George Ebey Author Page

Dear Mr. Woods,

I am sorry to hear about the dissatisfaction you had with your recently purchased pair of our Blue Line running sneakers.   Though we pride ourselves on our excellent quality control division, a defective pair can sometimes slip by and make it into the hands of a consumer such as yourself.  I apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused you.  Please accept this coupon good for two free pairs of any Blue Line brand shoe redeemable at your local retailer.  Thank you for your understanding. 

            Jake Woods smiled when he opened the mail and found that one of his latest advocacy letters had been answered.  He always found it exciting when he got a reply and even doubly exciting when that reply came with freebees.  Two free pairs of shoes this time, easily worth forty bucks each.  Not that he actually minded the pair of Blue Lines he’d written the letter about.  He was wearing them right now as a matter of fact.  But hey, if the company was willing to give up a couple of pairs for free, who was he to complain?  Now he could use the coupons and store the new shoes away.  He wouldn’t have to actually buy another pair for at least another year or two.

            Jake really loved his hobby.

            It started in college a few years back.  As a Communications major, he’d taken a class called Argumentation.  The professor had given them an assignment to write what he referred to as a letter of advocacy.  They were supposed to think of a recent product they’d purchased that they found to be unsatisfying or inadequate and then write the company what was, essentially, a complaint letter.  The point of the exercise was to see what it was like to interact professionally with representatives of actual companies,

getting their feedback, seeing how professional correspondence was done.  He had written the Speed Food company to complain about the quality of one of their frozen pizzas (it tasted like cardboard) and was surprised when they wrote him back, offering a coupon for a free large pepperoni with mushrooms.  He’d been hooked ever since. 

            Over the years he’d gotten pretty good at it.  There was an art to the letter of advocacy.  Come off too negative and you risk offending the customer service rep or business owner, who will likely curse you and toss the letter in the trash.  Come off too passive and there’s less chance they’ll take it seriously enough to respond.  Jake had it down so good that he received a response nearly eighty percent of the time, and more than half of those came with free gifts from representatives hoping to make it right.  Jake had it figured that in an average year he could get anywhere from five to ten thousand dollars worth of free goods and services with his advocacy skills.

            The only hard part was finding a product or company worth writing to. 

            Sometimes he had to push the issue a little.  Like with those Blue Line sneakers.  Sure they rubbed his big toe a little too much (probably because he’d bought a pair that was half a size too small for him).  Still, that didn’t necessarily make them defective.  But he figured it was worth a try anyway.  The worst they could do was to ignore him.  And if they didn’t…well, free shit!

            Flush with this success, he was eager to write another one.  The same question as usual came to him.  Where to write to?

            He thought for a while, racking his brain, trying to think of any products he’d been unhappy with lately.  Then it came to him…

            That Italian restaurant he’d taken Julie to last week.

            It was okay.  Nice atmosphere.  Good service.  Prices were reasonable.  But his lasagna was a little stringy.  They should have left the noodles in the boil a little longer, so yeah, they’ll be next.

              He got started on the letter right away, thinking about what he’d order if they decided to write him back and offer a free meal. 

- - - -

            Bing!  Bong!

            Jake had been meaning to ask the super to change the chime on his doorbell.  Some British guy had rented the place before him, gotten home sick, and had one installed that sounded like Big Ben every time it went off. 

            Not that it was used all that often.  Jake didn’t get many visitors, which made this interruption strange.  He wasn’t expecting anyone. 

            Unconcerned with security, Jake opened the door to find a large man standing in the hallway.  He was fortyish, tall and thick, his dark hair slicked back, his suit worn and wrinkly as if he’d just been wrestling in it.

            “You Jake Woods?” the man asked.

            “Yes.”

            Without being invited the man sauntered into Jake’s apartment.

            “Hey!”

            The man ignored Jack’s protest, shutting the door behind him.

            “You can’t just barge in here!”

            Undeterred, the man reached into his breast pocket and took out a folded piece of paper.

