He came home from work that Friday, having worn his khakis three times that week. It’s interesting, the less people who see you dress the more often you’ll just throw on the jeans you had on yesterday. That’s how James Chapman saw it. The letter was sandwiched between a booklet of coupons and a bill from the Gas Company. One charged too much, and the other gave coupons for things that were overpriced. And then there was the letter, in a faded and awkward color of pink. It actually wasn’t addressed to him but he had lived there for years and he figured it was his to open. He walked inside his modest apartment and did the things he did everyday when he came home from work. That Friday, while his older TV was warming up and the colors were awakening, he plopped into his chair and opened the letter. It even had a perfume smell and he put it up to his nose and tried to remember the last time he was that close to perfume. He couldn’t so, with letter in hand he walked dreamily to the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He ordered a pizza from the place he ordered every Friday. They practically knew him and he began reading the letter, while he was on hold. It was a little after seven o’clock and the place must have been busy. He would have been home earlier but the damn avid machine upstairs went out in the afternoon and he and Frank spent the whole afternoon getting up again.

James placed his order and walked into the living room. The Dodgers game was just starting. Oh good, he thought. That’s three hours of enjoyment right there. TV’s not so bad. He drank from the cool, red and white Budweiser can and began reading it again. The letter talked sweetly of the last meeting, and how sore she had been the next day, and all of those uninhibited things a girl would put in a love letter she felt sure no one else would read. James looked around quickly but then just as quickly remembered he lived alone. Not even a cat, eh, his old and dying mother had asked when he first lived on his own after college. She was never nice to him, always motherly. But that will be my girlfriend’s problem, he thought to himself as he always did when something reminded him of his mother.

He grabbed another beer and it gave him a crazy idea. James Chapman was contemplating going outside his comfort zone and go to Life, instead of always sitting and waiting for it. He went to his small desk and pulled out some stationery. If there was one good thing he had learned from his mom, it was the importance of good stationery. James Chapman chuckled. It had been probably five years since he had used it. But then again, maybe this was what it was for.

As his mind loosened and the Dodgers scored a run in the bottom of the second inning, James began composing a letter. He got halfway through it and stopped. Just who in the hell was he writing to, anyways? He sat back down and waited for Life to come to him. He settled for the pizza guy who came fifteen minutes later and he overtipped the short Hispanic man. He always overtipped, he felt compelled to do it, even if the service wasn’t that great. Maybe he was afraid of people who served him, who knows, he thought.

Over his third beer and a tied baseball game, James reread the letter. And again. He fixated on certain passages that he felt could apply to him, if he was that guy. The rest of his Friday night was spent imagining who this woman was. Was she having an affair with this man? Was it her boyfriend? He wished he knew this guy, maybe he could learn a thing or two from him. He must have some moves to get a letter like this, he thought to himself and snorted like the nerd he was. James watched the rest of the game, drank two more beers and paid his bills. As an objective outsider to this man’s life, it should be pointed out that a single, not-unattractive man was paying his bills at ten o’clock on a Friday night. Yes, there was something wrong with him.

The next day he woke up and his first complete thought were two words: jogging shoes. It surprised him, he hadn’t used them in probably four years but he felt a burning within him to get out, to run. He ate some oatmeal and put on his baby blue and white Nike jogging shoes and left the house while most people his age were feeding their kids, or making love if they didn’t have kids, or at a swap meet. James Chapman was just out view of his house when his lungs gulped whatever air he could bring in. He was out of shape, that was for sure, but at least he was doing something. He couldn’t remember the last time he did ‘something’. He almost smiled as he passed Santa Monica Boulevard and continued along Twenty-sixth Street. It was a placid morning, and blue. Everything seemed asleep still the bright yellowness that made James squint. Breathing hard and that love letter. That love letter, on the faded pink stationery and the looping cursive how girls write. And it smelled so good, he thought, so good. An objective and more manly side of James Chapman insisted that he find out who this woman was. As he got to Pico and turned around, he thought of something. He hadn’t even noticed where the return address, or the name of the sender, or even the name of he letter was addressed to. Normally he was a man of detail and nothing escaped his attention yet last night, he only read the letter over and over and smelled it. How weird, he said to himself, out of breath jobbing in place at the stop light on Olympic.

James got back fifteen minutes later and stood doubled over in his small front yard for a minute trying to regain himself. He should go jogging more, he thought, and went inside to shower. The endorphins were dumped into his system and he even toyed with the idea of writing another letter but when the water splatted on his face, the inspiration slid down his neck, down his body and through to where it drained to the ocean. Don’t kid yourself, everything drains to the ocean.

