In the very first instance, it happened over e-mail and came in the form of a message in my inbox. The note was from a woman who I dated for a time, around about a year ago. Her letter was sweet and altogether flattering, but as I would soon come to discover, that was with good reason. You see, this woman was writing with just one purpose in mind: She wanted to see me again.
Only days following that first occurrence, nearly the same thing happened again.
This time, the circumstances were slightly different. The note came my way via Facebook, and it was tinged with some uncertainty. On this occasion, it seemed that the woman writing simply wanted to know if I might hail from a particular place. It was her way of discerning whether or not I was the boy she had dated and then broke up with, some ten long years ago.
None of this would have happened. None of it could have happened, if not for the power of the Internet. It’s not as though the cell phone of any average person is listed in the phone book, but thanks to the digital age—what with Facebook and Twitter and Google and more—any one among us can tap into the expanses of the World Wide Web, and maybe even stumble upon a once and former prom date. In fact, it is entirely easy—maybe all too easy—to reach right out and touch someone, to try and reconnect, or perhaps even try all over again.
On the surface, this brand of behavior would seem to be innocuous. You’d think that it might be benign. After all, we’re only human. It is natural to want to care, and especially for the people who, once upon a time, might have played a role within our lives. So we reach out to a friend from high school. We reconnect with that kid we ran around with years ago. We think to say hello, or perhaps even try—all over again—with someone we once knew (or in the cases I’ve been describing, a person for whom we may have had feelings), and just to see that they are doing well. It is an entirely innocent pursuit, except that it isn’t (not at all).
Unfortunately, we fail to see the truth.
We have convinced ourselves of the former, not the latter. We really do believe that this kind of thing is no big deal, that our motives, our objectives, are rightly and completely pure. Besides, what’s so bad about saying hello? That’s all we’re doing. This is an old friend we’re talking about here. Never mind that we used to see each other naked. That was years ago.
In each of the instances mentioned, I eventually wrote back to the women in question, my responses packed with plenty in the way of pleasantries. The back and the forth, that initial give and take, would eventually lead to a series of exchanges. Before long, I found myself agreeing to meet in person, to sit down over a beer, and well, you know… “Catch up.”
When it happens that you haven’t seen someone in so very long, it is actually quite easy to strike up a conversation. There are years to fill. The two of you have whole swaths of life to catch up on, and plenty in the way of stories to tell. Do little more than report the news, and still you’ll find the time wiling by.
The strange part is, through all of this, you can find yourself falling into something familiar—a rhythm, of sorts, albeit one that feels entirely strange, as though it is a step out of time, and in all likelihood, one step too many. Whatever it is that you had, whenever it happened, the truth of the matter is, it was years ago. It’s over, and no matter what it is that the two of you may come to find, in connecting once again, only one thing can be certain: It will never be the same as it once was.
Somewhere along the way, in the string of correspondences, in the midst of sitting down, of meeting in person, I began to suspect that this reaching out might not merely be for the sake of old times.
Granted, there is a part in all of us, whether conscious or not, that is probably quite curious to discover how someone has fared. We grow inquisitive, and naturally begin to wonder how it is that they are doing, or how the years have treated them. Maybe all we really want to know is whether or not they have gained forty pounds, or begun to lose their hair. It might be that what we’re really after, what we truly want from this, is a way of feeling better about ourselves, and about the decisions that we once made, so many years ago.
Understand, this observation is delivered without malice. It comes forth without any form of judgment attached. People get to a certain age, and try though they might to avoid it, invariably, they will begin to wonder. It is just the way of things.
Of course, that would suggest that we have drifted far past even the scant possibility of the benign. There may be something more that is deeply rooted in this urge to reconnect. There may well be an altogether different type of motive. It would seem plausible, but...
Holy shit. Could it be that I’m the one who got away?
***
A few years ago, a handful of friends flew into New York, boarding planes and leaving families behind, all so that they might partake in helping me to celebrate my birthday.
My birthday falls in February, and of all the things that I might wish for on that occasion, the one constant is snow. Living where I do, it doesn’t often happen that I end up on skis that week, let alone that very day. Still, even kicking around the city streets, it is nice to have some of the white stuff around, whether to plow into piles, or pack into a ball and then playfully toss towards some far-off wall.
In the mornings, at subway stations throughout the city, people will pass out free newspapers. Whether AM New York or the Metro, both offer up the news of the day, with a focus that will run the gamut from the GDP to gossip. They feature the weather, too. No matter how long I end up living here, I might never cease to marvel at the way that these free papers will proclaim, with the sturm and drang one might expect from Roland Emmerich, the impending arrival of the year’s first major snowfall.
It doesn’t have to be a lot. Even a dusting will suffice, for with so much (or so little) as four inches of snow, the front pages of those morning papers will be bellowing, “BLIZZARD OF (fill in the year here)!”
I find it kind of funny, the way that everyone will react to the reports, as though they could possibly be true. People hear the word, “blizzard” and immediately, they fall into one of two camps. Either they’re a modern-day Shackleton striving for the Pole, or they decide that it’d be best if they remain indoors, and not embark on the laborious chore of walking to their places of business, as though the dusting on the doorstep is sure to impede their progress.
(There is a part of me always tempted to say, “You walk to work anyway. Throw on some boots. Wear a hat. Suck it up.”)