            “Are you the same Jake Woods who recently wrote a letter to Luigi’s Italian restaurant?”

            This got Jake’s attention.  “Yes.”

            The man unfolded the piece of paper and started to read, “Dear Mr. Luigi.  The other evening while dining at your restaurant, I ordered the lasagna and found it to be a bit undercooked.  Though I enjoy dining at your establishment, I felt it important to inform you of this minor oversight in an otherwise quality meal.”  The man stopped reading.  “Was that you?”

            Jake reached for the phone.  “I’m calling the police.”

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

            Jake stopped in mid reach when he looked over and saw that the man had taken out a small handgun, holding it nonchalantly, its barrel aiming toward the floor.  Jake froze, not knowing what to say or do.

            “Name’s Vini,” the man said.  “I represent a man named Anton Marco.  Have you heard of him?”

            Jake shook his head.

            “Mr. Marco found your letter to be very upsetting.”

            Jake swallowed hard.  “Look, Mr.  I didn’t mean to offend anyone.  I was just writing to let him know.  I wasn’t trying…”

            Vini held up his free hand, stopping Jake in mid sentence.

            “Save it,” Vini said.  “I’m not the one you need to convince of that.”  He started to chuckle.  “You know something.  This reminds me of a poster I once saw.  It was of a hand grenade with a ticket marked number one attached to the pin.  The caption read, COMPLAINT DEPATMENT.  TAKE A NUMBER.”  Vini stopped chuckling.  “Well, guess what, pal.  I’m the complaint department, and you just pulled number one.”

- - - -

            A half an hour later, Jake found himself in the same restaurant that he’d written about in his last advocacy letter.  The place was dead save for the large man seated at the corner table shoveling a forkful of linguini in his mouth.  At Vini’s urging, Jake made his way over to the table and sat down.

            Mr. Anton Marco was huge and girthy; like Vini his hair was dark and slicked back, his suit nicer, wrinkle free from living a life void of any needed physical labor.  It was clear just by looking at him that he was large and in charge.  Jake was scared to death.

            For several minutes, Marco said nothing, continuing to shovel food in his face while Vini stood guard in the empty dining area. 

            Finally Marco said, “Friday at lunchtime is my time at Luigi’s.  Ordinarily the place would be much busier than this.  Would you like something to eat?  Linguini’s good.”

            “No thank you, sir.”

            “Down to business then.”

            Jake started to babble.  “Like I told your man, I’m sorry about the letter.  I didn’t mean…”

            He was stopped by a wave of Marco’s hand.

            “I’m not interested in your apology.  You were brought here at gun point by a scary looking thug.  Of course you’re sorry.  What I want to know is, why would you write such a letter?”

            “Honesty, I didn’t think it would offend anyone.  It’s just something that I do.  A hobby.”

            Marco stopped eating and fixed a hard gaze at Jake.  “A hobby?”  He paused, then, “The proprietor of this establishment, Luigi, is a very dear friend of mine.  This restaurant has been in his family for three generations.  He prides himself on being an excellent chef, the best in town.  So you can understand why he might be upset to receive a letter criticizing his world famous lasagna.”

            Jake didn’t know what to say, just sat there like a tree in a logging camp. 

            “So answer me this,” Marco continued.  “Why is it that a person such as you would make a hobby out of insulting my friend and criticizing his life’s work?”

            Jake went on to explain all about the advocacy letters, what they were about, how he got into it and how he’d been using it over the years as a means of getting free goods and services.

            “Advocacy letters,” Marco repeated.  “You write to businesses, criticize their products, and they give you free things because of it?”

            “More or less.”

            “How much free stuff have you managed to acquire doing this?”

            Jake didn’t lie.  “One year I estimated that I got about five thousand dollars worth of free stuff.”

            Marco raised an eyebrow.  “Really?”

            “Yeah.  You know, case of soda, two for one dry cleaning, things like that.  It adds up.”

            “And you, what, were hoping that by writing this letter Luigi would give you a free meal?”

