For several years now, I have served as an intermediary between City Weekly and the so-called D.P. Sorensen. It is a humble role, but because I want to be of service, I have played the part of go-between through thick and thin, and neither rain, nor hail, nor sleet, nor snow, nor dark of night has stayed me from my appointed rounds.
And let me tell you, a lot of the time it seems like I get the old run-around. I never know when I will be called upon to pick up Mr. Deep End’s manuscript. Sometimes, I will be munching on a hot dog at a Bees game, or maybe sitting in Sacrament meeting, or even dozing on my sofa doing Sudoku puzzles—but then the damned dog next door starts barking: Does anyone know who owns that dog? Don’t get me wrong, I’m a dog person, or, to be more accurate, a person who loves dogs.
Then, the phone will ring and an electronically altered voice will give me instructions as to where I might locate “D.P. Sorensen’s” latest effort. I don’t think it is always the same person, but perhaps it is. Perhaps, like myself, he is a dog person. In any event, I am told to hasten to Foothill Village, or the Smith’s on 4th South, or the 7-Eleven out on 39th South—you know, the one by the hospital.
Once I arrive at the assigned location, I get another phone call directing me to a specific shelf where I will find a Pringles can, or a package of thick-sliced bacon, or a large bag of baby peas in butter sauce. There is never a sign of product tampering, but somehow, inside the pristine package, I will find a manuscript, always three pages of heavy foolscap paper, hand-written in blue-black ink, the cursive script reminiscent of the old-fashioned Palmer method.
The worst part of the job is extricating the manuscript from the package of food. There is no easy way to separate the manuscript pages from bacon slices without getting your hands extremely greasy.
The next part of my job is to type up the column (after I have gotten the damned grease off of my fingers) and e-mail it to someone named “Josh” at City Weekly.
But, last week the telephone didn’t ring and I knew it was the purported “D.P. Sorensen” who didn’t call. So, I had no manuscript to type up and send along to the paper, which I now hear has been sold to the Church. I think there is some connection, even though Church media mogul Brother Mark Willes, known to intimate friends as “Bud,” claims the Deep End columnist will continue to pen his faith-promoting columns.
I hope “D.P. Sorensen” surfaces again. Despite the bacon grease, it was nice to pick up a few extra bucks serving as an intermediary. Whether I hear from him again or not, I have a couple ideas about who he might be. There are exactly 196 words left before I have to return to the halfway house, so I won’t waste another word.
When I used to deal some weed to the crew of Touched by An Angel, one of the gaffers on the set was always bragging on himself, mainly about getting it on with one of the stars, either Della Reese or Roma Downey, I can’t remember which. Then, he started handing me a copy of City Weekly and saying, “Here’s my latest column.”
He was full of it. For a while, it was going around town that “”D.P. Sorensen” was really Gordie Chiesa, the former philosopher/assistant coach of the Utah Jazz.
How many words do I have left? OK, OK, don’t rush me! I know Gordie from a book club I used to be in, and it’s a pretty good guess about him being “D.P. Sorensen.” Close, but no cigar. Before I got fired, I used to be an usher at the Delta Center—now EnergySolutions; what a terrible name. So, simple deduction leads me to the prime suspect. Here’s a hint: Gordie now works for the Memphis Grizzlies, and bears like to eat bacon. Ergo, “D.P. Sorensen” is the Jazz Bear.