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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Loneliness / Solitude
- Published: 06/10/2017
Mr. Fantastic.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United States![Mr. Fantastic.](/storage/story/1497203868Letters-image(211x285-crop).jpg)
The tall Policeman called the Detective over- and motioned to a cabinet filled with letters.
“Look at these.”
“Why?”
“Well, it is obvious this guy did not die of foul play of any kind, but look at all these letters.”
“Who did he write?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that your job?”
The Detective sighed.
“Yes. Thanks for pointing that out.“
The Policeman smiled.
“I don’t know, maybe some of these letters will tell you who he was, or who to contact.”
“Yeah. But I don’t like to read.”
Just then the Coroner looked up from zipping the body bag closed.
“Oh, I think you might like reading those letters. This man could write.”
Both the Cop and the Detective looked at the Coroner with the tilted head look of a curious dog.
The Coroner blushed, but held his ground.
“Here, read his last words.“
“His last words?”
“Yep. He must have had a bad heart or something, because he wrote this note …err…letter, before he died last night.”
“What’s it say?”
“You read it. It makes me cry.”
So the Detective took the note, which really was more like a Letter. The other Policeman, the photographer, and the ambulance crew, and a few people standing in the hallway- including the Building’s Super- crowded around to hear what the man had written. They all knew him as a quiet man. A smiling man. One of those kinds of people who are so nice they make vanilla seem exciting. He was the kind of man that made you smile, but forget why, or who made you smile. He was the kind of guy that never did a mean thing to anyone, ever. He was, in a word, nice. Kind. Invisible.
The Detective cleared his throat:
“To whom it may concern,
My name is Brett Cummings. But I call me: Mr. Fantastic. (Smiles all around the room.) Not because I was fantastic in any Super Hero, or Super Male, way. But because I lived a fantastic life, with truly fantastic people and relationships- none of which existed outside my mind. That makes it all fantastic. Too fantastic to believe, but fantastic is how I lived- in my head. Real life was to me simply a matter of mind. I made my mind up to live a full and loving life- and I did.
(to say everyone listening was confused would have been the understatement of the year- if not the century)
I have no living relatives. I have no real friends. In fact, I doubt if the people investigating my death will be able to find a single person who knew me well enough to tell them about me. So I have to. Fantastic.
(At this, they all chuckled)
You will find my letters in a filing cabinet. There are just shy of seven thousand of them. About a third of them are to the important females in my life, none of whom even knew that the pleasantries they exchanged with me at the Grocery Store, or the Restaurant, or down looking at the river- became the highlight of my day. I would write them as if we were old friends, or new friends, or former lovers who, when the passion cooled, found out they actually liked each other’s company.
Some were much younger than me. Some a tad older. Some the same age. I wrote them all, and they never knew the fantastic relationships we had, or the things we did together, or the places we went. (Everyone was leaning in to listen now. For they were hearing the very essence of loneliness echoing in the many words of a man they never knew). It was all one sided. It was fantastic. And that is how I came to be known, in my own mind, as: Mr. Fantastic.
I mean really, how do you discuss your first kiss with a woman who is half your age, and doesn’t know you want to kiss her? Wouldn’t that be fantastic? I can tell you the answer- it is: yes! I spent a dozen letters talking to her about how kissable she looked, how inviting, and how the kiss itself would be devalued by any further expression of passion. A kiss, like a gift, should be delivered with surprise, unwrapped with care, and deliver delight. So talking about that kiss with her- wrapped the deed in shiny, slick, slightly moist puffy cotton candy potential, like licking a rainbow. And then …we kissed. Not in real life, in my letter. It was fantastic.
I wrote a few hundred letters to a another woman, a woman so kind that generous became an emotion. I spoke to her with no walls. None. I just blurted out any thing that came to my mind, or any emotion that surfaced while chatting with her. I even told her I loved her. It didn’t scare me at all. Think back for a second, and stop reading this note to answer this question: “When is the last time you said: “I love you," to someone, with complete focus and no fear? No fear of rejection, rote, or need of a reply. Just to say I love you without any conditions or return comment. Just simply a fact to be noted.
(Everyone did stop and think- and all came to the same conclusion. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to have someone you could talk to with absolutely no walls, no filter, and no need?)
You see, dear readers, (I don’t know who will read this, or how many will be there when my body is found- but bless you all for caring!) my real life was boring. I was too timid to talk to folks, and too selfish to sacrifice my daily routines to the whims, moods, or schedule of another person. So, I built all of my relationships in my head. I wrote two of my best friends, one male and one female- for more than thirty years- and they never knew. Fantastic.
