Dear That Other Trevor Dodge

It’s beyond time we clear the air, sir.

But first some history. And not history in the sense of some story. I’m talking about the real deal truth here, things that have really happened and the whole whatnottery to go along with that.

Back in 1999 I was living in an apartment complex in Boise, ID. I had just figured out how to rip CDs to my computer’s hard drive, and I thought Yahoo Messenger was the shizznit. Apparently your mother did, too, because she IMed one afternoon. She didn’t believe me when I told her I was really living in Boise, ripping CDs. She believed that I was living in an apartment complex, though. At least I think she bought that part of it. At any rate, we had a short but pleasant conversation, and I was ultimately able to convince her that Boise was in fact a very nice city to live.

The following year, you attended Clackamas Community College and set a bunch of track and field records. I Yahoo-searched you and everything on this. There’s that guy whose mom I talked to a few months back, I was thinking at the time. How about that, I was also thinking.

The following year, I moved to the Portland area. By the following year, I was teaching at four different colleges in the area. Clackamas CC was not one of them.

By the following year, I was still teaching at four different colleges in the area. Clackamas CC was still not one of them.

By the end of the following year, I had taught at five different colleges in the area. Clackamas CC not only was one of them, but had given me a full-time teaching position. How about that, I was thinking.

When the college issued me my ID card, my name was already in the system. That makes sense, I was thinking, because I had been hired a few months before actually getting my ID card. The first time I used said ID card at the library was when I tried pulling a copy of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman: Preludes & Nocturnes off a reserve shelf and claimed faculty privileges to do so. The librarian at the checkout desk swiped my ID card and told me I could do no such thing because I was a student. I turned the ID card around and showed the librarian my picture on the front and the word FACULTY in all caps printed above my picture on the front. How about that, she said, and she swiped my ID card again, and again she said I was a student. You should get a new ID card, she said, because there’s already someone in the system with your name and you’re not that person and that person was a student and you’re clearly not a student. Right, I said. I’m too short and too fat and too old and not nearly photogenic enough to be a student. True, she said. No offense, she said. None taken, I said.

About a week after that, I met Jim Jackson for the first time. He is now retired from the college but at the time he was its long-time Athletic Director. I shook his big hand and told him my name. How about that, he said. We have a bunch of track trophies with your name on them over in that building over there, he said. But I’m too short and too fat and too old not nearly photogenic enough to have track trophies with my name on them, I said. True, he said. No offense, he said. None taken, I said.

It’s now nearly five years later, Mr. Trevor Dodge, sir, and I live in the west suburbs of Portland, OR. One of the biggest daily pains in my life is having to drive US Highway 26 to/from just about anywhere I need or want to go. One of those anywheres includes Clackamas CC. I spend a lot of time on this stretch of road and I have been very lucky so far not to be maimed or killed while driving it. I am always thankful for that last fact, by the way.

Lately, however, one of us hasn’t been very lucky as far as that last thing goes. Just a couple weeks back you were in an accident on US Highway 26. I Yahoo-searched this and everything. “After swerving to avoid collision with an errant driver, Trevor ran into the median, totaling his vehicle. Trevor ended up receiving only a few minor bruises and lacerations, with no risk to life or limb,” The Internet said.

I am tempted, of course, to say How about that right now, but that would be crass and insensitive and I really really really want you to like me. I am also tempted to be all clever and solipsistic, of course, and to falsely claim that I was that errant driver who forced you into the median and made you total your vehicle, but that would also be crass and insensitive; not only do I really really really want you to like me, I am *dying* to know (figuratively speaking of course) what make of car you drive. Because if you were to say a Dodge, well, frankly, that would leave me totally speechless.

Let me know? Yeah?

Yours,

Trevor

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2 responses to “Dear That Other Trevor Dodge

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