Sen. Stephen Alves

The State House

Providence, R.I.

Dear Steve:

I feel your pain. I think a lot of people do, at least those who have known the terrible hurt of finding that forever doesn’t always last forever.

My own pain came in a letter. It was on purple stationery. It said “Dear Bob,” but it was really a “Dear John” letter. My sweetie was letting me know she was my sweetie no more. A person from the past had shown up. She apparently found him more stable and reliable. She and I would not grow old together. Heck, we wouldn’t see 25 together.

It was tough. I’ll admit it. I wanted to drive over and bang on her door and risk having her parents throw things on me from the second-floor windows. We didn’t get along. But circumstances didn’t allow for that, so I settled for a major share of the scotch a friend had been keeping in his footlocker for a special occasion. I showed her.

I recall the letter now, Steve, because it seems you too are dealing with that same kind of heartbreaking end, that same abrupt dismissal from what seemed a rock solid lifetime of warm embraces and soothing intimacies.

I’m speaking, of course, of your time in the Rhode Island Senate. If there is anything stronger than the emotional lock of true love it is the emotional lock of the General Assembly. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone slipped “till death do us part” into the oath of office up there on Smith Hill. It’s that certain, that solid. Once elected, you move in. And you don’t move out until you decide to move out.

Sure, there are elections every two years, but they’re just casual gatherings of friends, a chance to put up some signs, lay out some chow and lay on the neighborly sauce. No one is going to get all worked up over the idea that an election is supposed to offer a choice. That’s just silly.

But holy hot bread, Steve! This guy, this baker, comes along and gets serious. Didn’t anyone talk to him? Didn’t anyone tell him that there’s a procedure to be followed here and it has nothing to do with the voting booth?

The unthinkable happened, didn’t it, Steve? Michael Pinga beat you in the primary. Did you take him too lightly? Was there some concern about the company you were keeping? Was he saying all the right things while you were saying nothing at all? I know how that can happen, believe me.

I hate to put it this way, Steve, but you got your Dear John letter.

I know, you want to go back and make up for all the mistakes. You want to undo things, tell people that you’re really a warm, huggable guy and they should reconsider. Again, I know the feeling, and so do a whole bunch of people who have sat with that crumpled letter in hand and mumbled “if only” perhaps a dozen times.

But you can’t go back. You can’t do it over. What was said was said. What wasn’t said wasn’t said. The damage doesn’t go away.

So this is not good, this desperate grab of yours for another election. It smacks of entitlement. It’s over, and no matter which way this appeal for a new election goes, you look bad. You’re the poor loser or the tainted winner.

I can tell you one thing, Steve, as I look back on my own Dear John experience. I’m grateful, after these many years, that I wasn’t able to act on impulse — to jump in the Chevy and head out on a mad rescue mission eight blocks away. It wouldn’t have ended well. Chances are, I would have been left standing in the front yard, some food scraps and other debris hanging from my hair and shoulders, the sounds of a Lovin’ Spoonful song from inside the house only adding to the misery of rejection.

There are few deeper embarrassments than that, Steve. It isn’t easy, but it’s best to know when to walk away. And the time to walk away is well before people get so upset that they start throwing things.

Yours in shared regret,

Bob

bkerr@projo.com