How to Say Pineapple in French

            Fan letters cannot be comforting to you, all things considered, so I will not mail this traditionally, but rather place it on my blog so you can access it at your leisure if ever you so choose. How did this begin? I was sitting in a little classroom with the fine upstanding youth of my county in the juvenile detention center where I work when one particularly lethargic youth (who we cannot call children), who had been known only to drool, looked at me through glazed-over glassy eyes and with his mouth slightly parted asked, “Who is Jodie Foster?” I heard him clearly because I was prepared. I sat him in the desk next to me because I knew anything he said would not be repeated.

            “Where did you get that name from?” I asked directly. But it was too late. Like always, he didn’t reply. He was back in whatever world he was in when he was not in this one, between infrequent words that came as often as menstrual cycles and about as regular.  I imagined it to be a world of unicorns and trolls with baby-blue skies, colorful mushrooms and pink trees. Youth Board had a medical condition that caused him to be in such places and regardless of whether he was listening I answered him. “Jodie Foster is a beautiful actress...” But that simple sentence was not adequate in describing you so that night in my spare time I ventured to say more in this open letter to you.   

            Driving home I thought of you and I tried my best to recall every movie I had ever seen you in. I tried to remember if you had been confirmed lesbian (not that it matters as I am liberal as they come) or if you were married to some old guy the way many beautiful actresses are, if you have children, or other things of your personal life I have no right to know. I remembered you in Taxi Driver which once inspired me to shave a Mohawk and act insane for a few months after the Army. The Mohawk was crooked and in my town there were no twelve year-old prostitutes for me to save from Harvey Keitel. I thought you would have made a terrific Lo If someone made Lolita into a film when you were fourteen or so. In Taxi Driver your character seemed like a residual Lo. I can’t remember your name then but I remember that outrageous hat. I cannot fathom that a grown man would be obsessed with you and try to shoot the president, or was it the fellow who shot Lennon, neither of which I will name for they deserve no tribute even in condemnation.

            I think not to waste time describing myself for it seems inconsequential but I will so anyway, at least enough to give a general impression of me for the slim chance you will read this and wonder if I am a great big fat person or a skinny weasel. A message in a bottle would have as much luck finding you, truly, but my blog does get over a thousand hits a month, and perhaps someone with your email or connected to you in some way may forward you the link for the sake of amusement. Unless it would not amuse you that a child in a juvenile detention center in Nowhere, Ohio, in the scarcity of words, asked about you of all people living and dead. His last words came a month before when he asked, “How do you say pineapple in French?” I happened to be present for that miraculous moment but I had no answer for him, even though I took three years of French in high school rather than Spanish because it seemed more sophisticated. I never found the answer before he was back again in a land of unicorns and trolls and baby-blue skies. I found myself captivated by Youth Board, and I and a few other officers had great interest in what the fourteen year-old might say next. The truth is he didn’t have a medical condition exactly. No disease or nothing natural. He suffered frontal lobe damage in a car accident that killed two people that caused the drooling and sporadic speech. He stole a car and ran a stop sign. The court felt that he was faking it, or that he was in shock, but I don’t think so. He was lobotomized by the steering wheel. I shouldn’t tell you any of this, confidentiality and all, but like I said it is not like you will read this and my blog is under a penname and read by more people in Russia and France than those in my own country. I list my place of residence as the planet Trimorf, which is clear out in the Zahn Galaxy.

            As I was saying, I am 35 years-old with brown hair and icy blue eyes. I suppose I am handsome. I have been told so by people other than my mother and my pictures on Facebook get dozens of likes by all kinds of women and girls and some gay men. I posted a picture for consideration on a website that gives you honest ratings of your attractiveness and I scored a solid 7.5 overall on a 10 point scale. My average was hurt by young girls who ranked me around a 6 being that I am clean cut and not ghetto, but I scored a strong 8.7 among the 40-50 year-old demographic, which would happily include you. I work out daily and I play tennis whenever I can find a partner. Frankly, I don’t know much about you and I don’t try to know because if I was to ever meet you somehow I would like for you to tell me yourself and I would never want to say, “I know that already,” and spoil the moment. It would be like the time I snuck up into the attic when my mother was at the grocery store and saw all of my Christmas presents. That was the worst Christmas ever. For that reason I will tell you nothing more about me beyond what I have already, and that I am divorced.    

