert" and paste it on the envelope. Did I know what I was doing? Was I crazy to give up the prize simply because I wouldn't buy National Review from you instead of mooching it from the guy across the hall?
The threats became less subtle, remember Ed? Do you think I've forgotten the special "no" envelope with the garish red letters? The one that screamed out "don't pick this guy?" Or the one with the little stars punched out that showed I was a stiff who hadn't affixed any magazine stamps? I suffered through them all. Sometimes I was tempted to walk away; did you know that Ed? It would have been so easy. Just chuck the whole mess into the nice white plastic liner in the kitchen trashbin. No ripping through papers to find the secret of how to enter without buying. No red-lettered warnings. No sheets of stamps for the kids to fight over. But then I would see your smiling face. Sure, I had never won before, but your anesthetized look seemed to say "this could be the time." By the way, why did you always wear a tuxedo in those pictures? It made you look older and overweight. Don't worry, Ed, I'm not bitter about anything. No one forced me to check the boxes telling you how to structure the annuity payout. Once I even thought about leaving the little gold seal off the entry form, just to see if you would notice. Then I would think about the redbrick house with the circular driveway, and the kid's college tuitions. You knew how to keep me coming back.
Now, it's all over. Just like that, right Ed? No more dreams and promises. No more letters. How did you say it? "We're in the business of selling magazines, and you aren't buying," or something like that. All that's left is a picture of you and Dick Clark on an envelope with a recipe for tuna noodle casserole on the other side. You never understood, Ed, that life is a two-way street. Sure, I never bought any magazines, but did I ever win a truckful of money? Even now we could work this thing out. Just call me and say I won the grand jackpot. You do that, and I'll buy plenty of magazines -- more than you can imagine. I'll even buy magazines that tell me how to invest all that money, or how to take care of redbrick buildings and maintain circular driveways, or choose colleges for the kids. Maybe even a few of those pop-psychology magazines to figure out why you always wear a tuxedo, or why you played the obsequious toady to Johnny Carson all those years. All right Ed, I see you're not listening. It really is all over, isn't it? So this is good-bye.
I'll think about you Ed. It's been quite a few years since I got that first letter. I knew there were other "finalists" then; even still, I fell for your line like a ton of red bricks. There's just one thing, though; I didn't come to you, you wrote me first . . . remember that, Ed. Time will pass, and I'll forget your big grin and the early bird bonus promises. I guess it's better to have entered and lost than to never have entered at all. And sure, other contests will come along . . . maybe I'll take another look at that Reader's Digest Sweepstakes. But I think that as long as I live, every time I drive by a big redbrick house with a circular driveway, I'll think of you, and what we could have had. Here's looking at you, Ed.