July 2025 by Jester Fool
Princeton, Missouri. Hot, humid. Just days before the Fourth of July.
A white Toyota RAV4 rolls slowly through the town—98% white, Amish-adjacent, and quiet in a way even the wind respects. I’m driving. A middle-aged Middle Eastern, non-white man, mustached, unshaven, wearing one of my favorite masks: the childishly humble traveler. Upper-literate English, careful posture. I know how not to spook good people.
The post office is a time capsule: visible back office, old machinery, and filing systems from when letters were sacred—lifelines between warfront and home. It still breathes.
No one else is inside.
A young lady appears from a side room.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Yes indeed, mademoiselle. If you could help me with a very silly question.”
“What’s your question, sir?”
I lean forward, soften.
“Could the post office send a letter to someone whose address you, as workers, might know—but which I don’t? I don’t want to invade his privacy. I came here from far away… to meet Chris Langan.”
A second woman, behind glass, leans in. She’s been listening.
“The smartest man in the world?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
At the postcard stand, I choose quickly. Don’t overstay the moment. A black card, plain white text:
“I actually got out of the house and talked to people to send you this card.”
The universe winked. I winked back.
I paid, leaned over the counter, and wrote. No rush. Just intention.
The Note
Mr. Langan,
It was rude and uncalled for of me to ask Mr. Moore to call you earlier today. I should have respected your privacy.
When I took this pilgrimage two days ago from my home, I had reviewed every possible scenario—except that one.
Your simulated reality theory resonates deeply with my lived experience.
I would clean after your horses or do any hard labor in return for a few minutes of your time.
I don’t have much time left in life. Please consider my call.
[real name]
[real phone number]
[real personal email]
I addressed it: Chris Langan. My real return address in the corner. No tricks. No traps.
I handed it to the young woman. She looked at me. No need to confirm. Just a nod of trust.
I turned to leave. The woman behind the glass smiled—genuine, amused, maybe even moved. I smiled back. Winked once more. Walked into the heat.
No fireworks. Just a letter.
Left in the right hands.
Or, what a jester knows? He's a fool, isn't he?
