My baby, she wrote me a letter

Dear Jack,

Thanks for calling last night, on your way to Nevis, to try again to explain to me why you don't want to take me to Nevis.

Some people might say that you were rubbing it in, but not me.

I know, I know, you didn't say, "Don't want to," you said, "Can't." And then you said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I can't."

But hey, Jack, save it for when you're really sorry, OK? You know I hate apologies. Save it for some day, when you really owe me an apology. Don't give it to me now. You're not sorry. Sorry implies can't do anything about it; wish it weren't so; wish I could change it. That just doesn't apply here. It's not that you can't take me to Nevis. You can.

After all, that's the whole point of the trip, isn't it? To reward the top sales reps and engineers at Big Ass American Software Company, and, more importantly (you said), to reward their wives and girlfriends for putting up with another year of late nights, long hours, and being out of town on the kid's birthday?

Not that I'm saying I'm your girlfriend, or anything.

I know you have to go, even though (you say) you don't want to, because it's expected of you. And I know about the company-wide award you won this year, and I know how well liked and well respected you are at Big Ass. I'm sure there'll be a party in your honour; a panegyric offered to you, as Biggest Ass in Big Ass American Software Company, 2005.

Perhaps it's ungracious, or unsporting of me to remind you of this, but you did say you'd take me. Remember, last year? Just after you came back from Aruba, from last year's Big Ass sales gala? You were telling me all about it — this was just after you and I started talking again, after the last six year separation — and you knew, then, that the next one would be in Nevis, and you told me I was gonna love it there, and I believed you, and then you changed your mind and said you didn't want me to go.

You know what's funny? I bet if I posted this email message on my blog, as a story, I'd get two dozen emails from readers — the ones who know how clueless I can be — telling me to get a clue, that you're obviously taking someone else. A bagel.

But I know that's not it.

I know that it's because of the Very Bad Things. That much I understand. But here's where we disagree: you believe that there's nothing I can do to help with the VBTs, and I think you're just as wrong as you can be about that. Because one of the VBTs is, you don't trust anyone, not even me. Especially me. Because you can't stop believing that anyone you trust will eventually betray you.

So you won't give me a chance to do that to you. You won't take the chance.

Which is ironic, because it's not like you're the most conservative, risk-averse guy in other areas of your life. It's not like you're a fucking accountant, or anything. You may be many things, but boring is not one of them.

Neither is dishonest.

So be honest with me, but more importantly, be honest with yourself. You don't want me there because it would be more difficult to have me there than to not have me there. It would mean allowing the VBTs to loom, and loom large they would, and they would have to be slain, or at the very least have a limb hacked off.

One more thing, Jack. Don't call me because you want me to make you feel better, because you feel bad that you made me feel bad. That's just twisted, man. That's just rubbing it in.

Just go to Nevis, do what you have to do, and call me sometime when you can. When you want to. When you want to be that guy. The chocolate guy. You don't need me to tell you how to do that, any more than you need me to tell you how to dress appropriately for a formal spring wedding in New York.

xxoo
sassafras

P.S.: Congratulations on being the Biggest Ass of 2005.

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The next story has nothing to do with Jack. Sort of. It's about Kate and Sawyer. And, Gentle Reader, who among us has never in their life been a big ass? Certainly not Postmodern Sass.