Category: Creative Non-fiction

A love letter…to Death of a Salesman

Rachel Hsu

Dearest,

I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but before we had even met for the first time, I’d heard your name like coin drops in a fountain. Small clinks and drips in different areas of the water, conflicting messages in every bubble. Opinions, I guess you could call them. Same frequency with each sound, general consensus that you were good and I would like you. There was the occasional sour comment about your tendency to overdo things or your lack of consideration for people other than yourself. There was the occasional remark about your assumption of self-importance, the occasional eyeroll whenever you were praised. I didn’t really have one first impression of you, in that sense.

But, the moment I laid eyes on you—no, the moment I fixed my eyes on you and studied, really studied, you, I think I knew our connection would be unique and unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.

That is, until, I read three more plays and realized your most defining characteristics are not unique to you. All this to say, you’re not special, and this isn’t even the first or second or third love letter I’ve written this year.

Tragic middle-aged male protagonist, submissive woman wife who could clearly do better but for some reason is so in love with a trash bag that she’ll take anything she can get, influence of imperialism and nationalism on consumerism and breeding-selfish-people-ism, material possessions, money, possessions, money, possessions, what a society!

You’re not new, you’re not perfect. You’re not special enough to be the greatest there ever was.

And yet, I still get choked up talking about you, if the mood is right. And my words find their way to you, even in the dark.

Maybe it’s the coins again, the clinks and drips guiding me back to you like you’re a vat of nuclear waste and I’m Daredevil or a dolphin or one of those carnivorous bats I watched a documentary on.

Maybe it’s the fact that you were the first one who made me feel this way, crushed on the inside and too disoriented to correct myself with anything more than “some” precision. Maybe it’s the fact that I see myself in you, and that’s why I can’t see myself loving you. Maybe it’s the fact that you remind me too much of the world I live in for me to feel comfortable wanting you.

I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but before we even met for the first time, I had heard your name like coin drops in a fountain. Once upon a time, I threw a quarter in and knew the weight of regret. Once upon a time, I learned my lesson.

Maybe I shouldn’t throw coins in waters I’m afraid to tread myself. Or, maybe, that’s exactly what I should be doing.

Umbrella Man

Rachel Hsu

I was standing in the wrong place, as you know, but, really, it was for good reason.

You don’t know me, but the last time I was here, the line started on the other side, which is to say, the last time I was here, I had someone to wait in line with. In any case, it was raining.

I wasn’t cold, if you were wondering; the water from this sky, in this country, doesn’t hurt.

Maybe it was my glasses. The way I plucked them from my face to wipe them on my jacket. It’s not a very graceful motion; people always tell me my glasses are too loose for my head. People also tell me that I spend too much time looking for things that don’t exist. That I look at things too closely. That I look into things too much. You don’t know me, but we both wear glasses.

Maybe it was my glasses. The way I pushed them back on, fingers never leaving my face entirely, as if my fingers had asked the rain for something and were waiting for a response. As if the rain were something gentle, something soft enough to look at, if not touch. As if the rain outside this noodle shop were anything but.

In any case, it must have looked like I was ready to spend the rest of my life doing that one action over and over again. As if rinse-repeat, only the rinsing never really stopped. And so, maybe, if you were watching, you counted me doing that enough times to believe me if I said, “I never want to stop.”

Even if I didn’t say anything, maybe, you thought, I was never going to stop.

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t going to stop.

And, maybe, this did something to you because you had kept your own glasses dry. I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t stolen a glance in your direction, you standing at the front of the line.

In any case, I made my way to the back. That was where I meant to wait, anyway.

You don’t know me, but before you went inside to eat your dinner, you walked to the back as well. You gave me your black umbrella, told me to just leave it outside once I was done with it. You left before I could really say much. My version of “much,” anyway. You don’t know me, but that happens often.

And so, I said, “Thank you,” which was about ten percent of what I meant.

What I meant was, “I appreciate this.”

What I meant was, “You didn’t have to do that.”

What I meant was, “The rain doesn’t bother me anymore.”

What I meant was, “Today was the first time in two weeks that I haven’t cried.”

What I meant was, “I wonder if you had a nice day.”

What I meant was, “Sometimes, I don’t want the things other people think I deserve.”

What I meant was, “You don’t know me, but I hope somebody makes you feel like they love you.”

By the time it was my turn to go inside to eat my dinner, you were sitting alone, eating quietly, listening to something I couldn’t hear. I thought about reminding you that I had set your umbrella outside. I thought about telling you that it was nestled in a corner, tucked away from the other black umbrellas because I didn’t want someone else to take it by accident. I thought about just saying hi.

But you were sitting alone, eating quietly, listening to something I couldn’t hear. You looked happy by yourself—happy enough by yourself for me to feel awkward about approaching you, anyway. You don’t know me, but that’s what people think when they see me eating alone too. In any case, I didn’t talk to you after that. The rain had stopped by the time I left the noodle shop.