Donning faded weekend jeans as much as white and blue as an old Ram’s shirt, he pulled the paper from his door step and tossed aside the sections until it was James Chapman and the Sports Section. He sat down, relaxed, refreshed and almost new again. Dodgers won, Ram’s picked up a new running back that would be great if they had an offensive line, and he exercised. Wow, it was already a great day and it wasn’t even noon yet. Maybe he’d treat himself to a movie today, he thought. The letter. He looked and for some reason was surprised it was exactly how he had left it last night. James Chapman knew the letter had magic powers. Shit, he hadn’t thought of jogging in four years, let alone actually going outside and doing it. He walked over, picked it up and sat back down. This damn letter, he said to himself as he shook it in his hand for an imaginary camera, was taking precedence over the Sports section. He looked at the greeting. Dearest Phillip. It had such a classic sound to it. And then, slowly as if it were his last meal, he digested the letter sentence for sentence, and he felt a pang in his chest. It’s your heart, stupid, his rather rude side said. My heart, he questioned. James Chapman had not been on a date in probably five years and he hardly ever even talked to women. But this woman, he gestured to himself with the letter, she seemed different. She seemed soft and dreamy, as if she lived her life in a sweet smelling room, where all the colors were pastel and her big sloe eyes were always half-closed from romantic sleepiness, if there was such a thing.

James walked back to the desk and grabbed the faded pink envelope and looked at the addresses. The letter came from Kingman, Arizona. He had never been there but had driven though it on his way to Albuquerque once. It seemed like a small, forgotten town as he passed it in the thirty seconds it took. He pictured tumbleweeds bouncing along quiet streets and the local policeman drinking free cups of coffee from the town’s one diner. He really had no idea what is was like though, and decided that he would be there next weekend. Just like that, a decision had been made. Then he thought of John Steinbeck’s the Pearl and once Kino had made a plan, it was a reality and without recognizing it, he would be taking steps to fulfill it. He had a flighty moment of picking up and going right that second but no matter how much that letter moved him, James Chapman was still a reasonable man and he had responsibilities to his job. He did the next best thing and wrote a note to himself to ask for two days vacation at the end of the week and then went about his day. You see, James hadn’t activated this part of his brain in quite some time and he needed to be careful, lest he might burn himself out.

He was already a changed man, though. He called up a local ticket broker and bought an overpriced seat for that night’s Dodger game. The seat was right along the first base line. And along the way that evening, he stopped in a bookstore and bought a detailed map of Arizona. He didn’t want to burn himself out but he could take baby steps.

James enjoyed nachos, a hot dog, and two beers and even kept score in the program he had bought from the vendor just outside the stadium. The Dodgers lost, but he had enjoyed himself, and talked and chitchatted with the people who sat next to him and also in the line waiting for another beer. He smiled, laughed a couple of times and actually made a few people laugh. If nothing else, he was reminded that he had a sense of humor. He drove home across town and listened to the Buck Owens CD he had bought earlier in the day. He would have to go on jogs more often, James thought as he entered his house a little after eleven o’clock on that Saturday night. He might even lift some weights, he thought.

The week went by fast and slow as all time does when there is an anticipated ending. He barely noticed anything, or any faces that week but a bag next to his bed, full of clothes, kept growing as he kept finding new things he wanted to take along. James had decided that no matter what happened with this mystery woman, he would go camping at least one night. When he was younger and livelier, he would camp once a month, and maybe more if the mood caught him right. As he threw another pair of socks into the bag, he sat and had a reflective moment. Maybe that’s what age is. It is less often that a mood will catch you in a spontaneous moment. You have more regrets as you get older because you have a better idea what the outcome will be so the need to explore and find out lessons. What a shame, James thought and allowed a moment to catch him Thursday morning before he left and grabbed his jogging shoes and took them out for another spin before beginning what could the First Day for him. Of what, he wasn’t sure, but for James it was a new feeling for him to care at all about things like that.

Showered and ready, James Chapman methodically locked his front door, hopped into his freshly gassed up car and headed onto the fairly open Ten Freeway. It took almost two hours before he felt like he was somewhere else, out of the city of Los Angeles, his work, his ‘social life’ and his old self. Ultimately, it was still him. He had always been a nerd who didn’t eat well, didn’t know how to dress but on that Thursday at lunch, James Chapman could be whoever he thought he was. God, I miss this feeling, he thought, blaring the old and captured country sounds of Buck Owens while his windows were up and the air conditioning was on. The brush along the highway sat brown and prickly and it was warm now. It was one of those days that hinted towards the green and lush summer near the ocean even though the solstice was a month away. He was happy.

