by Paige Reinstein
You chose to be a historian with the assumption that everyone you interact with is already dead. But occasionally, you find yourself needing to visit The Artifact Mart and interact with humans in the present, gross. You stand in the 2010s-2040s section, overwhelmed by rows and rows of meme video disks, tweets leaking the famous scandal of 2024, and news articles about Donald Trump’s infamous wall. Longing for the day in which artifacts will be delivered to your doorstep like a pizza. Never requiring you to put on pants or look into someone’s eyes worrying about if you would be posted in their break room as the troubling historian they all make fun of. You breath in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and out 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and in 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. You find a box labeled August- October 2021 Group B in a droopy red font filled to the brim with letters. After reading a tiny post-it note inside, you learn that these letters were intended for children during the Greater Depression from their families but were never distributed. All you have to do now is walk towards that one employee your colleagues lovingly dub Mr. Smiley—as his excitable personality greatly contrasts his job of checking out documents about more dumb repeated mistakes—and hand him 20 bucks. You then run to the car and start tearing through the letters, unsure of the correct order. The ones labeled: Dear Scotty, catch your attention and you read those below:
Dear Scotty,
At the library today, I couldn’t stop thinking about our weekly little ritual nine years ago. About how every day after I picked you up from preschool, you would run into the library and straight towards the children’s shelf. Always stopping at the same place and reaching towards the Giving Tree. And how you would take it to the mini wooden stage and recite every word wonderfully, always posing and moving around like a dwindling tree that put everyone else before himself. Today, your stage was occupied by another child reading If You Give A Mouse A Cookie which made me so freaking angry. This child was able to keep reading and spending time with his dad.
It was surprising to see the library actually busy today, unlike the days we used to go and have the place nearly to ourselves. Many adults had their faces buried in medicine and finance textbooks, and some kids bounced around excited to read and be spending time with their dads. I wish we could still. Hope your day has been alright.
Love,
Dad
P.S When we get reunited, I will never nag you about reading before watching the football games again.
Dear Scotty,
The Merriam-Webster dictionary still lists the definition for Trick-or-Treat as “a custom of calling at houses with threat of prank if they do not give a small gift.” But that sounds like a lie after your mom and I took Amy door-to-door today. We saw a few mothers holding hands with little unicorns or slightly- bigger than usual teddy bears. Like no way can those tiny humans pull off the shenanigans you and your friends used to do. Remember that time you scared the shit out of Katie Jerge. I may have grounded you for that for a month. But frankly she fucking deserved it. That kid’s family has enough money to.
Never before today have I ever seen as many costume wearing adults handing out candy. Many pasted their children’s torn up feet and eye ken doll parts onto their typical clothes. One posed as a broke(n) man and had horrid gushing wounds with no opportunities to fix them and an identity-less mask.
I miss you bud.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
I lost my job today. I should have seen this coming as none of the neighbors have money for acne medication nor teenage sons to use it. Now that you and all of your friends are no longer in communication with the rest of the community: does it matter if you have acne? If it would never be viewed by adults? But please don’t stress about money, Scotty. I’ll start applying to new jobs today, and I bet in a few months we could save up enough money to try and buy you back from Bextren. In case those other boys give you shit trouble for your acne, I have one last package of Aggy’s Acne medicine. Would you like me to send some your way? Let me know.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
I caught a small red-headed boy stealing a potato from the Quick Mart today, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you and yet another moment when I let you down. Remember that time you brought home potatoes and dried kidney beans? When your mother and I asked where you got these from, I distinctly remember you claiming to “have just found them.” I knew that you stole because you heard us complaining about scraping together every penny to buy your sister’s diapers. But I still grounded you. I grounded you because it was all I knew to do. I grounded you because it made me think that I was somehow saving you from being punished by higher ups when you grow up. But now you are being punished by higher ups. And not because you acted irresponsibly. More so for a choice I made. And that choice was significantly more severe then you wanting to provide nutrition to your family out of love. I should be the one grounded. More like, I should be the one delivered to Bextren.
Love,
Dad
Your research in postgraduate school focused primarily on the Battle of Owens River and the dumping of live Hepatitis A into the River by Bextren interns. This happened a couple years after this letter exchange ended between Scotty’s dad and Scotty. But greedy Bextren continued to screw over the people after the dump by making the shot for Hepatitis A only available to the wealthy 10 percent. While the older generations were mostly vaccinated, thousands of babies and disabled peoples died. But throughout this research you never thought about the families. You never thought about Scotty. Your mind wanders a little on the regret of Scotty’s dad. It reminds you that you have not talked to your dad during the last ten years. You were mad at him for suggesting that you should take care of the anxiety and give yourself a chance to have a family like your sister. You were mad because it seemed like he was trying to control your choices and your life. You commit to calling him as soon as you get home but sit shivering in the car, caring more about reading the next letter then starting the engine.
Dear Scotty,
Every year we sit through the Rabbi blabbering on about: “And for the sin which we have committed before You by a bribe-taking, And for the sin which we have committed before You by deception, And for the sin which we have committed before You by a confused heart,” while everyone hits their fists against their heart. Like every other Yom Kippur, I blindly hit my heart thinking no way in hell does half of this stuff happen to real people in the modern day.