I had many quick chats with warriors, veteran’s, mom’s, dad’s, workers and students of all types, and took those precious moments home to build an experience with. Oh sure, I know that is delusional, but it is also safe. I never had to break up, break off, or break down, over an emotional ending. I only had to stop writing. Fantastic.
I have been to picnics, free of bugs, lumpy grass, and limbs that fell asleep in awkward positions - because the whole scene was invented in my imagination. The people were always real, the event rarely was. I could put a lovely woman’s head on my lap, pull a blanket up to her shoulders, and feed her popcorn, while watching Notting Hill. Not once having to shift position, go pee, or grope her under the blanket and face a silent protest, or actual rebuff. Nope. It was a perfect moment. A fantastic moment. A fantasy with teeth. I could be the perfect date- and was. Fantastic.
I have no enemies. I have no grudges. Can you say that?
(Every head dipped in unison. Embarrassed that they couldn’t.)
Isn’t that fantastic?
(Again, every head dipped in agreement)
I lived in my letters. I was always kind, interesting, supportive, and caring. I was the me I always hoped I could be. So what if no one but me knew? I could listen without interrupting. I could hold back any judgment or prediction of their lives, based on my own experiences. When is the last time you listened to someone pouring out their hopes, fears, dreams, or ideas- without forming a rebuttal, reply, or response in your head- while the other person was still speaking?
(All of the heads in the room bobbed in shame- for Mr. Fantastic had called them all out.)
I lived a rich full life, most of it in my head, or my letters. But I loved. I cared. I cried. I hugged. I forgave. For I am Mr. Fantastic.
I am glad I met you, for I knew I would. Perfect strangers are taking my body away, but caring for it, treating it with respect, and maybe, even wishing they had a chance to know me a bit better. I think that is fantastic.
Signed,
A very grateful Mr. Fantastic.
The Detective looked around the room. Folded the letter in precise careful gentle creases, like smoothing out silk with your hands. His eyes were shiny when he looked around at all the folks who had listened without a single interruption.
“I have a lot of reading to do. I shall take all of these (and he gestured at the cabinets stuffed with letters) and every night at Seven PM, I shall read as many as I can. I shall put a list at the Precinct with your names on it. If you want to come listen to me read them out loud. You are all welcome."
The Coroner stood up, shook the Detective’s hand and said for the group:
“Fantastic.”
Mr. Fantastic.(Kevin Hughes)
The tall Policeman called the Detective over- and motioned to a cabinet filled with letters.
“Look at these.”
“Why?”
“Well, it is obvious this guy did not die of foul play of any kind, but look at all these letters.”
“Who did he write?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that your job?”
The Detective sighed.
“Yes. Thanks for pointing that out.“
The Policeman smiled.
“I don’t know, maybe some of these letters will tell you who he was, or who to contact.”
“Yeah. But I don’t like to read.”
Just then the Coroner looked up from zipping the body bag closed.
“Oh, I think you might like reading those letters. This man could write.”
Both the Cop and the Detective looked at the Coroner with the tilted head look of a curious dog.
The Coroner blushed, but held his ground.
“Here, read his last words.“
“His last words?”
“Yep. He must have had a bad heart or something, because he wrote this note …err…letter, before he died last night.”
“What’s it say?”
“You read it. It makes me cry.”
So the Detective took the note, which really was more like a Letter. The other Policeman, the photographer, and the ambulance crew, and a few people standing in the hallway- including the Building’s Super- crowded around to hear what the man had written. They all knew him as a quiet man. A smiling man. One of those kinds of people who are so nice they make vanilla seem exciting. He was the kind of man that made you smile, but forget why, or who made you smile. He was the kind of guy that never did a mean thing to anyone, ever. He was, in a word, nice. Kind. Invisible.
The Detective cleared his throat:
“To whom it may concern,
My name is Brett Cummings. But I call me: Mr. Fantastic. (Smiles all around the room.) Not because I was fantastic in any Super Hero, or Super Male, way. But because I lived a fantastic life, with truly fantastic people and relationships- none of which existed outside my mind. That makes it all fantastic. Too fantastic to believe, but fantastic is how I lived- in my head. Real life was to me simply a matter of mind. I made my mind up to live a full and loving life- and I did.
(to say everyone listening was confused would have been the understatement of the year- if not the century)
I have no living relatives. I have no real friends. In fact, I doubt if the people investigating my death will be able to find a single person who knew me well enough to tell them about me. So I have to. Fantastic.
