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Dear Roanirt

A woman from Miami by the name of Roanirt Alviarez Aguais lost her drivers license on the F train. I found it and mailed it to her with the following letter:

Dear Roanirt,

You probably thought that “F” stands for “Fuck! I lost my drivers license!” But as you can see, you would be wrong. “F” stands for “found!” Or maybe “F” stands for ” Fourteenth” (ha ha!) because that’s where I found your drivers license–on the F train at the Brooklyn bound 14th Street stop. I had just boarded the train and sat down when I saw your drivers license on the seat. I’m assuming that it fell out of your pocket, but I could be wrong. Maybe you like to travel to different states and intentionally leave your drivers license on a form of public transportation. That’s fine too. It’s not something that I would do, but to each his own. I’m not judging you, and like the old saying goes, “Don’t knock it until you try it.” But if I ruined your hobby by mailing you your license back, I’m sorry. And I am really, really sorry if the reason why you were in New York in the first place was because you faked your death by drowning in order to get away from your abusive husband, like in the movie Sleeping With the Enemy. In that case, this letter has obviously fallen into the wrong hands, and if your husband murders you, I will never be able to forgive myself. If this is Roanirk’s husband, let me make myself perfectly clear: if you lay even one finger on her, I will RIP OUT YOUR FUCKING SPINAL CORD! I was recently released from a prison upstate where I served a ten-year sentence for manslaughter. I find this to be laughable (not the fact that I killed a man, but the fact that the jury found me innocent of murder). I don’t know how well schooled you are in our fine legal system, but the difference between murder and manslaughter is that, with manslaughter, you didn’t intend for your victim to die. I find this hysterical because I meant, with every ounce of my soul, to kill that fuck. But like the journalist Norman Cousins used to say, “When you go to trial, you’re placing your fate in the hands of twelve people who weren’t smart enough to get out of jury duty.” In my case, the stupidity of the jurors actually worked to my benefit. Anyway, one thing we don’t tolerate in prison is those who abuse women and children. Remember that, you fucking coward!

If this letter is being read by Roanirt, well, there you have it. I once killed a man. I had no intention of you learning this fact so early in our relationship, but now that it’s out there, I would prefer if you were to judge me from this point forward rather than on my past. I have paid my debt to society. I’ll say only one more thing about this. If your husband is indeed beating you and you’ve fantasized about killing him, I can assure you that taking a human life is as fun as it sounds, and then some. In fact, while my victim was writhing on the floor, struggling to breathe, blood pouring out of what seemed like every artery in his body, I pulled up a chair, sat down, and quietly drank a Red Bull (Red Bull gives you wings!) while watching “the show.” Legal lesson number two: Never drink anything at a crime scene. You leave behind your DNA. Whoops. I’ll have you know that I’ve only taken one human life, and that that son of a bitch used to beat the shit out of my mother when I was a kid. So you and I (might) have something in common.

What else do we have in common? Do you like polka music? I feel bad because I know almost nothing about you.

But I digress. You should really be more careful with your ID. It has your address on it, and I shudder to think what could have happened if Bill Cosby had found it. Did you have it in your hand, and then you placed it on the seat next to you, got distracted, and left it there? I have recently achieved OTIII status as a Scientologist, and the fact that you can be so forgetful proves that you have some body thetans that need to be removed. I can’t recommend strongly enough that you visit your local Church of Scientology and immediately get an audit done. I’ll come back to this topic later. For now, as your unofficial ambassador to New York City, I would like to tell you a couple of stories about the subway stop in which you lost (or should I say “temporarily misplaced,” thank you very much) your drivers license.

One time, as I was waiting for the “F”ound train to arrive, a teenager ran down the stairs, dropped something in the garbage can, and continued to run. Seconds later, a cop ran down the stairs in pursuit of the teen, who had obviously stolen something. The cop was slow, and there was no way that he could have caught him. I thought about chasing the kid myself. I definitely could have caught him. What would you have done, Roanirt? If I had caught the kid, I would’ve been on the news, which would’ve been fun. It also would’ve helped me at all my future probation hearings. On the other hand, for obvious reasons, I don’t like cops. Not only that, but when this took place, I was reading Jerry Stahl’s novel Painkillers, and I had just come across this life changing passage:

             
                If you were fucking a beautiful woman on the edge of a cliff, would you look down the whole time?
                Or would you look at her? By definition, if a woman is beautiful enough for you to fuck on a cliff,
                she’s beautiful enough to make you forget to look down. Except when she wants to remind you
                how close you are to the edge. What would happen if you rolled off. Or she pushed you.         .


At that moment, a gun fight could have erupted between the cop and teen, and it wouldn’t have been able to break my concentration. In fact, not a day has gone by in the two years since I read that passage that I haven’t pondered that philosophical question. I mean, there’s just so much to think about. How high is the cliff? How beautiful is the woman? Would it be worth being pushed off the cliff if the beautiful woman were Jessica Alba? Also, notice Stahl’s use of periods instead of question marks after the sentences, “What would happen if you rolled off. Or she pushed you.” Unless Stahl made a mistake (which is possible due to the copious amounts of drugs that he’s done in his lifetime) he’s implying that it was the woman’s idea to get fucked on the edge of a cliff. If so, the balance of power between them has been shifted. I also came up with my own variation on this: if a man were to receive a blowjob from a woman on the edge of Mt. Rushmore, would it be socially acceptable to tell her that she gives great head? Maybe not, but it sure would be funny! (Get it? Head?). Anyway, that passage left me paralyzed to fight crime. Ah, the joys of reading.

The other story that I want to tell you about the “F”ourteenth Street subway station has to do with the very same staircase that you walked up when I saw you get off the “F”ound train. This was about ten years ago. I had just gotten to the bottom of the staircase when a rat the size of a God damn groundhog ran across my shoe. It’s amazing how fear makes someone become far more athletic than they normally would be, because at that moment, I miraculously developed a 56 inch vertical leap. Unfortunately for me, a HOT blonde (and I’m talking cliff-worthy hot) happened to be approaching from the other direction. This is unfortunate because, in addition to jumping 56 inches, I also happened to scream like a girl. It goes without saying that if I had only discovered Scientology sooner, I would have had the proper mental tools to deal with the rat accordingly. I did not though, and I still regret that embarrassing incident to this day.

I don’t want the same thing to happen to you, which is why, in closing, I want to once again urge you to get an audit done. I happen to know Tom Cruise personally, and if you don’t do it, ominous looking men in black SUVs will follow you around for the rest of your days.

Your “F”riend,

Keith Malek

P.S. Go Dolphins!

cc: Minnie Driver

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