April 1993
This is a story, dear reader, that began long before any of us were born. It began in a frozen monastery in the mountains of Nepal. It began soon after the worlds first postal service started carrying letters and small packets to Asians the world over. And its ending is lost somewhere in the future.
I was on the Chuo Line from Tachikawa to Kofu. Not so crowded, plenty of seats were available. I happened to sit down next to a guy who looked older than Reagan. We exchanged smiles, then stared at all the buildings whizzing by. But I noticed he was studying his datebook, alot. Then I noticed that it was a 1993 datebook. Then I noticed that it was filled out all the way to the end. He had appointments, the daily exchange rates, horse racing results, everything filled out through December 31st. Feeling a little giddy due to what I'd just seen, I decided to pull a favo(u)rite joke and tap the man on the shoulder and put my index finger out to jab him as he came around. Without even flinching the old fossil retorted, "Man, I knew you were going to pull that stinker when you were 44 years old." He indicated the then present date in the datebook: 'Some guy in a wierd hat tries that labo(u)rsome, junior high cheek jabbing joke.' Completely baffled, I asked him how he had pulled off the datebook trick.
He said, "I mailed it to myself, from the future. How old do you think I am, Junior?"
"About 107."
"I'm 114."
I was shocked. He didn't look a day over 107. He went on to explain the story of 'The Order of the Laden Crane', an ancient sect of Buddhist monks who dedicated their lives to Martial Arts, Charles Atlas's meditations on Dynamic Tension, and Express Delivery. (Well, two out of three isn't bad.) Together with a local Wu-jen (wizard), they created some stamps that would allow them to mail things into the past, so they wouldn't have to get up so damn early every morning except Sunday.
The stamps came to the attention of Kings and Warlords. The tactical advantages were whispered of around the battle fires. Eventually, the five kings of Nepal tried to sieze control of Bin Pu Phet, ergo the stamps.
The monestary was subsequently destroyed, (The monks were too busy ramming pin-ups of Cheryl Tiegs into envelopes to warn anyone of the coming disaster.) and all of the stamps with it, or so was the common belief. It seems that a thousand or so had been handed down through the years, father to son, to the man who was sitting to my right, the last heir of The Stamps of Bin Pu Phet.
He showed me the last three stamps. He said there had been a dozen when he recieved them. He had used them to extend his health. He was eating high-fiber, low in saturated fat food when doctors were still saying bacon and eggs was a healthy breakfast.
"If I had those stamps," I mused, "I'd address a letter to myself in 1960 telling me to buy Zerox stock."
"Wouldn't work," he said, "you can't recieve letters before the first day you know of the stamps. Oh well, this is my stop. Tell no one of what was said here."
He stepped off the train, tripped, and his frail old body went limp in the bitter February cold. I helped myself to the stamps. I figured, he didn't need them anymore. Dead men don't write letters.
The next day, I got a letter from myself. It said I should bet every penny I had and could borrow on 'Takahashi Terror' in the fifth race on March 7th at the Tokyo horse racing place. I came up with \80,000 and, as the letter said, Takahashi Terror came in first. Two to one odds, I doubled my money. That's one stamp.
I spent the money on a new tailor made suit. I figured, eventually I would get enough sense to pick up a sports almanac in 2007 or so and send it back to myself. The suit would be a nice little treat until the real money started rolling in. The next day, I received the following letter.
Dear Spim,
April 21, 2005Very Important. Ask Fisty's secretary, Natalie, for a date. I just ran into her at the Waffle House in Winnipeg. She told me about how attracted she was to you way back when. And she assured me that if you asked her out, on the first date, bodda bing bodda boom. Don't be an idiot Spim, she wants you.
love
Spim
That's two stamps.
I can modestly say that the old Spim monster has never needed help in the old babe department and, in fact, has been a pillar of guidance for many. I of course asked her out for the following Saturday. She was undulated with glee. I was glad I had bought the suit. But, I figured I wouldn't be wearing it for long if you know what I'm saying.
I had that suit modeled after one a friend of mine has. His name is Jugoarashi Daisuke. He works for the Japanese government and reports directly to Miyazawa himself. Miyazawa, having noticed that people in movies were generally happier than people in real life, instigated a research team to find out why. The research team decided it was at least in part due to background music. So my friend Daisuke was appointed Secretary of Background Music. He has about 850 people who work for him. Together they scour the countryside deciding the appopriateness of background music as compared to the setting. For example, at one of the ski slopes in Nagano-ken, the management was playing Rock-a-billy. Daisuke decided that if people tried to play ski and dance to Rock-a-billy at the same time, it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. He recommended Allman Brothers and Donovan. But I digress.
Saturday morning, I received the following letter:
Dear Spim, December 12, 1995Don't go out with her tonight. Cancel the date, she's insane. I lie in a pool of my own blood as I write this. The two of you have some great times and great sex together. But today, she decided that you are the Anti-christ and must be destroyed before you pollute the city water supply with acetic acid. She has a gun. I don't know what kind it is, but it's big. She has chased me into a parking lot. I can hear her coming. I hope I get this sealed before she finds me. Better go.
love
Spim
So that was the three stamps. My adventure in space-time-postage had come to a sudden halt. I was one suit and not one Yen richer for it. I called Natalie and told her I couldn't go out with her because sometimes I become Betty, a '68 Vegas showgirl who had a steamy affair with Mapleleaf megahunk Engleburt Humperdink. And since I'm not really in touch with who I am just yet we'd only traumatize each other. She seemed to agree and added she had recently met a 'cutely coarse' ex-con sewage worker she was interested in. I know you could never believe that the old Spimster fishes from the other side of the pond, but maybe she bought it.
When I look back on those couple of days that covered so many years I don't bat an eye or give the finger but raise a small parcel in respect to those knightly monks of yore. I'm Spim Ramsley, and these are my thoughts.