He stopped in Barstow for lunch. It was a drive through town between LA and anywhere east because after getting out the suburbia and populace of the great city, the driver needs a break to sum up and soothe where he had just come from. Los Angeles was one of those metropolitan cities where it was just as hard to leave pseudo-friendly Del Taco and thought he should be fortunate he doesn’t live here. He thought about how isolated he would feel in this town, but then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe there would be more people like him, shy but nice. Unfortunately, shy and nice was not a good combination to live in Los Angeles. Outgoing and single-minded seemed to be the prevailing traits of the area he now lived.

It takes four hours to leave the Gold State going east and while the terrain is the same on both sides of the border, it has a distinctly different feeling depending on which way you’re going. Heading west it is a sort of relief, of excitement to be back in California but heading east it felt more desolate, as if it was beginning of foreign lands, where a language other than English might be spoken. You expect to see skeletons of old rusted trucks that couldn’t survive the desert but it is what it is. Hot, arid, and the life is sparse and tough. To survive there, it is the Colorado River that provides all of the miniscule nourishment. It can be life saving within a hundred yards of it’s thick blue rushing water but once you cross it, life has become unfeeling, survivialistic and rough. These were James’ thoughts as he ventured into the Grand Canyon State and the black glistening pavement mesmerized him for miles on into Arizona land. This love letter writing woman was three hours away now, and he could smell her perfume even though the letter was packed down deep into his stuffed bag.

Kingman, Arizona is a sniff of another time, a town five minutes before the alarm goes off, quiet but probably has its own foibles. Towns like this you never can know anything about unless you live there. Perhaps that’s where the mystique lies. The people who reside in Kingman know about the town, its worth, its secrets and that’s why they live there. It has no attractions except it is a nice stop two hours outside of Flagstaff. The land is mostly filled with larger bushes and some trees but seems to fall in between desert and mountainous regions. Only the town’s residents know where the good food is at; most passers-by settle on the first café on the left when you pull into town. It’s across the street from the gas station and has the worst food in town and everybody knows it except the people that eat there. Even the folks that work there don’t eat the food. It’s kind of similar to people who work at Wells Fargo but bank at Bank of America or another major competitor. Of course James knew any of this as he ate his soggy French fries early in the evening on that Thursday. Over his fourth soda, he rued in the fact that he would have been fixing somebody else’s problem in small editing bays that weren’t his for people who didn’t appreciate him or pay him enough. It is only when you remove yourself from the problem that you can see the problem for the first time. James ordered a sundae in order to further look at his problem and to postpone the inevitable reason that brought him to this sleepy Arizona town.

He walked out into the clouded evening and the air smelled like rain. He was just getting to his car when Sally found five dollars left on an eight-dollar bill. She looked out the window to see who he was and thought that maybe she had missed another opportunity to leave this two-bit town. James filled up his tank and drove slowly, wandering the streets as a man who looking for something but wasn’t ready to find it yet. He did some shopping for things he didn’t need and eventually settled into a small motel closer to the heart of Kingman. There was more of a pulse here, he thought, but it was dying regardless, or maybe it never really lived. His room did have remote control and enough towels so he was content. Life must have been looking up for him because the Dodgers were playing down in Phoenix against the Diamondback and one of his four channels aired the game.

James tried not to think about this mystery woman. Her name was Elsa, and that’s all he knew. The name didn’t mean much to him because he had never known an Elsa. In another, it made him think that this could be a whole new woman, a model type he had never come across before. The thought swirled and buzzed in his stomach and while the D’backs batted in the fourth, he walked down the street to the liqor store and was surprised to find it closed. Closed at eight-thirty on a Thursday? Maybe he wasn’t meant to drink tonight, he thought. Maybe he should be clear headed and white-eyed when he met this woman. Did she work? Was she married? When should he go by the house? The questions accumulated and piled on top of each other until he couldn’t even see the game. It was all right; the Dodgers were winning. He brushed his teeth and then shocked even himself as he knelt by his bed and prayed. He didn’t even know who he was praying to but it felt good to share his secret. James was asleep before the game was over and dreamed of travelling to a foreign country but he didn’t have all the supplies he needed.