            Jake swallowed a lump in his throat. 

            “I’ll tell you what.  I’m still not happy about all of this, but I’ve decided to give you a break.”

            Jake sighed, relieved.

            “You’re going to work for me now.”

            Jake did a double take.  “What?”

            “I find this advocacy thing interesting.  I want you to keep writing your letters.  You got one year to bring me ten thousand dollars worth of free merchandise.”

            For the second time today, Jake started to babble.  “Um...  That’s not…  You don’t understand.  Ten thousand?  It’s not… I can’t guarantee…People don’t always respond…”

            Marco waved his hand to silence him.

            “Ten thousand,” Marco repeated.

            “What if I just pay you?” Jake asked.  That would eat his entire savings, but right now he didn’t care.

            Marco shook his head.  “I don’t want your money.  I want ten thousand dollars worth of free merchandise and services.  I want them to be legit, all from reputable businesses, all from those letters you like to write so much.  I’ll be checking just to make sure you’re staying honest with me.  Ten thousand.  And not a penny less, or else.  Vini here will be by twice a month to collect any coupons or vouchers or whatever the case may be.  Now get out of my sight so I can finish my meal.”

            “Can’t we just talk..?”

            “Out!” Marco shouted.

            Two seconds later, Jake was out of his seat and heading for the door. 

- - - -

…though I find your product to be extremely helpful in my daily routine, I feel it is my duty to inform you of a recent mishap I experienced.  After returning home from the store, I opened my newly purchased tube of toothpaste only to find that the seal had been broken, rendering it unusable.  Returning it to the store resulted in lost time, as well as travel expenses, which I…

- - - -

            “You got something for me?”

            Jake handed Vini the envelope with this week’s coupons: free tire rotation, two for one value meals at the Burger Hut, one free week membership at Focus Fitness, half off at his next eye exam, and a new tube of toothpaste.  All in all it equaled about a hundred and fifty dollars. 

            Vini peeked into the envelope.  “Kind of light, ain’t it?”

            “Tell Mr. Marco I’m doing my best.  The economy’s bad.  Businesses aren’t

giving out free stuff as much as they used to.”

            “That’s your problem, pal.  If I were you I’d step up my game.  The clock is ticking.”

            After Vini lift, Jake jumped on his computer.

- - - -

…my sincere hope that you rectify this situation as soon as possible.  As a consumer, I expect better customer service whenever I frequent an establishment such as yours.  Please note that I take no pleasure in relaying this information and have not wished to complain.  However, my experience in your store cost me time which cannot be replaced as well as…

- - - -

            Six months in, Jake managed to rack up 4,281 dollars worth of freebies.  Impressive, but he was still behind.  Worse, he was running out of places to write to.  There’s only so many stores and restaurants and products that one person could frequent or buy in half a year’s time.  Desperate, he had no choice but to cut corners, write to places he’d never been to or complain about products he’d never used.  Large corporations were a good source.  They had deep pockets and thousands of customers and were more likely to placate a complainer with a free voucher or coupon just to maintain good public relations.  But even they weren’t reliable.  In a good week he’d get replies only about fifty percent of the time, and not all of those were pleasant.  An owner of one auto parts store politely responded to one of his letters, saying that if he wasn’t happy with the quality of his muffler service he could politely go somewhere else (and while he was at it, he could politely stick his new muffler straight up his ass).  He had never written this many letters before and was finding the whole thing to be increasingly exhausting.  It wasn’t long before he had no choice but to resort to out and out lies, going through the phone book, writing any company he could find, complaining about things he would have never complained about before, anything in the hopes of meeting his quota by year’s end.

- - - -

…specifically claims that your product reduces anal itching within three days.   I have been using this product for nearly a week now with little success.  I am willing to concede that the tube I purchased may have contained a defective batch.  Perhaps a replacement would yield better results…

- - - -

            “This is it,” Vini said.  “Time’s up.”

