As I settled into my seat on the Van Galder that would take me from O'Hare to Madison at the end of Thanksgiving Break, I made myself as unattractive as possible in the hopes of getting both seats to myself.
With water stains over my crotch, mysterious green stains on my neck and face and a pungent odor making its way along the aisle, I was the last person to get a seatmate. I considered it a small victory.
Once the cramped express bus to Madison left - we had clubbed to death the one patron headed for Clock Tower Resort - I decided to use the time to reflect on the past week.
Graduating at a time when the economy looks worse than my quirky cousin's Thanksgiving Surprise"" dinner contribution is a scary thing. One of the only solaces we have is our connections - namely, our parents' connections - which I worked to exploit to my full advantage over the break.
""So where is Jeff applying to law school?"" my dad asked over lunch one afternoon. Jeff, my boyfriend, and I have decided to stay together after graduation, adding the difficult task of finding that one magical city - that probably doesn't exist - where I can get a job and Jeff can get into law school.
""Oh, you know, all over,"" I replied.
""Well, you know that we know the dean of the law school at Vanderbilt.""
""Really?"" The wheels began turning. I mentally prepared my usual tactics I had used on various editors around the country. Shower them with gifts, e-mail them daily compliments and honor them with animal sacrifices to the gods of journalism.
""Yeah,"" my mom chimed in. ""His son is in your brother's Hebrew school class.""
Suddenly, I changed my train of thought. Maybe it was time to do something different. None of the editors had called me back, anyway. The daily e-mails were probably too much. But this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I wasn't about to miss it.
I excused myself from the table.
""Where are you going?"" my dad asked.
""I have a letter to write.""
I sat down on my bed, propping my laptop on my lap, and took a deep breath to get the creative juices flowing. Then I began.
Dear Mr. Dean,
It has come to my attention that your son is enrolled in Bryce Wiatrak's Hebrew school class. I should let you know that I have an in with Mr. Wiatrak, and that he is somewhat under my control. The term ""hostage"" may be appropriate in this particular situation.
Anyway, as much as it pains me to bring family into matters such as these, I am afraid your son will fail Hebrew school if you don't let my boyfriend into law school.
I will give you 24 hours to think over my proposition.
Sincerely,
K.E. Danger
Exactly one day later, I had one new message in my Inbox from the dean.
Dear Kiera,
Hebrew school is not graded. Next time you want to blackmail someone, at least set up an e-mail account that isn't registered to your full name. Try Gmail, it's free.
Sincerely,
Mr. Dean
P.S. Please tell your brother I say hello. He is an upstanding boy.
I released my brother from the bed sheets I had used to bound him and hold him in the utility closet.
""How'd it go?"" he asked, coughing from his diet of Windex and Pine Sol.
""Not well. Why didn't you tell me you don't give out grades in Hebrew school?""
""It was kind of hard to talk with the gag.""
""Oh. Sorry.""
""Well you do know that I have access to the records, right?"" he asked.
""Yeah, so?""
""So, I can change his Bar Mitzvah year to 2050 if I wanted to.""
""Sweeet!"" I yelled. ""Ok, back in the closet.""
""What? Why?""
""I don't know. It's just better that way.""
Dear Mr. Dean,
I have switched your son's Bar Mitzvah year to 2051. If you don't let my boyfriend into law school, your son will not become a man in Jewish law until he is a grandpa. How embarrassing.
Sincerely,
IMTrouble09
Dear Kiera,
There really was no point in starting a Gmail account after we've already been in contact. I called the synagogue administration, and they corrected the error. I will only consider letting your boyfriend into Vanderbilt if you promise me he was not involved in any of your antics. I don't think anyone that stupid would do well here.
Sincerely,
Mr. Dean
P.S. If your brother ever considers law school, please send him my way. It took courage and ingenuity to change my son's Bar Mitzvah date, and I have a feeling it wasn't your idea.
If you have any connections to exploit, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu. She is available for hire.
