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[August 15 1952]
Dear Alastor Peters,
Before I express my whole thoughts in this letter, I would like to say thank you very much for your help all these times. You have guided me, and taught me on how to be a brilliant reporter and entertainer. Thanks to you, I learned to have a better grip on my speech and smile. I became more mindful with my word choices not only to write for the news and drama shows, but also to negotiate with my audience and the producers.
I have to admit, I argued a lot against you in the first days we met, acting like I already knew everything more than you did. That was a clear evidence of my inferiority, and I apologize for that.
Also, thank you for your presence as a special guest in my musical show premiere, proudly presented by VoxTV Studio. It was truly an honor for me, that you came to witness how my hard work for months had paid off.
Once again, I need to apologize to you. I shouldn’t have ruined such a perfect day with my careless and inappropriate behavior. I got too excited to the point I tried to use the premiere event to get anything I wanted, like coming at your hotel room door then giving you a bouquet of roses, while there were plenty of people roaming in the hallway. I’m sorry for embarrassing you. If only I had thought more clearly, I would have scheduled a private meeting with you outside of any event. Just the two of us, and no one would get in our ways.
Would that make you uncomfortable? If so, I will look for a relaxing public spot with not much crowd in it. Perhaps a place with beautiful natural views, to soothe both of our minds? You are welcome to give me any suggestions.
I think I should let it all out first, before I make you confused again in our next meeting.
I have been interested in you since I listened to your radio broadcasts, as well as your songs. I like the way you speak. So assuring and full of joy–I never get tired of it. Your warm voice made every song you were singing more colorful. Not to mention, you also love musical shows–and so do I. I’m already used to your voice as a background when I’m working. It was like listening to the chatter of a good friend.
Then I saw your photo on newspapers, pamphlets, and posters, and my desire to meet you grew even further. Until my wish finally came true. I met you in a bar. That night, it felt like my world had stopped revolving–and I wanted to keep it that way.
Taking a look at your face with my own eyes, smiling and laughing. Watching you walk and dance on the stage. Hearing you talking and singing without the radio signal interference. Sharing thoughts one-on-one with you. Everything felt like a dream. You’re far more beautiful than what was shown in those photos. Since that night, I don’t need to look at newspapers or posters anymore, for your image has been firmly carved in my memory.
(I hope my words here are eloquent enough for you. No, I refused to pay a poet to help me. These feelings are mine alone, so I should convey them without anyone else’s hands or eyes.)
I am fully aware, that what I’m feeling right now is more than a simple admiration. More than a mere awe for a musician or an actor. Different than a slight attraction for my one-night-stand partners. I’m glad we became more than just acquaintances. I’m glad that we have spent a lot of time together. But that was not enough for me. I mean, is it normal of me to think of a “friend” all the time, even fantasizing about holding his hand, hugging him, and caressing his face?
Is it right of me to feel so happy (and so hopeful), just for a “friend”?
I should feel enough, yet my heart asked for more. I want you, more than just a friend. I know this sounds like greed. If you feel odd while reading this, so am I as I’m writing this, and I don’t know what else to do anymore.
Would you like to give me a chance?
I have a plan to bring you for a date. The time and location are up to you. Do you want to go to your favorite bar, where your friends Husk and Niffty worked at? Or to the local musical theatre? Or to the town park? Do you want to spend a whole night or just an hour with me? It’s all up to you. Do you need new equipment for your broadcast? New books? A new suit? A dinner with a special venison menu? Or do you want me to make a deal with an agency to give you a role as an actor? You can ask for anything from me, and I will try my best to give it to you.
If my behavior during the date is overbearing to you, I’ll try to be more careful. You may ask me to stop if I make you uncomfortable. Or maybe you don’t want a date at all? That’s fine. I can understand, and I will not give you any pressure for it. I just want to keep our professional partnership intact.
Still, I do hope you will respond to this letter. You are allowed to rip it off and throw it away after sending a reply. You can also write your reply with insults–I’m ready for it. The only thing that matters to me is the certainty from you, so that I no longer need to hang my hope on an empty wish.
With an open heart, I am waiting for your response.
Have a nice day.
Regards,
Vincent “Vox” Mark McGahan
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[August 26 1952]
Dear “Vox” McGahan,
First thing first, I apologize for being late in reading your letter–more precisely, late in receiving your letter. I know you entrusted the letter to Husk when I was attending an event out of town, but for whatever reason, he didn’t give it to me until a week later. He said the letter was somehow missing at one point, but I knew he was lying. Probably, he was so drunk that he forgot about the letter, or he was too busy in gambling with Mimzy. Luckily your letter wasn’t stained by alcohol, so I still managed to read your handwriting.
Here is my advice. Next time, if you want to leave something for me, just leave it to Niffty instead. She is more handy and trustworthy.
