What follows is a written correspondence between Pasha Malla and his Mom during the fall of 1990. Time heals all wounds; both parties were gracious enough to read these letters onstage at the recent Shore launch party.
(Mr. Malla's story "Watching the Postman Drown" is available in the print edition of the magazine.)
"THE HEADROOM LETTERS"
by Pasha Malla and Sue Malla
October 16, 1990.
Dear Mom,
Hi! It’s your son, Pasha. I thought it would be a good idea to put this in writing, as proof.
Did you see how I cleaned out the attic like you asked? Are you going to make me a Max Headroom costume for Halloween now, or what? If you need help remembering what he looks like, I left some pictures on the kitchen table. He’s got square hair and shades (sunglasses). He lives in a computer and also he drinks Diet Coke. He has a stutter like “M-M-M-Max.”
Remember when I had a stutter and I had to go to the speech pathologist and I thought it would be funny to tell him you have gin for breakfast? Remember when Children’s Aid came to our house? Remember how I pretended to cry and when the lady with the notepad asked if you ever hit me, I told her, “Only when God says I’m wicked?” And we don’t even go to church?
Anyway, there is some stuff that I found in the attic that I didn’t throw out. It’s in a box with a lock on it, so it’s probably important. I’m keeping it in my room as ransom until I see the Max Headroom costume.
Today is October 16. You have two weeks.
Love,
Pasha
*
October 18, 1990.
Dear Pasha,
Please relinquish the box to me. There will be no Max Headspin for anyone unless you do as you’re told.
-Mom.
*
October 19, 1990.
Mom:
What’s in the box? Is it something private? I watch Magnum, P.I., you know – it’d be real easy for me to get a couple of hairpins and crack that sucker open.
You now have eleven days to make me a Max Headroom costume. I don’t know how fast you sew, but maybe if you spent less time making dinner and ordered pizza every night instead, then you’d be able to get it done.
No costume, no box.
Love,
Pasha
*
October 20, 1990.
Oh, so that’s your game, is it? Listen, mister, not only will there be no Jack Bedroom, but you won’t be going out this Halloween or any other unless you hand over that box. If I even get so much as an inkling that you’ve opened it up, I’ll nail your hide to the wall and leave it for the buzzards.
And you’d honestly prefer pizza to my cooking? Even my lasagna? I thought you loved my lasagna?
Seriously: you don’t give that box up, your ass is grass.
-Your mother.
*
October 21, 1990.
Mom.
There are only nine days left for you to make me my Max Headroom costume. So far, I haven’t seen any progress. And I can’t help but notice you haven’t even looked at the pictures I left out on the table. I’ve also left two videotapes of Diet Coke commercials and episodes from the TV show by the VCR, if you’d rather watch those.
I think a Max Headroom costume would be easy to make. All you’d need would be some shades, and a jacket and pants, and then like a blonde wig cut square with maybe some gel in it. I could do the stutter myself. I don’t even think you’d need to sew very much.
Oh, you know what would be good, is if you could make like a TV out of cardboard, and I would wear that around my face. So I’d be like Max Headroom for real, living in a TV. Yeah! Do you think you could do that? Like with dials on the side, and maybe antennae sticking out of the top?
I love you, Mom. You have nine days.
Your son,
Pasha
*
October 23, 1990.
Mom,
I’ve been thinking about the TV, and how you might harness it to me. I think the best idea would be to make like a yoke over my shoulders, and then attach the TV to that. You could use clips or glue, or even staples.
One week and counting.
-Pasha.
P.S. On October 30 we have a Halloween party at school. Everyone is supposed to wear their costumes. This would be an ideal time for me to test out my Max Headroom costume. If there are any glitches, we will have that night to fix it. (And the next day, if you need it, which would mean you have to take it off work, but you always tell me you hate your job anyway and when you call your boss names, what does S.O.B. stand for?)
*
October 24, 1990.
Hello?
It has been four days since you last wrote to me. I have also noticed that you have stopped speaking to me at breakfast and dinner. I have also noticed that you have been cooking more than ever, and not one pizza has been ordered, and still you have not started making my Max Headroom costume.
Also, thanks to a number of secret traps I set up around my room, I have also noticed that someone, I’m assuming you, has been snooping through my stuff. You’re not going to find that box, Mom. It’s hidden in a totally secret place.
I’m going to be honest here: you leave me no choice. I have reason to believe that whatever is in this box is important. Unless I hear from you by midnight tonight that the Max Headroom costume is in the works, or at least in the planning stages, then I will open the box and whatever secrets are inside will be known first to me, and then to the world, thanks to the magic of shortwave radio. I bet you wish you’d never gotten me that now for Christmas, eh, Mom?
It is now almost 4:00 pm. You have eight hours to let me know what’s going on.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Pasha.
*
October 24, 1990.
