March
17, 1993
I
haven't been feeling too cordial toward Jack since he stole my Jack Nicklaus
tape. I loaned it to him
three years ago, and do you think I could get it back? I even sent him a self-addressed
stamped mailer ages ago, but he said in a phone call that he'd loaned the tape
to a neighbor who had then gone off and wouldn't be back until the fall of 1992. So
another year went by with no word from Jack either by mail or phone, and I
finally decided to stop gritting my teeth over the irresponsibility of
ex-lovers. Forget the tape,
remember the good times.
"Who? What? I think you have the wrong
number," I said.
The
guard asked my visitor to repeat his name and message. "Tell her Jack
Nicklaus is here with her tape."
There
was no mistaking the voice; Jack was returning my long-lost property. A typical Jackish joke.
I
wish I could say we fell deliriously into each other's arms, but I was in the
middle of a writing project and itching for him to leave. I was gracious outwardly, while
inwardly I was aching with love and longing for my waiting computer. Sorry, Jack, you've been replaced.
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