The Last Three Days

To: stallingsds@tennessee.gov
From: louise.walker@gmail.com
Date: 22 December 2005
Subject: Harrison Anders-personal inquiry

Dear Governor Stallings,

I don't know if you'll remember me, but we met once or twice when I was first married to your high school friend, Harrison Anders. I am writing to request your help because, for the past three days, my husband has gone missing, and I think you might be able to help me find him. Please bear with me while I figure out how to ask-and I feel I should explain how I thought of you so you will understand why I am contacting you, of all people.

Because of the current transit worker strike, I've been hiking back and forth across the Brooklyn Bridge on my way to my studio, moving in unison with the rabble despite the lack of transportation. I usually drive the car into the city, so I don't talk to strangers much, but it's tough to avoid conversation when you're walking side-by-side across the mile-long expanse and huddling together against the cold winter air; luckily, one such conversation helped me understand how to get in touch with you. When I look at the photographs of New Yorkers in the Times, I see that, during these early morning treks, even our breath combines to form one great, big fog above the bridge. It is this fog and that exchange with a fellow foot-traveler that led me to you, something I will explain more about in a moment. First, let me tell you about Harrison.

About three months ago, Harrison lost his job as a corporate attorney in unexpected layoffs that happened when his company was bought out by a much larger corporation. Since then, he has spiraled down into a fit of depression the likes of which I have never seen. At first, he tried to be positive, spending hours on the phone to old friends and business associates to see if he could land even a temporary gig. He sent out resumes around the country once his NYC contacts were exhausted. But as the weeks wore on without success, he became more despondent and quit showering or brushing his teeth, causing a horrific body odor and halitosis of the first order. He dropped into a malaise, a stupor the likes of which I have never seen. I have to tell you that this train of events leading to his transmogrification was especially troubling, given that Harrison is a man who prides himself on being urbane, diligent, and organized and has nearly flawless personal hygiene, character traits you will probably recall from your days in boarding school with him. I tell you all of this, so you will understand the magnitude of the problem he is dealing with at this time.

As you might imagine, I began to worry. I tried to talk with him about the situation-his and ours. I offered my wifely support, but he clearly felt emasculated. I think it was especially irksome to him that my career as a conceptual artist had begun to take off as his hit the wall. I have been having an exceptionally good 2005-shows in Hamburg, Oslo, and Copenhagen; lectures at Harvard and UCLA; and upcoming one-woman show at the Whitney. I am, finally, after all these years of struggle as a woman in a man's field, making a decent living, so, if there was any “good” time for Harrison to lose his job, this was it. But he could not take it and eventually stopped talking to me altogether. Then, three days ago, he took the car keys and walked out the door wearing only sweatpants, a grease-stained t-shirt, some nasty tennis shoes, and the scarf his younger sister sent him for his birthday (he turned 40 on December 1, in case you've forgotten). He did not take his wallet or a coat or anything else, as far as I can tell. And has not returned since.

So I have been trudging across the damned bridge for the last three days, racking my brain for scraps of information about where Harrison might be even as I exchange pleasantries with my fellow New Yorkers. I have called every number in his palm pilot, sent out emails to everyone in his address book, talked to our friends here and family down South, and I have had no luck. But, as I was looking at the fog of breath rising above my head this morning during my hike, I thought of his mention to me, early in our marriage, that, if anything ever happened to him, I was to call you because you would know what to do. I remembered him saying that you two made a pact while at school in Sewanee on one of those pea-soup winter nights when you'd snuck out of the dorm to smoke cigarettes, but I had no idea how to contact you. (To be truthful, I had no idea you'd just been elected governor in Tennessee; I guess the world is smaller for New Yorkers than we'd like to admit.)

Then, a fellow with whom I was walking on the bridge mentioned that he was from Tennessee and that, if the transit strike had happened in Nashville, the new governor, Samuel Smythe Stallings, would take control of the situation instead of letting the city work it out. Of course, the man's statement made no sense because Nashville has virtually no significant public transportation system despite its size; however, I was grateful for his comment when it occurred to me that not many people have a name such as yours and that you must be the governor. After that, it wasn't difficult to track down your contact information. Frankly, I was relieved to have found a new avenue through which I might find Harrison.

Samuel, I don't know if you remember the pact or will know how to help me find Harrison, but I hope you will respond to this email to let me know if you have any ideas about his whereabouts. Even though I feel sure he's alive somewhere because he's pretty resourceful, I am worried sick about him (more than I can express in words since I currently feel as if I have been sedated by a bromide). I truly am desperate for your help-please help me end the tremendous sadness I have felt for the last three days. My contact information follows the signature line.

Sincerely,
Louise Walker Anders