(At this, they all chuckled)
You will find my letters in a filing cabinet. There are just shy of seven thousand of them. About a third of them are to the important females in my life, none of whom even knew that the pleasantries they exchanged with me at the Grocery Store, or the Restaurant, or down looking at the river- became the highlight of my day. I would write them as if we were old friends, or new friends, or former lovers who, when the passion cooled, found out they actually liked each other’s company.
Some were much younger than me. Some a tad older. Some the same age. I wrote them all, and they never knew the fantastic relationships we had, or the things we did together, or the places we went. (Everyone was leaning in to listen now. For they were hearing the very essence of loneliness echoing in the many words of a man they never knew). It was all one sided. It was fantastic. And that is how I came to be known, in my own mind, as: Mr. Fantastic.
I mean really, how do you discuss your first kiss with a woman who is half your age, and doesn’t know you want to kiss her? Wouldn’t that be fantastic? I can tell you the answer- it is: yes! I spent a dozen letters talking to her about how kissable she looked, how inviting, and how the kiss itself would be devalued by any further expression of passion. A kiss, like a gift, should be delivered with surprise, unwrapped with care, and deliver delight. So talking about that kiss with her- wrapped the deed in shiny, slick, slightly moist puffy cotton candy potential, like licking a rainbow. And then …we kissed. Not in real life, in my letter. It was fantastic.
I wrote a few hundred letters to a another woman, a woman so kind that generous became an emotion. I spoke to her with no walls. None. I just blurted out any thing that came to my mind, or any emotion that surfaced while chatting with her. I even told her I loved her. It didn’t scare me at all. Think back for a second, and stop reading this note to answer this question: “When is the last time you said: “I love you," to someone, with complete focus and no fear? No fear of rejection, rote, or need of a reply. Just to say I love you without any conditions or return comment. Just simply a fact to be noted.
(Everyone did stop and think- and all came to the same conclusion. Wouldn’t it be fantastic to have someone you could talk to with absolutely no walls, no filter, and no need?)
You see, dear readers, (I don’t know who will read this, or how many will be there when my body is found- but bless you all for caring!) my real life was boring. I was too timid to talk to folks, and too selfish to sacrifice my daily routines to the whims, moods, or schedule of another person. So, I built all of my relationships in my head. I wrote two of my best friends, one male and one female- for more than thirty years- and they never knew. Fantastic.
I had many quick chats with warriors, veteran’s, mom’s, dad’s, workers and students of all types, and took those precious moments home to build an experience with. Oh sure, I know that is delusional, but it is also safe. I never had to break up, break off, or break down, over an emotional ending. I only had to stop writing. Fantastic.
I have been to picnics, free of bugs, lumpy grass, and limbs that fell asleep in awkward positions - because the whole scene was invented in my imagination. The people were always real, the event rarely was. I could put a lovely woman’s head on my lap, pull a blanket up to her shoulders, and feed her popcorn, while watching Notting Hill. Not once having to shift position, go pee, or grope her under the blanket and face a silent protest, or actual rebuff. Nope. It was a perfect moment. A fantastic moment. A fantasy with teeth. I could be the perfect date- and was. Fantastic.
I have no enemies. I have no grudges. Can you say that?
(Every head dipped in unison. Embarrassed that they couldn’t.)
Isn’t that fantastic?
(Again, every head dipped in agreement)
I lived in my letters. I was always kind, interesting, supportive, and caring. I was the me I always hoped I could be. So what if no one but me knew? I could listen without interrupting. I could hold back any judgment or prediction of their lives, based on my own experiences. When is the last time you listened to someone pouring out their hopes, fears, dreams, or ideas- without forming a rebuttal, reply, or response in your head- while the other person was still speaking?
(All of the heads in the room bobbed in shame- for Mr. Fantastic had called them all out.)
I lived a rich full life, most of it in my head, or my letters. But I loved. I cared. I cried. I hugged. I forgave. For I am Mr. Fantastic.
I am glad I met you, for I knew I would. Perfect strangers are taking my body away, but caring for it, treating it with respect, and maybe, even wishing they had a chance to know me a bit better. I think that is fantastic.
Signed,
A very grateful Mr. Fantastic.
The Detective looked around the room. Folded the letter in precise careful gentle creases, like smoothing out silk with your hands. His eyes were shiny when he looked around at all the folks who had listened without a single interruption.
“I have a lot of reading to do. I shall take all of these (and he gestured at the cabinets stuffed with letters) and every night at Seven PM, I shall read as many as I can. I shall put a list at the Precinct with your names on it. If you want to come listen to me read them out loud. You are all welcome."
The Coroner stood up, shook the Detective’s hand and said for the group:
“Fantastic.”
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