I consider taking the urologist’s note to the pharmacy. Perhaps the pharmacist would lean down and whisper: "Cheney’s office is in a US Army cargo plane that circles the heartland without ever touching ground," or some other revelation.

I mean, if he knew where he was, he would have to tell me. I have a prescription.

A woman from Senator Orrin Hatch calls in to ask if we have received the Senator’s OpEd piece by fax. I put her on hold, fish it out of the ‘under consideration’ pile, and show it to Terry, who makes the sour-faced conclusion of "I don’t think so." The Senator’s assistant is "very disappointed";

Senator Hatch is free, then, to submit this letter to another paper?"
Of course.

This is common. As if an editor is going to be struck mad with jealousy that his jilted letter writer could rebound so quickly, and seek out another paper to publish their 650-word masterwork. WAIT! Can’t we talk this over? I mean, listen, I know I said I wasn’t interested, but maybe I can learn to love you...?

After a cursory determination of possible letters for consideration, I bring the "within reason" pile to Lawrence in the Letters department. Lawrence has been with the Times for two years, yet is still fascinated at the more colorful letters he receives. He has a small shrine (in the form of a cork board) that hosts the "best of", including:

"If there is supposed to be separation of church and state, why is there a St. Paul, Minnesota?"

"Dear NY Times: Please disregard the letter I sent you. I was quite drunk and angry when I wrote it. You do not have to publish it."

"I have a bottle of coke with a fungus growing inside of it. Do you want it?"

By the end of the week my overall amusement has turned to fear, and I am no longer confident that those in good touch with reality outnumber the nice people in tin foil hats that save urine in mason jars. In my weakened state I have taken to compulsively eating the chocolate nuggets from the blue dog/donkey's ass. It is strangely comforting, and I fall into a pattern: stack of letters, candy-poop, stack of letters, candy-poop.

Nora is on the phone, apparently squaring things with Kevin Bacon's people. David (Paul) is particularly quiet today, struggling to take Terry's calls, as she is taking a nap on her office couch. Michael is trying to leave early, but keeps finding more things to work on. He will still be there as I wrap up my week.

I say "goodbye" to whoever is listening, and surprisingly David hears me over his typing. He stops long enough to leave "bye" hanging in a quote bubble between his clackity-clacking. I close the door as quietly as I can.

***