Yesterday, I mentioned my adoration of and fan letter to Johnny Rivers in passing. I know it seems strange that a seven year old in the early 90s would be preoccupied with a singer who peaked in 1966, but trust me, I loved him. I had a cassette tape of his greatest hits. While “Secret Agent Man” was my favorite, “Slow Dancing”, “Memphis”, “Poor Side of Town”, and “Summer Rain” were all ingrained in my brain long before I entered the third grade.
I wanted Mr. Rivers to know how great I thought he was, so, over the course of a couple of days, I sat in our formal dining room where the electric typewriter was located and I carefully pecked out numerous drafts of a fan letter. Once I was satisfied with a final draft, I handed it off to my mother to drop in the mail for the man, the myth, the legend.
Today I was recalling this story with my mom, who got a good laugh remembering me and my laser-like focus at the typewriter trying to come up with the perfect thing to say. We got a good laugh out of the memory, then this happened:
Mom: “And to think we never even mailed it.”
Mom: “We never mailed the thing.”
Me: “What do you mean we never mailed the thing?”
Mom: “Where would we have sent it? Where did you expect me to find Johnny Rivers’ address?”
Me: “I can’t believe you didn’t mail it. You just took it and claimed to send it? I thought he actually got it all these years!”
Mom: “Well Jessica, didn’t you suspect something when he never wrote back?”
Me: “No! He’s Johnny Rivers! I assumed he was too busy touring the world singing "Secret Agent Man” to possibly answer all his fan mail!“