Post by dex on Oct 25, 2020 11:21:47 GMT -5
www.providencejournal.com/story/opinion/columns/2020/10/24/eye-halloween-and-nod-orson-welles-mysterious-response-old-magazine-ad/3715345001/
Daniel F. Harrington (danielfharrington@yahoo.com), a monthly contributor, lives in Warwick.
I was researching Rhode Island’s infamous Larchmont maritime disaster when I first saw the advertisement that will probably kill me. It appeared in the Feb. 23 edition of Scientific American magazine in 1907. The ad featured an ugly man pointing his finger alongside an image of a book titled “How to Become an Expert Bookkeeper.” The headline “THIS BOOK IS FREE” appeared above.
My first thought was, “Free? But at what cost?" I would soon find out.
As I type this, I’m sitting in a cemetery. The weather is perfect and my buddy’s brand new grave is already starting to blend in with the others. It’s been about six weeks since he passed — or has it been seven?
Anyway, back to the ad.
It was sponsored by the Commercial Correspondence School in Rochester, New York, and the free book hook was a ploy to get you to enroll in the school. Success, of course, was guaranteed.
“I’m gonna to do it!” I remember saying out loud. The fact that I was on my third glass of wine probably had something to do with my decision to pen a letter. Still, answering an ad from a bygone era seemed like an enchanting idea at the time. And why not? Maybe someone would respond to my postal version of a message in a bottle.
So that’s exactly what I did.
I wrote a simple letter (handwritten, in fact) explaining that I would love a copy of the free book. I then plopped the letter in an envelope, gave the flap a taste of Chianti and sent it off.
I had all but forgotten about it until a faded white envelope appeared in my inbox three weeks later.
I opened it carefully. The delicate paper, clearly very old, was crisply folded. The coal-black typeface told me the letter had been composed on an old typewriter. I remember thinking it was the coolest thing I’d seen in a while.
“Dear Mr. Harrington,” it read, “As you may suspect, much time has passed since this agency has been afforded the pleasure of an inquiry. We ceased offering the services advertised long ago but in some cases can still provide what professionals of your station call ‘life coaching.’”
“Yours truly, Mr. Quirk," was how he ended it.
There was no signature. I remember chuckling and reading the wonderful paragraph again. However, there was nothing funny about what followed in the postscript: “PS: Your best friend has inoperable cancer.”
I waited a whole day before calling Clay, my absolute best friend in the world. He lived out of state, and the last time we spoke he’d been battling a bad cold or possibly pneumonia. Turned out it was pneumonia; that is, until the misdiagnosis was corrected: terminal lung cancer. You can figure out the rest.
By the time the funeral rolled around, I had convinced myself that Quirk’s letter was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. Then, just after Clay’s burial, a package from UPS arrived at my office. How fascinating it was to pull the hundred-year-old stationery out of the glossy new carton. I remember dropping the letter after I’d finished reading it.
“Mr. Harrington,” it began, “Hoping your friend’s interment was a success and you enjoyed yourself. Have you had your heart attack yet?”
“Best, Quirk” is how he closed it this time.
That was two weeks ago. Last week I saw my cardiologist, and he gave me a clean bill of health. But two nights ago I woke up from a deep sleep feeling like I was being sawed in two. I haven’t slept since, and I’m so very tired …
Editor's note: To the best of our knowledge, this is a work of fiction. Happy Halloween!
Daniel F. Harrington (danielfharrington@yahoo.com), a monthly contributor, lives in Warwick.
I was researching Rhode Island’s infamous Larchmont maritime disaster when I first saw the advertisement that will probably kill me. It appeared in the Feb. 23 edition of Scientific American magazine in 1907. The ad featured an ugly man pointing his finger alongside an image of a book titled “How to Become an Expert Bookkeeper.” The headline “THIS BOOK IS FREE” appeared above.
My first thought was, “Free? But at what cost?" I would soon find out.
As I type this, I’m sitting in a cemetery. The weather is perfect and my buddy’s brand new grave is already starting to blend in with the others. It’s been about six weeks since he passed — or has it been seven?
Anyway, back to the ad.
It was sponsored by the Commercial Correspondence School in Rochester, New York, and the free book hook was a ploy to get you to enroll in the school. Success, of course, was guaranteed.
“I’m gonna to do it!” I remember saying out loud. The fact that I was on my third glass of wine probably had something to do with my decision to pen a letter. Still, answering an ad from a bygone era seemed like an enchanting idea at the time. And why not? Maybe someone would respond to my postal version of a message in a bottle.
So that’s exactly what I did.
I wrote a simple letter (handwritten, in fact) explaining that I would love a copy of the free book. I then plopped the letter in an envelope, gave the flap a taste of Chianti and sent it off.
I had all but forgotten about it until a faded white envelope appeared in my inbox three weeks later.
I opened it carefully. The delicate paper, clearly very old, was crisply folded. The coal-black typeface told me the letter had been composed on an old typewriter. I remember thinking it was the coolest thing I’d seen in a while.
“Dear Mr. Harrington,” it read, “As you may suspect, much time has passed since this agency has been afforded the pleasure of an inquiry. We ceased offering the services advertised long ago but in some cases can still provide what professionals of your station call ‘life coaching.’”
“Yours truly, Mr. Quirk," was how he ended it.
There was no signature. I remember chuckling and reading the wonderful paragraph again. However, there was nothing funny about what followed in the postscript: “PS: Your best friend has inoperable cancer.”
I waited a whole day before calling Clay, my absolute best friend in the world. He lived out of state, and the last time we spoke he’d been battling a bad cold or possibly pneumonia. Turned out it was pneumonia; that is, until the misdiagnosis was corrected: terminal lung cancer. You can figure out the rest.
By the time the funeral rolled around, I had convinced myself that Quirk’s letter was nothing more than a bizarre coincidence. Then, just after Clay’s burial, a package from UPS arrived at my office. How fascinating it was to pull the hundred-year-old stationery out of the glossy new carton. I remember dropping the letter after I’d finished reading it.
“Mr. Harrington,” it began, “Hoping your friend’s interment was a success and you enjoyed yourself. Have you had your heart attack yet?”
“Best, Quirk” is how he closed it this time.
That was two weeks ago. Last week I saw my cardiologist, and he gave me a clean bill of health. But two nights ago I woke up from a deep sleep feeling like I was being sawed in two. I haven’t slept since, and I’m so very tired …
Editor's note: To the best of our knowledge, this is a work of fiction. Happy Halloween!
