Letter from Yvonne: Mr. Ramaupolster
Hello, everyone!
When I first sat down to write this entry, I opened Google and entered “Mr. Ramaupolster” in the search field…but paused for a delicious tingling moment before moving my cursor to Search. Because, oh my god…what if I’d get a hit?
I’d written about Mr. Ramaupolster to R J — whose practiced eye immediately identified the story as a blog post waiting to happen. So here it is; I’ve certainly enjoyed reminiscing about the good old days of Mr. R, in which I’d been granted a peek at how the other half lives.
And by “the other half”, I mean those who live only in my imagination.
Some years ago, my husband and I began receiving mail for the mysterious Mr. Ramaupolster. (No first name.) We quickly figured out that this person didn’t exist: this was an accidental mash-up, a glitch in some database. Our address had landed underneath the name of a defunct upscale local furniture store/upholsterer — the store’s name having been misspelled, then mangled, its last two letters amputated and a “Mr.” affixed at the front.
It could’ve ended up as pure gibberish, but “Ramaupolster” sounds just like an Indian name, doesn’t it? Say it aloud with a Bengali Brahmin flourish, Romma-you-POLL-stah, and you’ve got it.
There was nothing to be done about the situation: the actual business was gone, and the Mr. Ramaupolster mail wasn’t business-related anyway. But what began as a trickle of one or two letters a day became a flood. I opened it all!
How to explain what came over me? It must’ve been the name that sparked; I could never have become so devoted to, say, Mr. Zx#h^#. But as I attended to Mr. R’s daily haul of mail, I began to feel like his secretary — with all of the protective and officious tendencies that job can inspire.  (There were occasional phone calls for Mr. Ramaupolster; I would correct the caller’s pronunciation of his name before explaining that he didn’t exist.)
And a fascinating pretend-secretary’s job it was, for Mr. R had our address — but he obviously had the bank account of a very successful furniture store. Amazing how many banks, businesses and free-lancers wanted to be paid advisors to this non-existent person: for his illusory personal finances, hypothetical legal affairs, potential real estate investments. And, my goodness, the stuff people wanted to sell him! Fine things. Objets d’art. Travel packages for those with plenty — of money, and leisure time, and brains.
I’ll need to mark the contrast with my own life, in which our normal daily clutch of mail is lousy with wrinkled and ripped advertising circulars, usually slimy thin paper emblazoned with starbursts highlighting the word SALE. Lots of screaming red and exclamation points. I remember my husband and I once chuckling over a gaudy coupon found among Mr. Ramaupolster’s lot. The coupon was addressed to us, of course, reminding us not to miss an upcoming 25% OFF SALE!! at JCPenney. But we noted a catch, there in the fine print: Does not apply to knickknacks and trinkets. Geez, how maddeningly vague! They might as well have exempted whatchamacallits and thingumajigs. What of…whatnots? Gizmos? No info either on bric-a-brac, baubles or doo-dads. Lord, don’t let me fall in love with a gewgaw at Penney’s, only to find out the coupon won’t apply. You see? Mr. R would never have such a problem!
For Mr. Ramaupolster, goods and services were quietly proffered. Even the envelopes — in shades of fawn, cream, palest grey — were discreet. Inside were polite letters and/or understated brochures; invariably, the paper was lovely, and I would rub it between my fingers like the paper fetishist that I am and appraise its cotton fiber content.
It was all so…civilized.
Early on, an image of Mr. Ramaupolster formed in my mind: short, neat; acorn-colored skin, soft dark eyes. Small, graceful, manicured hands. A tad overweight, but compact and sleek; impeccably dressed, down to the brown buttery-leather slippers he wore at home. He was impressively well-traveled — and had a discerning eye for beauty.
One company wanted to sell him a set of luggage so beautiful that I kept the literature for many years in order to drool over it: rich blue-tinged grey inside, medium-charcoal exterior. Gorgeous. But…not quite him. It’s true that Mr. R’s aesthetic tastes and mine did not often converge — one must take into account his Indian heritage; naturally he would be more attracted to vivid colors and hyper-ornamentation — but beauty is beauty, and I’m always happy to look at it.
Oh, I came to know him so well…
…and resent him so much. I’d spent untold hours of my life managing aspects of his life, yet he never called, never wrote! He didn’t appreciate me!  But, y’know, that was just the way Mr. R was. Sigh…what can you do.
For over a year, Mr. Ramaupolster’s elegant mail cluttered our home — but when it stopped, it stopped dead, leaving me with little to look forward to besides junky flyers and bills. (And, October 1st through Christmas, four L.L.Bean catalogs per week.) Can you understand why I sometimes catch myself wondering what he’s up to these days? Google doesn’t have any info, but perhaps that’s only because Mr. R is simply too cool and self-possessed — not to mention too busy living his most excellent bachelor’s life, though no longer with me as his faithful assistant, alas — to be hanging around on the internet.
I hope he misses me a little.
*******
Speaking of reality-challenged relationships:  I loved the charmingly odd film Lars and the Real Girl, but had to force myself not to think of Oskar Kokoschka and Alma! If you don’t already know this story, and are not so squeamish about human weirdness, it’s my Halloween gift to you.
And finally, a gratuitous cat photo! Below is our beautiful, intelligent, music-loving cat James.
Yours,
Yvonne