On my birthday, those few years ago, people were justified in doing whatever they so chose, for the daily rags? They really meant it. What we experienced that weekend was, indeed, the BLIZZARD OF 2005. The flakes began to fall on Saturday afternoon, and by the time Sunday morning had rolled around? There were reportedly 27 inches of the freshly fallen, fluffy stuff on the ground in Central Park.
On Saturday night, my friends and I, we began to take advantage.
As we made our way down Mulberry Street, we began to throw snowballs—not at some far-away walls, or inanimate objects, but rather at each other. A few playful tosses turned into a battle, with each of us darting this way and that, on opposite sides of the street, ducking behind cars and to the sides of street signs in a desperate attempt to take cover.
Soon snowballs were flying from every which direction, whizzing their ways past people’s heads and occasionally catching someone square in the back. Of course, this was acceptable. We not only knew each other; we understood full well what we were getting into, the moment we picked up that first pile of snow.
But then we ended up before the storefront of an Australian restaurant… and then someone ducked into the short stairwell that leads down below, to the bar in the basement… and then someone (I’m not saying who) unleashed a cannon-shot of a snowball throw, and proceeded to peg the bouncer, and just as he was popping his head up to street level, all to check out the commotion.
Yeah, he was a big guy.
Thankfully, he was also cool as hell. Pretty soon the bouncer had joined in on our little skirmish. He was a part of the fray, and lobbing snowballs across the street at those of us who were trailing behind, the stragglers who had yet to reach the refuge of that doorway. Soon enough, once we were all hanging around and huddled about the entrance, apologies to the bouncer were offered up in earnest. He seemed to think nothing of it, and brushed the whole thing off. Besides, he had gotten his, what with a few well-placed bombs. At some point, someone may have mentioned my birthday, and pretty soon we were all smiling and shaking hands. In fact, I think it was the bouncer who offered a slap to the back of my head as he told us all to get inside.
I have yet to visit Australia, but apparently, they like their cricket. That’s the sport that was being broadcast on the massive, movie-sized projection screen that was hanging from the room’s back wall. We snaked our way through the scrum of people, inching ever closer to the bar. There was a general clamoring, and the occasional outcry (something about a “sticky wicket”), but beyond the reactions (which we didn’t understand), that was all the attention we paid to the match transpiring on the screen.
While I cannot recall much about the match, you can best believe that I remember when it ended. That was the moment that the crowd parted. The middle of that room opened right up, and suddenly, there she was. That was when I saw her.
I could describe for you the way she looked, or what she wore, or that smile of hers, and how it cut straight through me. She was like an elixir.
Beyond all rhyme or reason, without regard for an excuse or explanation, I was convinced of one thing: I would regret missing out on the chance to meet this woman. I had to talk to her. I needed to find some way, some how, to strike up a conversation.
As for the next few moments to follow, they may have involved a pep talk or two. It might have taken me a couple of trial runs, a few failed attempts, but before long? I walked up and said hello. She smiled, and the rest just seemed to happen, without any sort of aid from the two of us.
The chants and cheers that had accompanied the match had died down by that point, and had soon given way to the music of Motown. Somewhat reflexively, without even thinking, I looked that woman in the eye and asked her to dance. Never mind that it wasn’t that kind of bar. Fuck if I cared. She was gorgeous. I liked her from the start, and I was gladly going to take any excuse I could get, just to find some way of getting closer to this girl.
I reached for her hand, wrapped my fingers around hers, and then led her out onto that makeshift dance floor. The rest, as they say, is history.
As the evening drew to a close, as the bouncer we had befriended only hours before began to sweep the place of drunken strangers, I looked to the girl and asked for her number. If memory serves, there was some discussion over why it was that I wouldn’t just enter her digits into my phone, but I had screwed that process up once or twice before. I wasn’t about to risk it. You see, all I really wanted was to call this girl. I wasn’t even going to wait two days.
In the end, I cajoled the bartender into handing me a bar bill and a pen, and she jotted down her name and number. I told her that I’d call. I meant it, and then we went our separate ways.
The next morning, I awoke with a start. Yes, there were 27 inches of snow on the ground, but that wasn’t why I was so excited. The snow didn’t even register.
I went directly to the chair in the corner of my room and snatched up the jeans I had been wearing the night before. My hand dived first into my right front pocket, and then into the left. I checked the pockets in the back, and then searched them all twice over again. A sense of panic began to set in, for try as I might, I couldn’t find her number. There was a Metro Card and some loose receipts, a few coins wadded up in the midst of tens and twenties, but nothing with her name and her telephone number.
I checked my coat. I checked the kitchen counter—the refrigerator, too. I walked to the doorway, and out into the hall. Every square inch of my 500 square-foot apartment was completely torn apart, and still I came up empty-handed.
I was an ass to lose her number. Granted, she and I spent little more than an evening together. All we did was talk and laugh, and share some scattered moments with her wrapped in my arms, spinning ourselves around that room. It wasn’t much, but regardless, there was something about that woman. I knew that I wanted to see her again, and soon. At the very least, I wanted the chance to take her out, to talk with her once more, to see where things might lead.
Opportunities are what you make of them, and ultimately, that one was lost. Still, sometimes I just can’t help myself. I begin to think back to that evening, and it is in those times that I stop to wonder: What if she is the one who got away?
There are some things that we’ll never know. It is just the way of things. All that we can do, the only choice that we might have, is to keep on trying.
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