I think Mr. Feiffer has the answer.

Every day the mail would come later and later. And it would be

bent. Corners torn. Never sealed correctly. Like they didn't

give a damn whether I knew they were reading my mail or not. I

was more of a militant in those days, so I decided to fight

fire with fire. I began writing letters to the guy who was

reading my mail. I addressed them to myself, of course, but

inside they went something like: "Dear Sir: I am not that

different from you. All men are brothers. Tomorrow instead of

reading my maul in that dark, dusty hall why not bring it

upstairs where we can check it out together!

So I wrote a second letter. "Dear Sir: There are no heroes, no

villains, no good guys, no bad guys. The world is more

complicated than that. Come on up where we can open a couple of

beers and talk it all out." (checks Patsy. No reaction.) Again,

no answer. So then I wrote: "Dear Sir: I've been thinking so

much of my own problems, too little of yours. Yours cannot be a

happy task-reading another man's mail. It's dull, unimaginative.

A job-and let's not mince words- for a hack. Yet I wonder-can

this be the way you see yourself as a hack? do you see yurself

as the office slob? Have you ever wondered why they stuck you

with this particular job, instead of others who have less

seniority? Or, was it, do you think, that your superviser looked

around the office to see who he would stick for the job, saw you

and said, 'No one will miss him for a month!'"And still no

answer. But that letter-(checks Patsy.) that letter never got

delivered to me. So then I wrote: "Dear Friend: Just a note to

advise: you may retain my letters as long as you deem fit.

Reread them. Study them. Think them out. Who back at the office

is out to get you. Who, at this very moment, is sitting at your

desk reading your mail? I do not say this to be cruel, but

because I am the only one left you can trust-" No answer. But-

the next day a man. saying he was from the telephone company

showed up-no complaint had been made- to check the phone. Shaky

hands. Bloodshot eyes. A small quaver in his voice. And as he

dismembered my phone he said, :"Look. What nobody understands is

that everybody has his job to do. I got my job. In this case

it's repairing telephones. I like it or don't like it but it's

my job. If I had another job- for example, with the F.B.I.--or

someplace, putting in a wiretap for example or reading a guy's

mail- like it or don't like it it would be my job! Has anyone

got the right to destroy a man for doing his job?" I wrote one

more letter-expressing my deep satisfaction that he and I had at

last made contact, and informing him that the next time he came,

perhaps to read the meter, I had valuable information,

photostats, recordings, names and dates about the conspiracy

against him. This letter showed up a week showed up a week after

I mailed it, in a crumpled grease-stained, and scotch-taped

envelope. The letter itself was torn in half and clumsily glued

together again, In the margin, on the bottom, in large, shaky

letters was written the word "Please!" It was after this that I

began to wonder: if they are so unformidable then why fight

back. (Patsy moves.)