Pasha:
There are many things that at your age I don’t expect you to understand. The mysteries of the universe unfold before our eyes every day, each more tantalizing and mystifying than the last. The planets spin round the sun in an eternal, cosmic ballet. The grass grows, the birds sing, babies are born and lives end. Our bodies turn to dust. And what of souls? Where do they go? Is there a heaven? A God? How deep is the ocean? Will we ever really know for sure?
The secrets of the world exist just beyond our realm of human comprehension. Even when they are revealed to us, sometimes we may not grasp their full meaning.
How badly, I wonder, do you want to be this Mick Headline for Halloween? Badly enough, that if I threaten not to make you the costume, you will give me the damn box before midnight tonight?
Only time will tell.
Mom.
*
October 25, 1990.
Dear Lady Who I Used to Think Was My Mother:
With no progress made as to my Max Headroom costume, last night, at 12:01 a.m., I opened the box. We need to talk. What is going on? Who are you?
Signed,
Confused.
*
October 25, 1990.
Dear Sadly Confused Son Who I Love Like the Trees Loves the Rain:
Please refer to my previous note about the mysteries of the universe, etc.
Also, please be aware that I have watched the tapes and carefully examined the photographs, and have been doing some preliminary sketches for your Halloween costume. It is going to be the best costume, ever. I promise.
I love you with all my heart. There will of course be pizza for dinner tonight, and Diet Coke.
-Still Your Mom.
*
October 26, 1990.
Hi!
Still no word from you? Even though I’m well into making the Max Headroom costume? And we’re having pizza again for dinner, and there’s a case of Diet Coke in the garage, and if you’ve noticed, I’ve been parking my car on the street so you can shoot baskets all you want on the driveway?
Also, eating dinner in total silence isn’t fun for anyone. Let’s talk! And laugh, like the old times!
Where’s my son I love so much?
With love,
Your loving mother.
P.S. This TV thing you want as part of your costume is awfully hard to make. Not that I’m complaining. I’m up to it! I love you so much! You’re going to be the best Max Headroom ever. I’m so proud of you!
*
October 27, 1990.
Listen, lady.
Let’s can the charade. Things have come to light. That costume can’t save you now.
-The kid who lives in your house, Mrs. Weirdo.
*
October 28, 1990.
Hey!
Come on. Things shouldn’t be any different now. Honestly, have you looked at the two of us side-by-side. You’re brown, for crying out loud. You’ve practically got “refugee” written all over you. I mean, you should think yourself lucky that I even rescued you from –
Sorry.
Your costume is coming along nicely.
-Mom.
*
October 29, 1990.
It is? Have you done the TV antennae and everything?
*
October 29, 1990.
Antennae, check. And I even took the knobs off our old set and attached them using screws, as opposed to glue, so they actually turn. People can change the channel!
*
October 29, 1990.
Really?
*
October 29, 1990.
Yes. How does pizza for dinner sound?
*
October 29, 1990.
And Diet Coke?
*
October 29, 1990.
As many cans as you want.
*
October 30, 1990.
Mom:
Okay, I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news is that no one at the class Halloween party knew who I was. Everybody thought I was the video for “Ice Ice Baby”. I didn’t realize this before, but the shades and the square hair and everything make me look exactly like Vanilla Ice. And then there was the TV – one kid grabbed my head and started turning the knobs and was like, “Turn it to TSN! The hockey game is on!” Loser.
Even though the show was on two years ago, barely anybody remembers Max Headroom. Most people were like, “Go White Boy, Go White Boy, Go!” and Mrs. Hills came up and took me aside and said she was very sorry to hear that my stutter had come back. And then she asked if I knew that Vanilla Ice stole the tune from David Bowie, and she started shaking her head and talking about how sad music is these days.
But it turned out okay. I’m cool with being Vanilla Ice. He’s not exactly who I had in mind – Max Headroom lives in a fricking computer! – but whatever, right?
I’m tired of pizza, sort of. Tonight can you make lasagna?
Love,
Pasha
*
October 31, 1990.
Dear Pasha,
Well, it’s been an interesting two weeks. I guess we have a lot to talk about. I’m very happy that your Van Winkle costume is going to be okay, and I hope you have a great Halloween.
After tonight, though, you are grounded, big time. I told you specifically that you were not to open that box. The issue of your adoption is something I was hoping to broach over time. The fact that you had to discover it like this saddens me. But I guess things happen for a reason. Still, come November 1, you’re grounded – no TV, no guests, no basketball. Two weeks.
I think that’s fair. If you have complaints, please feel free to notify me in writing.
Happy Halloween!
Love, Mom.
---
Pasha Malla and Sue Malla, it turns out, are actually related by blood. They share DNA, similar political affiliations, and an alarming penchant for grilled cheese sandwiches. The dog likes Pasha best.
---
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"THE LUCKY ONE" by Jerry Stamatelos
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