OPEN LETTER

An Open Letter to the Person Who Keeps Interrupting Me While I’m “Just Reading”

This better be important, but it probably isn’t…

I’ve been reading a murder mystery thriller for months.

No, not because it’s long. It’s because I don’t have any self-discipline, Gary. But against implacable odds, I’ve finally reached the moment I’ve been waiting for. The killer is about to be revealed! The mask is coming off, the PI is saying the name and -

“HEY JOHN, DID YOU KNOW THAT ALFRED HITCHCOCK WAS AFRAID OF EGGS?!”

That’s what you scream in my general direction as I read. You burst into the room as if Jesus himself has blessed you with this bit of inane knowledge and you shout it at me because I am, as you so eloquently put it, “just reading.”

Do you have any idea what you’ve done, Gary? Do you know what you’ve deprived me of?

I am this close to finishing when you march in here with your Hitchcockian ovaphobia schtick and give my imagination blue balls.

And it hurts, Gary. It really hurts.

But I don’t show you the excruciating pain you’ve just caused. I politely nod and give a disheartened “Wow, that’s so crazy,” before returning to my book, desperate to know who is responsible for the horrors it houses.

I struggle to find my place on the page without skipping ahead and spoiling anything. Ah, there it is! Right where I left off! Crisis averted!

But you’re not finished yet, are you Gary? You’ve now watched my attention return to the book and yet, your fascination with this subject continues as you pose the question, “Do you think he just didn’t like the taste of eggs?”

“I don’t know,” I mumble as I try to shut you out of my mind. I’ve abandoned being polite. I’m clearly ignoring you. But you’re persistent, aren’t you, Gary? Yes, you press even further, speculating about something that I’m not quite listening to — but I think I hear you mention a robotic chicken?

Dammit, Gary! I make a great show of clamping my book shut with a heavy sigh. I will not be able to enjoy this moment until you finish speculating about whether or not Hitchcock had a traumatic experience with a chicken. You wonder if that experience gave him the idea for The Birds. I wonder if I want to spend the energy to explain the idea for The Birds came from Daphne du Maurier. I conserve said energy.

After you exhaust your surprisingly robust library of Hitchcock vs. chicken fan fiction, I finally sense it. You’re about to leave me in peace! The temptation is too great. I open the book once again. The pages practically vibrate in my hand.

Suddenly, it’s as if you’ve noticed my book for the very first time. You ask what I’m reading. I’m less annoyed by this interruption. My explanation is a good primer to get me back into the story. I tell you how close I am to the solution. I return my eyes to the page, ready to re-enter this literary world when once again your voice scratches through the air.

“I bet the butler did it. The butler always does it.”

“That’s not true, Gary,” I think. “We don’t have a butler and you’re very likely to end up dead if you keep interrupting me.”

But of course, I don’t say that. Instead, I chuckle at you and explain how that is a tired trope that is rarely used in murder mysteries anymore. You shrug and wander off and I am finally free to finish this journey.

I read.

The PI removes the killer’s mask and —

The butler did it.

I throw the book across the room and vow to never read again.

And none of this would’ve happened without you, Gary.

Sincerely,

Me