Nine in the morning his eyes opened. This was living, he thought an hour later as he strolled the small downtown area on foot in search of a good breakfast. The weather was clear and cool, but down at the horizon strange clouds hovered stealthily, waiting for the afternoon. He wanted to be at Elsa’s before the rain came and James enjoyed the local Kingsman newspaper and its biased rendition of why the Diamondbacks had lost the previous night. The smaller the town, the more prejudice and bias is easily expressed. It was a beautiful morning that Friday, no doubt about that. He saw other people in town strolling around and noticed his own pace had slowed down. Usually he scurried about life like a confused and overwhelmed rat trying to get out of the maze. He didn’t care about winning and losing; he just wanted out.

The swirling and buzzing began again once he was in the car and Elsa’s house was destination. The streets were blurred and drab but each street sign burned bright in his mind. The guy at the diner said Elk Road was a few lights past Switzer and when he saw Switzer, the buzzing all he could hear and the swirling became faster and more furious. He wiped some sweat from his forehead, craning his neck left and right and then saw a small brown sign that declared itself Elk Road. James took a deep breath and made a right onto a quiet residential street filled with homes that were pushing fifty years old. They all had large, healthy trees that watched over the homes and their residents.

James stopped a few numbers short of Five Thirteen. Just in case, he reminded himself, just in case. He checked his hair, his breath (which never really works), and looked himself in the eye. He wanted to see if he was the kind of guy that would drive six hours to meet a strange woman who’s only connection to him was that she mislabeled a letter and it found its way to James’ house. Opening the car door, a short burst of wind destabilized him momentarily but for once, James Chapman would not be stopped. He attempted unnaturally to regain the stroll he had downtown but soon abandoned it for his normal gawkiness.

The front lawn of five thirteen Elk Road was unkempt and browning. At this pace, the lawn would be dead and brittle by the time summer was in full swing. He pulled the faded letter to his nose and closed his eyes, smelling the crazy motivation that brought him to Northern Arizona. He wasn’t sure if he smelled it or not but walked to the front door. It was a dark brown door with a screen door and a good-sized bay window pasted to the front of the house. James noticed a knocker attached to the midnight blue door and opted for that. You never know what a foreign doorbell is going to sound like.

A few moments after knocking, a young girl of about thirteen came to the door. She had a cute face, with brown curly hair and she was dressed like she was a teenager though he could tell by the green eyes that she was younger. "Uh yeah," he said awkwardly and unnecessarily official sounding, "is Elsa in?"

"I’m Elsa," she said and smiled strangely.

"You are?" James was speechless.

"But you probably don’t want to talk to me, I’m just named after her, hold on." The young girl disappeared behind the closing door. James tried to peak past the slit without looking like an intruder. He stood and waited. His heart pounded, his tongue was dry and he was having difficulty remembering who or where he was. Time passed as a snail moves across the warm red bricks of an early summer morning. He heard shuffling on the other side of the door and prepared for the moment.

"Yes, can I help you?" asked an older woman. She was probably sixty-five, white hair and pale face with wrinkles mapping her topographically. She was wearing a pink nightgown and looked liked she had just awoken.

"Yes, I’m looking for Elsa," said James, hoping there was some mistake.

"I’m Elsa."

"Uh," he began and didn’t know what to say. "Who is the little girl?"

"That’s my granddaughter named after me. Isn’t she cute as a button?" The vigor came into her voice again as it did every time she spoke of young and beautiful, innocent Elsa, not the old and decrepit Elsa that was her life.

"Oh yes," he said an felt himself squeezing the love letter until it made a noticeable noise. The old woman saw it.

"Can I see that?" she asked, more interested in it than she should have, he thought.

"No, I’m sorry," James Chapman said and fled the front door step with precision. The sweat from his forehead was cool in the midday breeze.

"You’re the fourth guy this month to come by here," the old woman was saying, stepping onto the lawn gingerly, not in an attempt to follow him but to make sure he heard her.

James looked back hurriedly and the old woman stood on her dying lawn. He noticed the young girl and twinkling eyes watching from a slit in the drapes of the bay window. He got to his car and looked but they were both gone.

Epilogue:

Years later, after James Chapman had nearly forgotten the experience, a young woman came to the door and explained that years earlier her real father had lived there, and just wanted to see the place. She left a little while later and James sat drinking a Budweiser and thought of the familiar looking green eyes he had just seen.