            I took a few days off work to watch some of your movies, everything Blockbuster Video had to offer and what was on Netflix. I was impressed by your presence and unlike any other actress I have watched I wasn’t annoyed by an obvious phoniness or an overdose of sexuality. That wasn’t you. You aren’t the kind of woman who would wear heels or too much perfume. After every film I said, “Bravo, Ms. Foster.” There seems to be truth in your eyes and it felt watching you that I knew your soul during that hour and a half and I had to remind myself that you are an actress and it is your job to fool me. I understood Hannibal Lecter’s fondness of you and I nearly jumped through my plasma TV to kill those assholes who gang-raped you in The Accused. I seriously considered being a vigilante rapist killer but I lost interest. I was clinching my fists before I realized I was being fooled by your performance.

            I sit in coffee shops and imagine conversations we would have about acting and writing. Our crafts both make us purveyors of truth in one respect, but liars in another. I stopped short of carrying pictures of you but I did buy an autographed picture of you on EBay for fifty dollars which I framed and put on my living room wall by my bookcase. So not to feel creepy or as though I was spiraling down the well of obsession I also bought and framed a photograph of Robert DeNiro and Mel Gibson. The latter of whom of course played your husband in The Beaver, which just so happens to be my favorite animal and has been so since I was ten years-old. Excellent direction, by the way, Ms. Foster.

            I took a vacation to New York where you were to attend a charity event for ASPCA two weekends ago and I stood outside of the Museum of Modern Art with a crowd of others. I had a room at the Paramount and I wrote a poem for you I won’t share on hotel stationary. I stood near a woman who was in love, emphatically, she said, with Jeff Goldbloom, who walked out just before you did looking like a million dollars. He is much more handsome in person. She fainted. You were modestly wearing a light blue shirt that said “End Puppy Mill Cruelty.” I took Charlie, my English bulldog with me and I was holding him in my arms as you passed. You smiled at me and then at Charlie and gave us a wave and I knew that was all I would ever get from you. I would never get a letter, or a phone call, or that date in the coffee shop where we could compare notes. When I returned to Ohio, Youth Board had been released and his last spontaneous utterance was “June twenty, twenty-thirteen,” which I presumed to be when the world would mercifully end. I am alright with never knowing you. Father Time, Mother Fate, and Cousin Circumstance will prevent that from ever being, especially now that the end is so near. But I am thankful that I lived in your time and that I shared breath with you for a brief moment. I know you needn’t a lowly detention officer to fluff your pillow but you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, outside of my ex-wife on our wedding night, and one ex-girlfriend.

            The other day I was having dinner at Applebee’s in the gag of suburbia where family folk pretend to be happy eating the same meals in the same seats listening to the same music. The bartender who I would call a friend if the nature of our relationship was not dependent on service and tips, introduced me to a friend of hers from college named Anna. I had never before expressed an affinity for you which makes the matter all the more curious when she said, “Doesn’t she look just like Jodie Foster?”  I smiled and after the shock of that declaration I agreed. The resemblance was in fact uncanny. I say so not to take anything from you that you could have a twin, but only in exaltation of her. If there was a call for Jody Foster look-a-likes she would have no competition, beyond you. She was a carbon copy, a clone, but enough of my prating. I kindly introduced myself and though her voice failed to be of your unmistakable tone she spoke in the manner I imagine you would, as pithily as you do in movie dialogue. Regardless, you will be happy to know I felt a connection that I am sure is lasting. Anna took three years of French and absorbed everything she learned. She knows how to say pineapple in French, “Ananas,” which happens to be her favorite of all fruit.

            I am sending you an invitation to our wedding, with the pineapple logo, though I don’t really expect you to RSVP, or to attend, or to send a letter of regret explaining a schedule conflict. But you are most welcome. I feel happy in that she no longer reminds me of you; you remind me of her. We will be married in New York at the Paramount Hotel on June 20, 2013, at 1:30 pm, a date and time she picked. I hope the world doesn’t end as I thought, but I am sparing no expense on our wedding. I will forever be a fan of yours, and grateful that in some small way I knew you.

Sincerely,

Arthur Rigsby