But this year, I personally have committed half of Al Chet. With you being the soul victim of my mistakes. If God does exist, then the next step he would want me to do is apologize and ask for forgiveness. There is no way I expect you to ever forgive me for what I have put you through. But please know I am sorry.
Rabbi’s sermon was about needing to send his own son to Bextren and how hard that has been on him. Usually, Rabbi does a good job of pumping us up for the New year and making us have the slightest beacon of hope that this will be better. But after this sermon I just felt hopeless. And to top it off there was no one in the hallways trying to play those silly little games hidden under their dress shirt sleeves. It just didn’t feel like a family holiday without you. How were your holidays?
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
Today your sister, mother and I tried to play a game of Monopoly. But it was not a real game of Monopoly without those intensely thought out trades and schemes of yours. We always joked with younger you about how you would someday rule the world with that plotful mind of yours. Can’t believe I took that chance away from you. How are you doing?
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
In case you have not heard yet, our beloved White Sox beat the Dodgers in the World Series today by a mere 5 to 4! Did you see Abreu get that final home run in the 9th inning? And that play in the fifth inning. Scotty, I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.
I read a news article that people at Guaranteed Rate Field, Who am I kidding, we all know it’s Cellular Field were able to run as platinum Bextren membership cards. And the winner would get 20 percent off switching to the platinum account for their first month. Were you able to watch the game? I can’t wait to hear your takes on the game. Miss you.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
That “oldie” (at least according to you), “Can’t Touch This”, played on the car radio today. The final “can’t touch this” (That one we used to always scream together as I drove you home from band practice) led to an advertisement for Bextren International, reminding me that we can send our 13-15-year-old sons to them for a grocery and rent stipend. Reminding me that these experiments will not lead to any “known physical, emotional or psychological long-term effects.” Reminding me of the numbers 8575523457 that have haunted me in my sleep for the past year. The numbers that I pushed and allowed them to take you away from me. In other news, I think my interview went well to become a secretary for some Bextren employees. I would rather not be working for that dumb company but also, I would do near anything to reclaim you from them. How are you doing, dude? Haven’t heard from you in a while.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
Never would I expect that head-quarterback brother of mine to bawl his eyes out. But Scotty, it happened. His family has been trying to survive off of old torn-up jeans and cumin soup for the past week. The month before they got a small amount of credits for rice and beans due to their ten-year anniversary of being Bextren members. After the stipends were used up, they had nothing and were beginning to feel desperate enough to make concoction such as the lathery jean soup. But they wanted to do better for your little cousin. They decided to sacrifice their oldest to Bextren too. Please take care of him wherever you all might be. I appreciate you Scotty. I love you, man.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
I miss even that dumb thing where you “hide” whenever your classmates see you walking around with your mom or I at the mall. You and I both know your classmates can still see you, but you do it every time anyways. I would totally never do this when I was your age. Of course, I adored going to the mall with my dad. Today, your mother nagged me that I need a pair of shoes, so I went to the mall—but alone.
I got my choice of parking spots and strolled into Payless, nearly burning my feet on the hot asphalt. As per always, your mother was right. As soon as I got inside, 3 employees surrounded me reminding me of what kind of shoes have the best quality and resistance. Probably trying to get some sort of sales bonus by selling the best pair. Probably trying to avoid having to send their young teens to Bextren. What they probably don’t realize is I can’t even buy your sister cereal to eat before school in the morning. How would I find the means to buy the most expensive shoes? But also, potential employers want people to wear shoes in order to get a job? But I need money to. Hang tight buddy. How are they treating you out there?
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
The park was empty today. I miss throwing around that ol’ basketball as you hit the backboard, and I tried not to accidently hit those cars in the parking lot. But today, I wanted that basketball to crush Mrs. Jergens’ car, if not more of her property. Luckily for her, I do not know where her current mansion lies. Nor the swimming pool or jet pad that must be attached to it. Today, she accepted the position of Bextren Director. Yes, that lady who would drive you to school when it was too cold to walk is now in charge of whatever torture you may be currently subjected too. And all the other neighborhood boys. Except her own. I’ll try to behave. Stay strong.
Love,
Dad
Dear Scotty,
I even miss the way you would just say “k” when I try to check in with you and see how you are doing. Everyone I have been interacting with lately will often garble on and on about things not even related to the questions I asked. Perhaps, sometimes simpler is better.
Love,
Dad
You wonder what happened to Scotty. Which of the experiments was he experiencing? Where did he end up during World War 3? Did he ever get reunited with his dad? You then turn on the heat to warm up, remembering of your promise to yourself. The one in which you were going to call your dad, and remind him how much he mattered to you, even if he acted wrongfully. You scroll towards his number and push it, ready for a heart to heart. Seconds later, you get mad at yourself for wasting precious work time and hang up before he has the chance to answer. You then head home and continue working on your Greater Depression Dissertation.
Paige Reinstein is a sophomore studying creative writing and English at Oberlin College. Besides writing, she loves button up shirts, Reese’s peanut butter cups. and teaching.