Thereafter, I need to admit two things. First, I left you in the hotel hallway right away because I thought what you did was a part of the show. I walked to the ballroom so there would be more people watching us. But instead of following me, you just left, and it confused me. Second, this is not the first time I received this kind of letter. (What should I call it? A confession letter? A love letter?)
I’m aware of my own charm which, as people said, is pretty strong. I may not be the most handsome man ever in appearance, but thanks to my late mother’s guidance, I trained myself to develop my allure with the art of speech and performance. People get hooked by listening to my storytelling. My facial expressions and body movements entertained those who watched me. My words managed to ensure many hearts, and my smile stayed in as a warm greeting for everyone–also as a warning for those who looked down on me.
Of course, I’m also aware, that all of those are not without a cost.
Since I was in High School until I started working in Los Angeles, for about every five months, I would have someone confessing their feelings for me–either by spelling it out or giving some intrusive gestures, such as intentionally touching my hand or my waist, or even lower. Some of them would also send me letters, just like you did. I usually would not reply to that kind of letter since it’s too bothersome to me. Afterall, I don’t want to give them false hope, especially if the sender is a woman. However, I would at least tell the sender, “I appreciate your feelings, but unfortunately, I cannot reciprocate it to you”. That is, if we ever happened to meet again somewhere.
So why am I writing this letter for you? It’s to prove that you were right. You, my good friend, have succeeded to confuse me even more. Not only about how I should reply to your letter, but also about my own feelings.
There is another thing I have to admit to you. Never have I understood the concept of romantic connection–or people would prefer to call it “love”.
I can’t comprehend what kind of feelings that are in the minds of two people falling for each other. How strong is the desire that gives them a pulse to promise to live and die together, wanting to possess each other to the point they dare to touch or be touched? What is in the eyes of the lovestruck people that makes them valiant enough to write a poem or a song about “serving their beating heart and breath for the beloved”? Now you know why I prefer writing mystery tales and social-political essays to romance novelettes. Even I tend to enjoy myself when singing romantic songs because of my fondness for the music alone, not the lyrics. The examples of romance I have encountered throughout my whole life are not helping either–including those from my own parents.
Maybe you can help me to understand?
I am sure you can. Because of you, I’m starting to get a clue about this strange feeling.
Pretty much like you, at first I thought it was a mere simple admiration. It all started when I watched your show on a bar’s television. I had no interest in any of those new channels that had been spreading like fire lately, until I heard your voice. For a moment on the show, you sang an excerpt of a musical number, and I was impressed. Your clear voice astonished me. I guessed you were a new singer, or an unlucky stage actor with hidden talents.
Then at that night, I deliberately invited you to sing on the bar stage as a kind of test, and not even once I regretted it. There are only a handful who can truly impress me with their jazz singing, and you are one of them. (Well, actually Husk used to be the one too, but he has a lower voice than yours. Doesn’t mean it’s bad or anything, it’s just easier for me to remember your voice than his.)
I enjoyed the times we have spent talking, writing scripts together, singing duets, and even something as mundane as running across a street under the rain. I wouldn’t mind being with you longer–and that’s a little unusual, for I tend to get bored easily. I thought that was normal. I found a “like-minded” friend, who made me feel… comfortable?
I’m not even sure if “comfortable” is a correct word for it. Comfort is what I feel when I listen to relaxing jazz. But what I felt with you is more like being enthralled by a luxurious, sophisticated, and festive jazz. Like the unpredictable melody, it makes me uneasy, but at the same time I want to repeat it, again and again. Isn’t that odd?
Is it odd of me to feel as if there is something different in the way you praised me–and I’m not even sure why? Is it your voice? Your eyes? Your smile?
That was… until Rosie made me realize one thing. Remember Rosie? I introduced her to you at a restaurant, and she offered you a suitcase and a suit from her emporium. She’s been helping me a lot since my first days in L.A.. She knows me really well, and she wants to know you better. Do you know why?
When I told her about you, her initial reaction was “Do you like him?” She judged from my gestures, also from my face which, she said, seemed brighter than ever. Her peers agreed. They came to a conclusion : I was in love. I laughed it off, what a cheap joke! Yet Rosie insisted on meeting “the one who stole my heart” in person.
I could trust her with the whole “strange feelings” problem, since she has more experience in it. However, she told me that nobody could confirm this feeling other than myself. Thus, I have no other choice.
Before I give you a chance, I need you to mind my words carefully.
Do not expect too much from me.
You should not wish that I will repay your kindness as you expected. I could disappoint you–on purpose or not. Just consider our “date” as a next step of our introduction, where we both learn to process our own feelings. So it’s better not to rush it.
Thank you for sparing your time to read this complicated letter. We will meet at Formosa Cafe. I will reserve a table for us, on September 2nd at 7 pm. Don’t be late.
À toute à l'heure!*
Sincerely,
Alastor Peters
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(End)