With pen in hand, Charlie writes his last letter.
Dear Mary Sue:
It’s another cold gray day here at Folsom Prison; a few minutes before visiting hours. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to visit me this week. I understand. Yes. It will be over soon and you can go on living your life without me.
Charlie puts down the pen. He looks around the prison cell, tares up the letter and throws it in the toilet. He dreads the upcoming visit with doctor Yancey, his court appointed psychiatrist, and Father Daniels, that old wacky prison priest.
Charlie stands up. He grabs the stainless-steel sink and looks straight into the highly polished aluminum mirror. The mirror stares back at Charlie, then speaks:
“You Charlie? You're an idiot! You worked hard to achieve your goals. You had it all. You gave it up for that woman, Tootsie, and her money. You had the cars. The airplanes. The real estate. The girls. All yours for the taking. Look at yourself. Where are you today, Charlie? Take a good look at yourself.
Charlie turns away.
The mirror shouts back.
" Hey Dude! Don't go away pissed off. I know what you’re thinking. I know it happened fast and you didn't have time to think. I know it’s like a nightmare for you. It's playing over and over in your conscious mind. You see it happening again, and again. I know you wished you had never shot that son-of-a-bitch, even though he deserved it. He came at you from the bushes, hammer in hand screaming like a Comanche warrior. So, you did what any sane man would have done. In a rage, you shot him dead. Right?”
"Mr. Mirror; I didn't realize he was the husband of the lady I had been dating for three years. I've told you that a hundred times. You know I never found out how he knew about "Tootsie" and our secret love affair.
How did he find out about those late-night dinners; those remote passionate meetings at 'Jack' sleazy motel? How did he know about all the money she had given me, unless she told him?"
The Judge didn't care to hear that story. He didn't bother to listen to any of that stuff. In one swift pounding of his gavel he sent me here to Folsom Prison. A punk judge convicted me and sent me here to think about what I had done. He ordered me to talk to that crazy psychiatrists and that wacky old Priest.
Well, Mr. Mirror. I'm thinking, and talking. You don't seem to be listening. What do you think? Should I write Mary Sue and try to explain to her again about Tootsie? Or should I, before they come to take me away, to strap me into that new gadget, that ‘what-chew-ma call-it’, electric chair?
Mr. Mirror. Do you want to hear my sad story again? Or am I just wasting my time?”
They say it will be over fast.
Dear Mary Sue:
It’s another cold gray day here at Folsom Prison; a few minutes before visiting hours. I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to visit me this week. I understand. Yes. It will be over soon and you can go on living your life without me.
Charlie puts down the pen. He looks around the prison cell, tares up the letter and throws it in the toilet. He dreads the upcoming visit with doctor Yancey, his court appointed psychiatrist, and Father Daniels, that old wacky prison priest.
Charlie stands up. He grabs the stainless-steel sink and looks straight into the highly polished aluminum mirror. The mirror stares back at Charlie, then speaks:
“You Charlie? You're an idiot! You worked hard to achieve your goals. You had it all. You gave it up for that woman, Tootsie, and her money. You had the cars. The airplanes. The real estate. The girls. All yours for the taking. Look at yourself. Where are you today, Charlie? Take a good look at yourself.
Charlie turns away.
The mirror shouts back.
" Hey Dude! Don't go away pissed off. I know what you’re thinking. I know it happened fast and you didn't have time to think. I know it’s like a nightmare for you. It's playing over and over in your conscious mind. You see it happening again, and again. I know you wished you had never shot that son-of-a-bitch, even though he deserved it. He came at you from the bushes, hammer in hand screaming like a Comanche warrior. So, you did what any sane man would have done. In a rage, you shot him dead. Right?”
"Mr. Mirror; I didn't realize he was the husband of the lady I had been dating for three years. I've told you that a hundred times. You know I never found out how he knew about "Tootsie" and our secret love affair.
How did he find out about those late-night dinners; those remote passionate meetings at 'Jack' sleazy motel? How did he know about all the money she had given me, unless she told him?"
The Judge didn't care to hear that story. He didn't bother to listen to any of that stuff. In one swift pounding of his gavel he sent me here to Folsom Prison. A punk judge convicted me and sent me here to think about what I had done. He ordered me to talk to that crazy psychiatrists and that wacky old Priest.
Well, Mr. Mirror. I'm thinking, and talking. You don't seem to be listening. What do you think? Should I write Mary Sue and try to explain to her again about Tootsie? Or should I, before they come to take me away, to strap me into that new gadget, that ‘what-chew-ma call-it’, electric chair?
Mr. Mirror. Do you want to hear my sad story again? Or am I just wasting my time?”
They say it will be over fast.
