Donald Turnupseed – Chris Scott

January 3, 2026

First letter in a few days and this one doesn’t even mention James Dean by name. Doesn’t have to, of course. “Good job killing America best actor you stupid fuck moron. Learn how to drive dumb hick trash fuck you turnip seed.” Donald smoothes out the creases. The last fuck you was unnecessary, but point taken. The hate mail has died off a little over time, tricking him into thinking every now and then maybe it’s over? But this will never be over. This is what the world thinks of him. This is what happens when you kill the most beloved celebrity on the planet this side of Marilyn Monroe, accident or not. He tapes the letter onto the wall next to the others.

Irony: A couple hours before the crash James Dean was pulled over for speeding. Had he not been pulled over, he would have been ten minutes further along when Donald pulled out onto the highway where he did. They would’ve missed each other by a mile. On the other hand, James Dean wouldn’t have been ticketed in the first place had he been sticking to the speed limit, meaning he would’ve taken longer anyway, meaning maybe it all evens out. Maybe it isn’t irony. Maybe he is a dumb hick. Was James Dean speeding when their cars connected, ripping his comically small Porsche Speedster into a million pieces, snapping his neck cleanly in two? Was America’s number one heartthrob driving recklessly? He’s been asked about this so many times. He honestly doesn’t know. It happened so fast. Probably it was nobody’s fault. This obviously satisfies no one.

Here’s a word he does know: Penance. Donald rolls the projector into the middle of the den and starts it up. Whirring and clicking. Tonight’s film is East of Eden, shot in Mendocino and the Salinas Valley, not far from where they collided. Not his favorite motion picture. It’s too much, too loud. Histrionics and melodrama and flailing. Truth be told, he does not think James Dean was a good actor. Of course he will never tell anyone that. That one stays in this room.

The fields and hills of central California are brightly cast upon all the angry letters he’s received wallpapering his small apartment. They’ll be fully covered within a year, and then maybe he can start on the ceiling. A surprising number of them, like today’s, make fun of his identity, his name. A turnip seed, tiny, virtually non-existent. He lights a cigarette, the smoke and the film projector making it feel like twilight in here. Perpetual twilight. You would have trouble seeing another car bearing down on you in this light. At the center of James Dean’s handsome face, enormous on his wall, is a letter that just reads “Who even are you?” Meaning he was James Dean, and you’re just some fucking guy. He stands up, walks to his desk, retrieves a pen and pad of paper. For the first time he begins writing a response.