Dear John Malkovich,
I sometimes dream of a secret swimming pool, magical and unchlorinated, dug somewhere in the slot canyon labyrinths of southern Utah. According to legend, only you know the way. Last night Renee and I and hundreds of other lepers seeking the pool’s healing properties waited at the trailhead for you, our guide, to show up. But did you know that you can be a heartless prick sometimes? Well, in my dreams you can be. You and your two dirthead pals (you know the ones) pushed your way through the crowd and into the all day shade of the narrows, your squawk of a laugh echoing off the redrock walls as you vanished. The few of us lepers who still wanted healed after such an impolite entrance rushed in behind you, but now we had our doubts, which we voiced in noisier and whinier tones each time you tried to ditch us in some dusty deadend mothtrap. Some of us fell behind, but despite your best efforts, Renee and I, as robust as lepers come, managed to catch up each time you darted down some new, darker passage. Then we heard thunder, and I’d read about flash floods before. The second the first raindrop stung my arm, the water level rose from zero feet to fifty and drained just as fast, leaving Renee and me clinging half way up the slickened wall. I reached over to place her feet in better holds because I didn’t want her falling and hurting the baby. We waited five minutes or so for the next flash flood to lower us safely to the mud, but by then you were gone and so was your trail. We decided we’d wander in search of the pool on our own. We were sick of your attitude anyway.
And we found it, just around the next bend in fact, behind a wrought iron fence. Don’t ask me how, but the gate was locked from the inside. We rattled the bars until some dreadlocked hippie dude, tanning on a poolside lounger, woke up and, while the lifeguard on duty looked elsewhere, snuck over and let us in, welcoming us in a whisper. We stripped down to our suits, padded across the baking concrete, and jumped in. Renee dove without splash; I cannonballed. The water felt not warm, not cold, but wet only. They kept it at 98.6 degrees exactly. My wife and I surfaced smiling at each other, confident that we were healed.
My good friends were all around–Matt, Jesse, Eric, Blake, Pete, John Robert, etc.–splashing and dunking each other. And I suppose Renee’s old friends were among the extras at the party as well. I never really met them. But you, John Malkovich, were noticeably absent, swept away by the flash flood, or perhaps just plain uninvited. I do apologize, but in the end it was my dream.
Through the havoc I spotted Josh Farrer treading water beneath the diving board. I knew he’d be around. I always find him in places like this. I wanted badly to swim over and say hey, but now was not convenient. See, he was flanked on either side by the twins Brynn and Hailey (spelling?), and as easy as everyone claimed it was, I never could tell those two apart with any accuracy.
Briefly your disciple,
Nat Foster
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