            Jake handed him the envelope.  “That’s it.  Tell Mr. Marco I’m done.  There’s 450 dollars worth of coupons there.  By my total that’s 9,823 dollars worth of stuff for the year.  I’m out.”

            Vini thumbed through the contents then looked up at Jake, shaking his head.

            “Oh, come on!” Jake shouted.  “I’ve been killing myself for you people!”

            “Ten thousand,” Vini said.  “Not a penny less.”  He pocketed the envelope and

took out his gun.

            Jake started to panic.

            “Wait!  The mail.  The mail hasn’t come yet.  I wrote a hundred letters last week.  There’s bound to be more.  I’m begging.  Please.  Please!”

            Vini shrugged.  “Fine.”

            It took over an hour for the mail to arrive, Jake watching nervously out the window while Vini sat reading a magazine.  Jake took the mail directly from the carrier, shutting the door in his face and flipping through it frantically.  Bills, ads, a neighborhood news letter.  No letter replies. 

            Jake looked up at Vini and swallowed a lump.

            Vini smiled.  “Guess you’re coming with me.”

- - - -

            Friday lunch at Luigi’s.

            Jake sat opposite Mr. Marco, his head bowed, his hands fidgeting nervously in his lap while Marco kept busy shoving linguini in his mouth. 

            “Vini tells me you’re short,” Marco finally said.

            “Only by 175 dollars.  If you give me more time…”

            “No.”

            By now, the pressure too much, Jake started to break down, groveling.

            “Please.  Please.  I did my best.  I wrote everyone I could think of.  I tried every

trick.  Hundreds of letters.  Every day.  Day after day.  All for you.  All for you” 

            Sobs came next, the fear and anxiety having proven too much to bear. 

            “Not much fun, is it?” Marco asked.

            “What?”

            “Being ridiculed.  Being told it’s not good enough even though you tried your best.”

            “No,” Jake conceited.  “I guess it isn’t.”

            “I suppose you’ll think of that the next time you decide to criticize another man’s livelihood.”

            “You mean…you’re not going to…you know…shoot me?”

            “That depends.  Did you learn your lesson?”

            Jake’s eyes lit up.  “Yes!  Yes!  Oh, God yes!”

            “I take it my dear friend Luigi won’t be getting any more letters anytime soon?”

            “No.  No more letters.  I swear.  I won’t write another letter as long as I live.”

            Marco paused, saying nothing, thinking.

            Finally, he said, “Good.  You’re off the hook, kid.  For now.  But I’ll be watching you.  Now get out of here so I can eat in peace.”

- - - -

            Jake went straight home, relieved that he was finally finished, that it was finally over.  He felt like throwing his computer in the trash.  He never wanted to write another word as long as he lived. 

            Opening his apartment door, he let himself in, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the stranger sitting on his living room couch.  As unsettling as it was to find a stranger in his apartment, he was even more disturbed by the man’s appearance: jeans, white tank top, tattoos, piercings, and enough muscles to choke a pig.

            “Um, who are you and how did you get in here?” Jake asked.

            “Picked the lock,” the stranger said, standing up from the couch, towering over Jake by a good six inches. 

            “You Jake Woods?” 

            “Yes.”

            “Same Jake Woods that wrote a letter to the manager of Terry’s

Taco Town

last week?”

            Jake held up his hands.  “Listen, I can explain.”

            The stranger rushed forward, grabbing Jake by the scruff of his shirt and slamming him up against the nearest wall.

            “I got fired thanks to you,” the man bellowed.  “Do you have any idea what my parole officer’s gonna do when he finds out I lost my job?”

            “You don’t understand.  I had no choice.”

            “Shut up!   I don’t know who you think you are, man.  But you just bad mouthed

the wrong guy.”

            The stranger reached his free arm back, fist balled.

            As the punch hurled toward Jake’s mouth, a split second thought came to him.

            Maybe with my next letter I’ll see if can get a discounted rate on my dental work. 

More short stories are available in Dimensions: Tales of Suspense.

Will you think twice next time you write an advocacy letter? Send the author an email with your opinion...