Commentary : Finding a Pen Pal in a Coat Pocket

My mother warns me not to marry Hessie Mendoza. My brother’s all for it. My daughter has adopted a wait-and-see attitude. She thinks I ought to find out first who Hessie Mendoza is.

The jacket started it. The jacket came from I. Magnin in Beverly Hills and cost a bunch. It had spreading padded shoulders and a wasp waist, inspired by “Miami Vice” and given to me as a birthday present by somebody under the staggering delusion that I look like Don Johnson. I returned this fashion statement to I. Magnin and, for the same price, took away two ordinary windbreakers more suitable to my pear-shaped frame. One was white and the other red.

Three days later I was showing off the red one to some pals in the office when I noticed a crinkling sound near the right side pocket. Some sort of paper stiffening, no doubt. I reached into the pocket. Nothing was there, not even “Inspected by No. 7.” But there was a small zipper pocket over the right side pocket. I unzipped it, reached in, and pulled out a folded note. It was painstakingly printed on lined paper with a red ballpoint pen. Obviously, I thought, some previous wearer had returned the jacket to I. Magnin and forgot the mail he’d left inside.

It’s indecent to read somebody else’s mail, so I did, and it went: “Penpal. Place: at room. Time: 9:30 a.m. Date: 9-17-85. My Friends!!! Hessie Mendoza.”

This was followed by an address in the Philippines, and signed: “By Friends Love. Hessie P.S. Answer this letter okey i can’t wait for you.”

I whipped off the jacket, and sure enough the label said “Made in Philippines.” It was like finding a note in a bottle!

Remember, I got a white jacket at the time I got the red one. Same style, same source. I rushed home and examined the white jacket, but there was no message inside. Hessie hadn’t circularized the entire stock of I. Magnin. The letter wasn’t mimeographed. It was hand-done and must have been difficult to write. So Hessie didn’t send many of them. She may have sent only one.

That is assuming Hessie is a “she,” which is no sure thing. She could be a he, or something in between.

I settled on “she,” and wondered: Is Hessie a barefoot maiden or some ancient crone blinded by needlework? (My mother, who has more insight, pictures Hessie as an ambitious young woman scheming to trap a rich American.)

I can’t even be sure that Hessie still exists, because her islands have undergone volcanic changes in the five months that it took her note to get to me. But I had to answer Hessie, which I did as best I could:

“Pen Pal. Place: at room. Time: 5 p.m. Date: 3-6-86.

“Dear Hessie Mendoza:

“I bought a red jacked in Beverly Hills, Calif., and I got your nice letter. Do you work in the jacket factory? It is a very good jacket.

“Are you okey after the elections? We heard many people got hurt in the elections. Did your side win? I hope you didn’t get hurt and I hope you still live in the same place. Tell me about it.

“Please write and tell me about what you do and where you live. Send me a picture of you. You don’t want a picture of me because I am an old man and not handsome, but I look very good in the red jacket.”

The letter’s a bit wordy, but I signed it “Love” (as she had) and gave Hessie my name and address. To enclose money for postage would have been condescending, but I did hope that Hessie would use the mail next time. It’s not all that convenient to make a permanent message-center out of the men’s shop at I. Magnin.

My mother suspects me of enclosing an airline ticket, and my brother says I should have. He knows a middle-aged bachelor in San Francisco who imported a mystery bride from the Philippines five years ago. She turned out to be 80 years old, and they’ve been happy as larks ever since.

My thing with Hessie Mendoza hasn’t reached intimacy yet, mainly because I haven’t heard back since I wrote last March. This in itself raises a new raft of speculations. Either she snagged a rich Hollywood producer or found someone who looks a sight more like Don Johnson than I do.

My fear is that politics may have spoiled our relationship and that Hessie may have been put out of the corresponding mood by the upheaval of the recent elections.

Either she guessed wrong, and is dead. Or she guessed right and is now secretary of state.