Dear Betty Rucker

 I barely remember what you look like, except that you were impossibly short and small and that you would never answer the telephone.  That doesn't tend to work well for sales people.  You probably worked with me for about two months, which was just long for them to order you a giant box of business cards which sat on your old desk for quite some time in your absence. 

I found myself at that desk for some mundane reason one day, whether to update the computer or steal a stapler.  What I found was a giant box of business cards for a woman I never particularly liked.  Those cards instantly became mine.  For what, you may ask, did I need business cards with the words "Betty Rucker, Sales Manager" on them?  I get bored easily, for one and also, madam, to make it rain. 

Every coworker I passed would get a hearty handshake, and in that handshake would be a card.  I'd use my deepest voice and tell them, "Hey there, Betty Rucker, good to meet you."  "Hey, Betty Rucker, how's it hangin?"  "Yo soy Betty Rucker.  Necessito un tortuga mas grande."

Betty Rucker was entered into every business card giveway in every fishbowl in every restaurant in the county.  You should thank me, because you've probably eaten like a queen thanks to me.  I scratched out the company logo and contact into so the cards just read "Betty Rucker, Sales Manager" as if you managed all the sales of everything.  Those cards were left everywhere.  People who shopped at a particular Barnes and Noble would find them in their the copies of "50 Shades of Gray" they kept hidden from their families.  Every copy of "Civil War Enthusiast" carried your card as an insert.  They were left in pairs of shoes at Nordstroms, in the pocket of chinos at Old Navy, and I even donated a dollar to charity so I could tape one to a sunny cloud at Rita's Water Ice. 

I'd like to say you had done something in particular to make me single you out, but the cards were there, and you were not.  So, it happened, and I really hope you've seen one.