Dear Sir or Madam

I lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan, for not quite a year, during which time I was mostly broke and unemployed. It was 1980, the economy was in the toilet, jobs were scarce, and there wasn’t a big demand for someone with a master’s degree in music theory.

One day it occurred to me that Kalamazoo had a symphony orchestra. I typed them a letter that was – well, let’s say – whimsical. Serious inquiries hadn’t done me any good with other local employers, so I thought maybe something bright and engaging and humorous might pique their interest.

I signed it and sealed it and put a stamp on it. I intended to mail it the next day when I went out for the morning newspaper.

I woke up the next day with a sore throat, so I didn’t go out, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought that it was a good thing I hadn’t mailed that letter. I was about to drop it in the trash, but I thought I’d try to save the stamp. I had never tried it, but I had heard you could loosen the glue by freezing it, so I put the letter in the freezer.

As the day went on, I got sicker – runny nose, headache. I had heard about some flu that was going around, the Bangkok flu they called it, and people were dying from it.

I lay in bed half asleep, thinking, What if that’s what I have? And what if I die from it? And what will my family think when they come to deal with my things and find a letter to the Kalamazoo Symphony in my freezer?