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Toe the Line
Leo Jensen
I scroll down the list of unopened emails and wonder why bat-shit crazy seems to follow me.
“SUBJECT: You must like getting your toes sucked.” The subject line alone forces me to grimace. I can guess what’s coming next. I’ll open the email and find some misguided blog follower who wants to rant at me for my latest post. Or maybe the sender is making an offer.
At least my toes would be getting some action.
Yesterday, I wrote a blog post about a teacher who was fired for inappropriate behavior. Why did she lose her job? She’d chronicled about toe affection on her personal, yet public, blog. A fetish post for certain, but pretty tame by internet standards.
I wrote that her romantic preferences were her business, and certainly didn’t merit getting canned. It’s not like she fondled a student’s little piggies. Teachers certainly don’t deserve scarlet letters for admitting they have a love life.
Love and romance.
These are topics I have no business talking about, since I’m officially on strike when it comes to women. My A Torrid Toe Affair post garnered over two hundred comments, some more snarky than others. Blog traffic spikes with sex-related topics.
Last week, I exposed a restaurant owner taking advantage of underage employees. The week before, I featured a postcard submission from a woman who’d been fired by her employer for not letting him give her dictation. Naked. Him, not her.
I seem to be a regular employee advocate this month. The month before, my posts were all about politics.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a masked marauder for justice. No cape in my closet. My talent for revealing truth seems to be accidental. It’s not what I really want out of life. I want to write books that entertain and thrill and keep you awake at night, turning pages.
I spend all my daytime hours working on my paying gig using my pseudonym, Mr. Expose. In the middle of the night, I hammer out my latest manuscript called The Incident, a political thriller on its third rewrite.
I click the boxes of at least twenty emails. Delete, delete, delete. I have more pressing things to do than read this shit.
The postcards on my desk pull at my attention. I pick up the top one. It’s a plain, white postcard with a picture of a crow on the front. I flip the card over to study the back. The sender’s handwriting tells me that he or she was in a hurry. The connective strokes between each letter are broken and thready. Barely there. The breaks between the letters indicate the person is impatient.
Handwriting analysis experts say our writing is like a fingerprint. The lines and curlicues can reveal the personality of the sender—whether they are open and honest or if they’re hiding something.
I took a class on graphology, because writers are like that. We like to know what makes people tick.
Some people don’t like my requirement for a postcard submission. They say my rule is archaic. That an online columnist shouldn’t act like a Luddite. The requirement does stop most impulsive people who would send an electronic submission in the same way they post a Facebook status—without taking time to think about repercussions.
The world is full of crazies.
Case in point. My cursor hovers over a new email in a thread of messages from one particular woman over the course of the past month. Even though I should delete these as quickly as I do the other spammy emails in my box, I don’t. I can’t help myself. Sometimes, it’s good to read one or two to remind myself of the reason I stay anonymous.
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I submitted a postcard to your blog. After sending it, I realized I shouldn’t have. May I request that you return the submission to me? I’ll be sending a self-addressed envelope to your postal box where you can send the postcard back. I believe I signed my name as ‘Betrayed Woman,’ or ‘Angry Woman.’
I apologize for my error and hope I’ve written you in time.
Thank you,
Angel
* * *
From: [email protected]gmail.com
To: [email protected]me.com
Dear Angel,
Thanks for following my blog and sending in a submission. I regret it’s against my policy to return any items sent in. I get frequent requests similar to yours. As you know, I have no real way of identifying you, since submissions don’t contain real names.
You can rest assured that no one will know you submitted the postcard. I am very serious about the privacy of my sources.
I’m happy to say I’ve received over 500 postcards already this year. Chances are yours will not be selected for a blog post on Mr. Expose. I hope this allays your fears.
Sincerely,
Mr. Expose
* * *
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I don’t think you understand. It’s important to me that I get the postcard back. Its return is crucial to my well-being. I couldn’t sign my name since your guidelines tell us not to, but you can easily pick my card out of a pile. It’s pink with some flowery things on the back. I’m putting a self-addressed envelope in the mail to your box. Please return my postcard.
Many lives will be damaged by my thoughtless and selfish submission if it is selected for a blog. Consider this more of a plea than a simple request.
Angel
* * *
From: [email protected]gmail.com
To: [email protected]me.com
Angel,
I do understand there is a measure of urgency to your request. Still, I cannot break policy. I could spend all my time with administrative tasks such as this.
In the future, I suggest you think through your actions more carefully. Impulsiveness is the downfall of many.
Please do not email again.
Mr. Expose
* * *
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
It’s not like I’m going to prison if I don’t get my card back, but I absolutely need to take care of destroying the postcard myself. Hindsight is 20/20 multiplied by a million. I completely see my mistake now. My thoughts were a jumbled mess when I wrote the postcard and revenge was my only goal. But I have no quarrel with the person my postcard will affect and I need to stop the publication. I am really, really sorry, but I must demand that you respond to my request.
* * *
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
Did you receive my last email? I think you must have lost it or it’s in your spam folder. Please reply.
Angel
* * *
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
Mr. Expose???!!!
I’ve sent the envelope so you can return my postcard. I am begging you to be human. I realize you must think I’m irrational to want something you obviously consider unimportant, but come on. I know from reading your blog that you attempt to correct the wrongs of the world by exposing those who would be dishonest.
This postcard and information will only do harm at this point. You will destroy lives.
Angel
* * *
From: [email protected]me.com
To: [email protected]gmail.com
Mr. Expose,
I can’t keep writing you. You keep blogging and posting pics from random postcards, so I know you are in your stash of postcards often enough to do me the courtesy of a reply.
You are a postcard hoarding a-hole.
Yours truly,
Angel
* * *
My cell phone pings with an incoming message. I glance at the cell’s display and tap the message from my ex-girlfriend.
Tori: Don’t be King of the Assholes. Answer my calls. If you don’t, I will come in person.
King? I’m honored. Between the crazy woman texting me, and the one emailing about her postcard, there’s a consensus.
I’ve gone my entire life being known as the nice guy. Not anymore. I’ve wandered to the dark side. Maybe this is where I’ll find solitude, a place to get my manuscript finished for the agent who requested it.
Tori isn’t going to harass me into calling, and Angel Girl isn’t going to force me to dig out her postcard. I don’t hesitate this time when my cursor hovers over the email message.
Delete.