If You’re Reading This…

If you’re reading this, then I want you to know: MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS, BRENDA.

(Sorry, that was meant for my assistant, who frequently digs around in my private files for whatever fascinating tidbits I might offer her hum-drum life. So, back to business.)

If you’re reading this, you’ve no doubt hacked into my computer and you should know that I have spy-level anti-theft software in place, and if you have indeed procured this document by questionable means, then you should understand that members of an elite mercenary military command will soon be knocking on your door.

(Again, the above interruption is only a tactic to dissuade anyone from doing what they had no doubt done, in the event that they are reading this. It’s worth a shot.)

If you’re reading this, then I have most likely died. Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? I mean I could be comatose in some dreary ward, attached to gewgaws and gizmos that wheeze and beep and pump my poor deflated body through what is essentially a living hell. So, if that’s why you’re reading this: unhook me for Christ’s sake! I don’t want to be lying dormant, ignored like a stale pile of laundry, or worse, handled like a sack of potatoes. No, unhook me now. Please. Before reading any further, I beg of you. We’ll get on with the good bits later. Just go. Now. Hurry.

Okay, then.

If you’re reading this, then I have most likely died, and you have done the difficult deed, and unplugged me. Although, now that I think of it, who are you? Despite the fact that I neither have direct heirs, nor ancestors of any sort, I can only imagine you’re a fine steward, or somehow linked to my legal consortium…which makes me wonder: did you really have to unplug me? Really? Are you sure I was down for the count, a mindless artichoke taking up space? Or was it something else? Which Anderson Atwater, Esq. is this? The Fourth? Oh dear, if this Anderson the Fourth, not Anderson the Third, then I’m afraid we’ve all been dealt a great disservice. Either the third has left the earth, or you, his surviving legal partner in the practice, have, through some form of shenanigans, swindled him out of the practice. Having written this letter AFTER the filing of my will and testament, I intended this letter — the very letter you’re reading — to provide a nuance and, shall we say, a moment de grâce to an otherwise routine document juridique.

Aha! I put that French in there to catch you. If you looked that up, then I’m afraid you are the Fourth. The third was a known Francophile, and he would have even corrected my sloppy Google translation. So, please, AAIV, read no further. I’m now wondering if you didn’t disconnect me after some routine procedure while I was simply in recovery. Maybe from knee surgery, or piles.

Oh dear, if you’re reading this, I might need you to report a murder. My murder. For some reason, nefarious actions have been taken for the sole purpose of plundering my estate. Anderson Atwater the Fourth is not to be trusted. Mark my words.

Unless, of course, AAIII is dead, and you, AAIV have indeed succeeded your father, and are the rightful council to oversee the disbursement of my hereditaments. (Did you look that up?)

So, if you are indeed reading this, and I have indeed died, passed on, undertook my eternal reward, met my maker, checked out, found my eternal rest, begun pushing up daisies, called home, was a goner, came to an end, bit the dust…well, you get the idea. If indeed any of the above-mentioned conditions are met, then please continue.

If you are reading this, and we both meet the aforementioned states-of-affair, then I would like to see that my will and testament is followed to the letter, that all articles are distributed as per legal stipulations, and that I be buried in the blue suit. The Brioni. I know it’s out of style, the lapels are too big, and it’s too heavy for summer (that is, if you’re reading this in the summer), but it accentuates my shoulders and the tapered waist minimizes the spare tire I’ve no-doubt acquired in my time of convalescence.

Which brings me to the big point, now that you’re reading this. The above-mentioned suit was left at Rainbow Dry Cleaners, the one up on State, sometime in late 2020. They said that I needed a slip to pick it up, but come on, seriously, how many size 40 long blue Brioni suits come through there on any given year? And if you’re talking to Henry, the manager, ask him just what does a poor dead man have to do to get himself buried in the suit of his choice? Doesn’t he feel just the teeniest bit guilty knowing that I’m dead and he never saw fit to give me my own suit, whether I lost the damned slip or not? Get the suit. Appeal to his sense of decency. How can he deny a dying man’s last request?

If you’re reading this, and you’ve managed to get that Brioni suit, do not, I repeat DO NOT contact Marshall’s funeral home, but call the cell phone number written on the back of this letter. Ask for Mitch…er…John. Yes, ask John. He’ll let you know where you can deliver the blue Brioni suit.

I need it for a wedding next weekend. Thank you.