From: Marlene Hammond
To: Judy Richman
Subject: Blue Christmas

Dear Judy—

You were wrong.  There was no 2-carat solitaire under the tree for Marlene.  And just in case you think I’m just messing with you, nope.  There wasn’t a ¼ carat high school pregnancy marriage ring either.  Nada.  
Honestly, I’m not surprised.  Where was Chris supposed to get that kind of money?  I mean, since the accident at the marina, he has basically been sitting on his ass, nursing his broken wrist and watching WWE and football.  As the holiday season began (after freakin’ Halloween.  C’mon!) he has switched it up, cursing at those stupid Hallmark movies with Adam.  If I have to listen to one more rom-com, like where some bitch is running a New England Inn and finds romance when a celebrity chef visits for Christmas and they fall in love in the kitchen over a dead goose, I swear I will effing lose it.
You know I love Chris, and he’s not a bad guy.  Out of nowhere, he gave Adam an old blue guitar that had been languishing in the spare bedroom closet for ages.  That was sweet, and Adam was thrilled (Can he even play?  I don’t think so.  Forecast: more racket).  But Judy–follow me here.  We’ve been together for 5 years. I guess it was stupid to get my hopes up, but I thought that this was The Year (and, I will remind you, lady, SO DID YOU).  But money’s been tight and I think that Chris feels diminished and less-than.  I’ve been working my ass off at the library, not to mention at the marina too, and when you are teetering on the edge of the middle class, it’s unlikely that when you fall off you land walking down an aisle wearing some Betsy Johnson white tulle catastrophe.  As all the Sox fans here say, there’s always next year.  Sigh.
And please don’t start on the visit.  You know I’m dying to see you.  You were my absolute favorite teacher at college, and yes, I’m keenly aware that it’s been 10 years.  Don’t you think I want to see Los Angeles?  I don’t care what you say, it’s got to be a shit-ton more glamorous than this island, which redefines the word “dreary” in the off-season.  I know you’ll be shocked, but your 70 degrees and sunshine beat the crap out of icy fog and LL. Bean duck boots.   
I would love nothing more than to apply some California-brand salve to my emotional wounds, but the travel fund (nestled in its Folger’s can on the top pantry shelf) is still laughably short of a round-trip ticket to Los Angeles.  And don’t bother offering to pay for it.  You know that my starchy New England flintiness (are you laughing yet?) won’t even hear of it.
But hope springs eternal.  Hey, would you bet your future on scratch-offs and tax refunds?  Me either.   

Love,
Marlene

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From: Judy Richman
To: Marlene Hammond
Subject: La La Land

Dear Marlene:

What movies are you watching, anyway?  Do you think that I vault out of my Porsche, waltz into Whole Foods, run into Anne Hathaway, and we share almond milk lattes at an art deco hotel on Sunset Boulevard?  Sweetheart, Los Angeles is a very large place, and my little corner of it (in decidedly un-glamorous Sherman Oaks) was long ago declared a Ryan Gosling-free zone.  And I must tell you that a blessedly empty, locals-only New England island in the winter sounds like heaven to a woman who spends up to three hours a day commuting on the 405.  
I am so very sorry to hear about your blue Xmas.  Please remind me how, exactly, did we miss the part about how it was just as easy to marry rich?  After the college refused to offer me tenure, and I got this job teaching high school (AP English, but still), I feel as though I’ve been running the world’s longest marathon, with a cheering crowd many miles away holding up a huge banner on both sides of the road at the end of the course with the words “HAPPY RETIREMENT.”  
Truth be told, I am dying to retire next year.  But Richard wants me to put in another five, because the pension will be bigger.  Could it be that he simply does not want me around while he does day trading on that absurdly large IMac of his.  Could I tell him that he should maybe think about getting a real job, where he gets a regular paycheck?  Should I remind him that I have been grinding it out, correcting pronouns and dangling participles, for decades?  
Please don’t answer.  But to your point, YES, buy those scratch-offs and invent a few kids for added tax benefits!  Isn’t there a class action you can join?  I get those invitations all the time.  Get your flinty butt out here and let’s go see the Beach Boys play at the Pantages in Hollywood.  Richard refuses to do anything that he deems touristy, but if I cannot retire, at least I want to spend my hour in my Kia on the freeway and end up somewhere that does not have a lounge with crappy coffee, a plaid couch, and a frankly gross microwave that will always smell like fish.
What’s wrong with people, anyway?

Love,
Judy

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From: Marlene Hammond
To: Judy Richman
Subject: Good Vibrations

