Rejection

September 14, 2005

"Wait, let's go this way, I want to check my mail."

There are two entrances to my building. I took Deborah's hand and tugged her in the direction of the one near the mailboxes.

"Bah," I scoffed, pulling my mail from the box. "Another rejection letter."

Along with an electric bill and a junk letter addressed to “Promotional Director” was an envelope from a literary agent.

"How do you know it's a rejection letter?" asked Deborah. Deborah plays the lottery nearly every week and can whip up optimism out of thin air—or a thin envelope.

I waved the envelope back and forth. "Believe me, I can tell."

I'd forgotten about this particular agency and thought all my queries had already been answered. I tore open the envelope and skimmed the form letter. They are all contrite and smell of fear. Fear that they are rejecting someone who is either A) going to become successful down the road, or B) a psychopath. "Thank you for giving me the chance to review your material—" "Please understand that this is a subjective business—" "I regret the necessity of a form letter—"

"I wish this guy had forgotten about me the same way I'd forgotten about him," I said. "I'd rather have never heard from him than to have to read one more of these things."

"Aw. I'm sorry."

"Whatever," I said, stuffing everything back into the mailbox. "Onward and upward."

We rode the subway a few stops and got off in my old neighborhood for breakfast. Afterwards, we took the subway back to my place, but weren't paying attention and overshot my street by one stop. We got out and walked back, strolling along Flushing Avenue, past the warehouses and factories, past the auto repair mechanics leering at Deborah, breathing cement dust and exhaust.

"I wonder what the hell living in this neighborhood is doing to my health?" I mused.

The air seemed suddenly suffocating, the trucks suddenly louder. I looked around and didn't see a single tree.