Stolen greeting cards cover Frank’s desk. Birthday cards with sickening pictures of cute puppies in awkward poses, anniversary cards promising undying love and devotion, get-well-soon cards with comic illustrations of hospital patients dispensing unrealistic expressions of sympathy…all of these lay scattered and disorganized around his computer. With well-practiced moves, Frank selects a card at random; a mother and daughter, both fresh from a swimming pool, wrapped together in an oversized towel. The mother is gently kissing the wet crown of her daughter’s head. Frank barely glances at this stylized picture of the perfect bonding moment as he opens the card and lays it face down on the waiting scanner. With a click of the mouse the scanner hums to life, briefly lighting up the corner of the room in a weak phosphorescent glow. On the computer screen the card slowly appears, and suddenly Frank is absorbed.

“Did you know,” Frank says to the monitor, “that 22% of all adults have herpes?” He highlights the message from inside the card and hits the delete key. “A lot of people are sick,” he says, “and some don’t even know it.” Frank punches a few keys and replaces the deleted text with the words “Only one-tenth of one percent of all bovine are tested for mad cow disease”. He pauses for a moment to admire his work before pressing the print button. To his right, a color laser printer whines to life. Its internal gears click and spin in a mechanical rhythm. Thick cardstock slowly rolls into the out tray. Frank picks up the paper and flips it around, examining the quality of the print. Satisfied with the result, he places it on a cutting board and carefully trims it to size, then lovingly folds it in half. Spinning it around in his hands one final time, he gently lays it on top of a stacked pile of cards that occupy the far corner of his desk.

Frank turns his head towards me, his profiled face silhouetted by the blue glow of the computer monitor. “Most people don’t have one single original thought in their brain,” he sighs between his teeth. “Most people are scared of talking about their emotions. They’re so caught up in a façade that they require mass-produced greeting cards to express their feelings for them.”

I feign agreement, and slowly sidestep to the right. Touching the neatly stacked pile of Frank Cards, I fan them out and select one with a picture of a stuffed bunny rabbit contently smiling as it sniffs at a bright yellow sunflower. Opening it up, I expect to find the words “Happy Easter” or “From your loving son on this special day,” but instead of an innocuous holiday sentiment the beautiful, flowering font reads “The goal of crucifixion was to mutilate and dishonor the body of the condemned”. I close the card and select another, studying the sepia-stained photo of two women wearing old-time dress and oversized wide-brimmed hats walking hand in hand down the wooden planks of some long forgotten beachside boardwalk. Inside, the card reads “As many as 2,000 Chinese immigrants died while working on the Transcontinental railroad.”

“I'm going to put these on the store shelves tomorrow. Want to go with me?” Frank asks, pinching the hair on the back of his head between his spindly fingers. Not wanting to have any part of Frank’s social experiments, I shake my head and lowly utter “no” as I drop the Chinese immigrant card back on the desk, almost forgetting why I stopped by to talk to him.