Dear David Lynch

Dear David Lynch,

I have no doubt this letter will never reach you yet I feel compelled to thank you, publicly, for your creative service. Service is such a banal word; brilliance really, oddness and even corruption – well, creative corruption.

Who killed Laura Palmer?

I came to Twin Peaks after the fact, like so many things; Sushi, The Cure, Artisan Beer. I even watched things out of order going on a date to see Fire Walk with Me before viewing the series.

I was confused, scared, not sure what was going on (that was the date) the movie had much the same effect. It was Seattle, WA sometime in the early 90’s and Twin Peaks was rentable on VHS at the independent video store up on Capitol Hill, an old fire station I believe.

I became absorbed in the series, obsessed and I entangled my friend slash neighbor slash co-worker (is it ironic if I spell out the symbols) slash crush into the Lynchian (obnoxious) World with me. I would cook a wholesome dinner and he would pick up the tapes from the video store.

It was during this viewing period that my friend and I noticed a beat up piece of crap parked on 15th Ave with numerous parking tickets littering the windshield. We noticed this particular car because parking was an abhorrent beast on Capitol Hill, not that either of us had a car. The tickets accrued on the windshield, obliterating a view of the interior.

One day, a Twin Peaks Day, we stopped to really take in this car. It was ugly and big and slightly muscly and I wondered out loud if it might be unlocked. My friend, not one to break rules or ruffle feathers or speak ill of the dead or eat with his hands protested. I grabbed the handle and lo and behold I was sitting in the passenger seat marveling at the headroom in this monstrosity.

It was then I noticed the hand written sign, “Please Take Me!”

“It says take me.”

“NO.”

“It says Please!”

“Absolutely not.”

“But it says–”

“NO. Besides, are we supposed to hotwire it?”

I knew if there were to be any hotwiring, somehow… even in my littleness and naiveté, it would fall on me. So I opened the glove compartment, thinking that’s where I would hide keys if I wanted someone to take MY car and there they were, in plain sight.

“I have no idea where this will lead us, but I have a definite feeling it will be a place both wonderful and strange.”

Driving around the block was both terrifying and exhilarating. Gregory was beside himself, shaking and pale and glancing in the rear view mirror more than is required in the Drivers Ed handbook.

I didn’t have my license, that’s why Gregory had the honour. A few blocks into our crime spree, Gregory started coughing and holding his mouth, madly rolling down the window demanding I do the same.

“Jesus, it smells like death!”

“What does?”

“This! Us! The bloody car. It smells like dying. Oh my Christ, we have to pull over.”

I don’t have a sense of smell. Long story.

We pulled over and got out to investigate. Nothing in the interior of the car. We faced the trunk. Gregory was heaving beside the car. I stared on. The trunk lid was immovable, not budging for love nor money.

I maintained it was welded shut. Gregory was undecided. I surveyed our surroundings and noticed we were parked, ironically, in front of the Capitol Hill Police Station.

Only The Log Lady knows what was in that trunk

For some reason, the Station’s front desk was constructed much like a fortress with the desk Sergeant peering down at me from a considerable height.

I felt like a child gripping the edge of the desk, standing on my tiptoes attempting to seem formidable. It didn’t work.

“Yes?” he sighed down at me, annoyance blanketing my head. I could have been shot for fuck’s sake.

“We found a car. It had a sign that said Please Take Me and the keys were in the car so we took it but now we think there’s a dead body in the trunk and I’m wondering if I can keep the car?”

“NO.”

“Why not? It said Please.”

“NO!”

“But why?”

“Did you consider that someone wrote that in the hopes that a silly girl like you would steal it…”

“I didn’t steal it. We borrowed it.”

“Put it back.”

“What about the body?”

“Put it back!”

“What will happen to my car?”

“The car that is not your car will be towed and impounded.”

“Can I have it then?”

“You have 5 minutes to return that goddamned car.”

We returned the car to a spot relatively near the old one and said goodbye to being mobile. Gregory was mortified. Possibly his first and only run in with The Man. It was a quiet walk to the video store for the next installment of Twin Peaks.

What would David Lynch do? Lots of weird stuff

Our ritual resumed. The next week I made dinner while Gregory popped off to pick up the tapes. He was back with amazing speed.

“How the Hell did you manage that?”

He pulled a set of car keys from his pocket.

“Our car is still there but it doesn’t mean I’m going to let some other bugger drive it.”

Our car was eventually towed and Twin Peaks came to an end.

Both occurrences had the same effect. What the fuck was that all about? But in a good way, Mr. Lynch, a really good, confounding way.

I have the soundtrack to Fire Walk With Me in my iTunes and when it randomly shuffles through, I’m rocketed back to a wet Seattle street, joy riding in a stolen car with a possible dead body in the trunk.

Thank you for what you do, Mr. Lynch.

All my love,

Furnie

PS — All of Furni’s stories really happened and her letters are sincere. 

Leave a Reply