Dear Judy—

You know what–and I say this with love and respect–would you please tell Richard that he can go eff himself in your Kia on the 405?  You’ve been slaving for as long as I’ve known you.  You deserve to pull the conductor’s cord, stop the train and get off at Retirementville.  Shit, it sounds like one of those disgusting Florida communities where they drive around in golf carts and have mandatory macrame classes.  But you get the point.  How have we found ourselves, at this point in our lives, still grinding it out every freakin’ day?  SMH.
Update: Chris could tell that I was moping around, and, in that sandpapery sweet way of his, asked what was bugging me.  Judy, I didn’t mean to, but I gotta tell you: I just lost it.  I mean, those gulpy sobs where you aren’t sure where your breath is coming from.  Runny nose.  The works.  I thought it was going to open up a 64 ounce can of shit, but he surprised me.  You could literally see him trying to listen.  I mean, leaning forward.  Not checking his phone.  The works. 
I’m not sure that we actually fixed anything.  He’s still on short-term disability, and the cast comes off in a couple of months.  Then, some grueling physical therapy.  So, no set ETA for return to his boat mechanic job, and no set ETA for me to be an honest woman.  FML.
Go ahead and try to de-glamorize it, but I don’t care.  I want to see the shimmering, muddy lights of nighttime Los Angeles and have a girls’ night in Hollywood listening to mom rock.   You know I love the Beach Boys!  But the Folger’s can doesn’t lie: I think I can get myself to, oh, Akron and maybe part of the way back.  But every day, I empty the singles and change from my purse (and, occasionally, a foil-wrapped piece of cinnamon Trident gum) into the can.  I resist the urge to count the quarters and singles in there, and hope that by doing this, I’ve entered into a deal with the universe where my restraint is cosmically rewarded by beanstalk-like growth.
Speaking of rock and pop culture, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.  Your first name (Narrator: “It’s Judy”) is SO MUCH BETTER than mine.  In your corner: Judy’s Turn To Cry; Judy Jetson, Judy Garland; Judy freakin’ Collins, Judy Blume; Suite: Judy Blue Eyes; Judy Holliday blah blah blah.  In my corner: Marlene Dietrich; an extremely obscure song called “Marlene” by Todd Rundgren; and… nothing.  I’m really pissed.
I mean it.

Love,
Marlene

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From: Judy Richman
To: Marlene Hammond
Subject: Pulling The Cord

Dear Marlene:

Well, as they say, do you want the good news or the bad news?  Ok, the bad news: Richard looked at the pension tables they sent me and “convinced” me that I should work “only” another two years.  By “convinced,” I mean that he mansplained it so that all I could do was sputter and interject “but…but…,” and then agree.  I reluctantly said yes, and then realized, in the same way that you realize that the $50.00 Prada bag you ordered on the internet is never going to ship and you had better cancel your Visa now, that I had committed to another two years of writing “See me” in angry red ink on the top of some really shitty essays.
But the good news?  My servitude came at a price.  Richard stumbled onto a stellar trade, dumping 1000 shares of Tesla seconds after seeing the news of that idiot Elon Musk re-tweeting antisemitic garbage on Twitter (I refuse to call it X).  Out of nowhere, he made $12,000.  I was basically able to extort $900 of that from him in exchange for bumping up the pension.
How much is in that coffee can, anyway?

Love,
Judy

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From: Marlene Hammond
To: Judy Richman
Subject: The Best Part of Waking Up

Dear Judy—

You are a shitty negotiator.  First, why in the world would you bargain away precious time, when you could be sleeping late and doing the NYT crossword in bed?  Second, what part of my starchy New England flintiness (ha!) did you miss?  There is no way that I can take a penny from you, Hollywood Sign be damned.   Take your $900, throw it into a mutual fund, and you’ll thank me later.

Love,
Marlene

PS: Fine, I looked.  There’s $184.00 in the Folgers can, plus what I think is either a Euro, a British 2-pound coin, or a subway token from Toronto.

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From: Judy Richman
To: Marlene Hammond
Subject: Saturday At the Movies

Dear Marlene:

It could be a generational thing, but did you ever watch those old black-and-white crime movies on TV?  The kind where a tough-talking hood would spar with a detective in a large-lapelled suit, trading barbs?  No?  Well, let’s try it, shall we?
ME: “Now you listen to me, girly, and you listen good.  Here’s what you’re going to do, and you’re going to do it quick, see?  You’re going to dump that Folger’s can on your chenille bedspread, and you’re going to take every last penny and deposit it into the New England Trust Bank, pronto.  And then you’re going to wait for further instructions.
YOU: You got a lotta nerve, lady.  What makes you think that you’re gonna roll up here, in your fancy clothes and Prada bag, and tell me what the hell to do with my Folgers can?
ME: Look, you, I’m just about out of patience.  I’m tired of sitting home and letting it all pass by me.  I want to see the bright lights, the marquees, the high life.  Drink a Cosmo with something other than generic Vodka.  I want to stay out past 11.  And I want to do it with you, and I don’t want to wait another 10 years, see?
YOU: Aw, go lay an egg!  You think you can just boss me around like the hired help?  You and what army?
ME: Ok, missy, let’s do this the hard way, shall we? (Reaches into purse and throws rectangular cardboard on the bed).  I didn’t wanna have to do this, but you leave me no choice!
YOU: (faltering) What…what’s that?
ME: I’ll tell you what it is!  It’s two tickets for the Beach Boys, get it?  At the Hollywood Bowl, next July 4.  You heard of it, right?
You: (meekly) Yes… (You look down tearfully).
ME: So, here’s how we’re going to do it.  Listen to me good.  You’re going to log into one of those websites the kids use, right?  And you’re going to buy a round trip ticket to Los Angeles, see?  And then you’re going to send me a telegram with the ticket price and flight information.  And don’t try any funny stuff, lady.  I know exactly how much it costs to fly round trip, so don’t try giving my some cockamamie two-thousand-dollar fare, get it?
YOU: I…I…ok, fine.

SCENE

Love,
Judy

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From: Marlene Hammond
To: Judy Richman
Subject: Western Union Sent Its Last Telegram in 2006, But…

Dear Judy—

United Airlines US 311
11:40 a.m.
June 30, 2025

Love, Marlene

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