Dear Mr. Mayor,

I write to you today not because of your many scandals — you must be sick to death of your many scandals, and you must, like me, wish to move beyond that which you have done with the left hand of your conscience. Yes, Mr. Mayor, I am angry about the lying and the cheating and the misappropriation of public funds and the sudden violent disappearances of friends and neighbors from our city’s streets, but all that is for another letter. Let us put anger aside, Mr. Mayor. This letter, if I may be so bold, is about redemption. As cans may be redeemed, so may we all. 

Mr. Mayor, something simply must be done about the subway. This is your chance to turn it around. The subway must be fixed. Let me explain. Last night, quite late, I needed to get home. I had tied a few on, you might say, with a friend. Out of nerves only — I’m not a drinker, Mr. Mayor. I tipple, sure, but that’s different. You understand. Nerves might be the wrong word. I was with a friend, you see — a good friend. A good man, my friend is. Good, and strapping. Enough about his straps. We stayed out late. Our other friends had all gone home — they walked, or biked, or were suddenly and violently disappeared. I only know that I was laughing with my friend, and when I looked away my glass was empty and our friends were gone. 

It was late, as I said, and I’d chosen the wrong shoes by any metric but how long they made my legs look. But because my man is a good friend — my friend is a good man, that is — he offered to ensure I got home safe. As you know, Mr. Mayor, these streets are encrusted with danger. You campaigned on this danger — I need not explain. Offers like this are what make my friend so good to the bone, all beam and burr. Down the street he held my elbow, a gentleman. His hands are strong, my friend’s. In a different life, he could have been my shampoo girl, and then his touch would have meant nothing; I could have known it for a tip. I had the sudden, violent urge to lay my head down and feel those hands in my hair. Mr. Mayor, I’m not too proud to admit that I tried. Get up, he said, that’s a good girl, we’re almost there. The heavy ring a golden warning on his finger. But then, across the mouth of the subway, do you know what we saw? Tape, Mr. Mayor! It was taped up, shut. No warning at all, and no trains home. 

Mr. Mayor, do you remember when all the drivers organized a strike until they got what they wanted? Well, it’s a good thing they did, or I’d have gotten no ride home. The wait was too long, and the price was too high. You have simply got to do something about the prices, Mr. Mayor, and the waiting around. These nights are so long and so dark. Have you thought about doing something, Mr. Mayor, about the long, dark nights, at least? My friend, being good, said he’d wait until the driver arrived. I got cold, in the waiting and the darkness. My friend tugged my collar up around my chin. I won’t tell you what happened next, out of respect for your office. 

Dark times, Mr. Mayor, call for brave and original solutions. I ask you, is there anything less brave than having a beautiful wife? Is there anything less original than finding her lacking? I admit, Mr. Mayor, that for a moment I violently wished that she would suddenly disappear and leave my friend alone with me. I’m not proud of it. To make things worse, I wanted it. But you understand, Mr. Mayor, about wanting things, about being full to the brim with desires. You know how to cut deals. You want things, and you find a willing party to give them to you. We both know, Mr. Mayor, that this is called bribery — but no, I did tell you this letter is not about your many scandals. I understand, Mr. Mayor. We are not so different, you and I. I want things all the time. I want a sandwich, a hot bath, affordable healthcare, to be touched in love and reverence. Most of all, Mr. Mayor, I want you to do something about the subways. 

None of this would have happened, Mr. Mayor, if the transport in our city could only run on time. I implore you, Mr. Mayor, to do your job. Citizens like me depend on you.

Most cordially,

Claire Delacroix

Sarah Bess Jaffe is a writer, translator, visual artist, and award-winning audiobook producer with 15 years of experience at Penguin Random House. She is a current MFA candidate at St. Joseph’s University where she is a two-time Barbara Germack Foundry Fellow, undergraduate lecturer, and co-editor of the Writer’s Foundry Review. She is also a translations reader for The Adroit Journal, a 2025 writer-in-residence at La Porte Peinte Centre pour les Arts in Burgundy, France, and co-founder of TBR, a monthly reading series for emerging writers. Her work has been featured in Electric Literature, Peatsmoke, and elsewhere. She is currently working on too many things, including a hand-watercolored graphic novel about the rise of the far-right in the US and Europe, and a regular novel with no pictures at all.