Whiten

Whiten

    This is a story about a man who is preparing to tell a story.  For his future, for his well being, for his mental health, he wants to fully and completely tell this story.  He needs to perform a full exorcism.  He will, for the better good, go back down into the deep and dark pit, in order to bring everything that is beneath to the surface, display it for all it is, to anyone who will listen, and more importantly, to display it for himself so he could see the truth.  Then, and only then he hopes, he can destroy it, leave it behind him, and move on.  Winter is coming and he knows from previous winters what it can do to someone like him with such a weight of disappointment like the weight he has accumulated over his recent years.  So for one last time our guy decided to bring the pain of empty handedness to light. 

     It is something he had been attempting to suppress, thinking he could possibly ween himself off of thoughts of her, but she still crossed his mind daily and she still had an effect on his everyday life.  The decisions he made still had her in the forefront.  He had made great efforts with the new folks he met to not bring her up. But he would have to, in order to explain the last fall//winter when he quit his job, moved out of town, and reclused himself in a house only to leave a few times over the coarse of a half year, or when he explained why he was terrified of going into the dreaded "Fountain Square", or his inability to be swooned by any other woman, or his fear of his obsessive tendencies, or his fear that he holds no power or has no control of his own life. They would see his intensity and would want to know what it was all about.

     The story would begin with the short version. "I have been obsessed with this girl for the past 2 years. A girl that I have never met." It would be too much of an extreme statement to not give any details. And for them to really understand the magnitude of this affair, they would need the entire detailed story, and though laying out the entire drama and how it all unfolded and grew would give him a satisfaction of danger, it ultimately brought him down, humiliating him as well as separated him from whom ever he was speaking to, feeling as if he was living in fiction while they were living in non-fiction.  They would look at him like he had done something wrong and say things like, "This is getting creepy", but it didn't have to be so "creepy", it hadn't always been "creepy", it started out very sweet and innocent, but a combination of two shy, prideful, and guarded people, and our modern world, it became something else.  Our guy has a way his brain works, that way, and who he is, led him to this.  In order to change anything, he needs to let go and start over.  Our guy recalls 18 times that visually, in real life, he has seen our girl.  The question then arises, "Why haven't you talked to her?".  For which he has no answer.  Only the story.

Our girl

     He found her on the Internet while looking for a place to live in Indianapolis, Indiana.  He had been marooned in a tiny town in Kentucky by his ex-wife for a year and a half and had finally built up the strength to swim back to the mainland.  While reconnecting on the Internet with a former acquaintance who had a spare room right in the heart of Indy, he saw her picture in the left column, on the top, with dark short hair.  She wore heavy eye makeup that outlined her amazing, bright, and exotic eyes.  She was dressed in black with a tattoo on her wrist and a melancholy expression.  Something happened to him.  He didn't think about whether it was a good thing or bad thing.  He wasn't actually thinking at all, but at that moment he put everything, all his aspirations, all his dreams, all his hopes for what his new life would be like in Indianapolis, his new start and his new chance to salvage the life we hoped for, in that girl.

    It wasn't just her pictures, by the end of that night he had read every blog she ever wrote, and by the end of that week he had looked through every photo and had seen every video she had ever posted.  Fascinated by her ever changing image and persona, he trailed backwards on her Internet history, building a character of who she might be. 

I can't forget

    Our guy moved to Indianapolis December 28th 2010, coincidentally within blocks of where our girl lived.  On New Years Eve she wrote a post stating that she would be tending bar at the White Rabbit that night.  She invited whom ever read said Internet post, to join her in bringing in the New Year.  Our guy, somehow, KNEW that our girl was speaking to him in that post, maybe having tracked his every move as well and knowing he was new to town.  Posting it as if to say, "Wouldn't it be romantic if we were to meet on New Years Eve?"  

     DO NOT DOUBT how well our guy knows our girl.  He knew her then, and he knows her now.  Our girl then was a different girl. She was searching.  She was interested.  She was curious.  She was maybe searching for someone just like him, he thought.  She was maybe interested in someone like him, and perhaps curious about whom he might be.  She was maybe interested in searching for someone who was interesting and would show her interesting things to be curious about.  She has grown since then.  She is now more independent. She is now more confident.  She hides herself or guards herself more in her Internet persona.  She has fulfilled her dream of going to Paris, and she is financially doing well for herself, working for a small company as a social media marketer.  She doesn't NEED anyone, but she did then, or at least our guy believed she was "open to it".

    Her life may be better off without him.  He thinks about that, but not much.  He mostly thinks about how his life is NOT better without her.  Our guy often thinks about what both of their lives would have been like if he had gone to that bar on December 31st 2010.  Maybe if he walked in at 11:59, locked eyes with her from across the room, leaped over the bar, placed a finger down the line of her jaw, and went in for a kiss. Right at midnight.  The world would cut to slow motion and go out of focus around them, and their theme song would gently play. 

    "There is a light that will never go out", that's what their theme song would be.  She mentioned it some time that next month.  She said she couldn't stop listening to it.  After drawing attention to it, our guys started to listen, and after mentioning that she wished someone would bring an acoustic guitar to her house and play it to her, our guy decided to learn how to play it.  He printed out a few copies of the words.  Posted one on his bulletin board, one in his song book, and taped one under the roof of his golf cart at work.  He was a grounds keeper and he spent many cold days driving around in a golf cart, keeping warm by singing "There is a light that will never go out".  He often dreamed, while sweeping cobwebs from a doorway, of playing it in a local open mic when she walked in.  Or, while surveying around a building for dead birds, dreamed of even playing it quietly as she awoke one autumn morning.  But we know neither of these events actually occurred.  Our guy resorted to blogging sad bedroom recordings and using subliminal Smiths references in his posts.

    She made the first move, commenting on a photo of his.  "I have these exact glasses" she said.  He told her he had since gotten new glasses so not to be confused as her twin.  She replied, "Too bad".  It was simple out of the blue moments like these that convinced our guy that our girl was surely interested in meeting him, as he was also interesting in meeting her.  This interaction was the first of many all throughout the winter of 2011.

    Radio Radio, a music venue, was directly across the street from the White Rabbit Cabaret on Prospect in Fountain Square.  He saw her at a Maps and Atlases show there for the first time.  Our guy didn't care for this band but she RSVP'd so he would do whatever it took to be there.  It also helped that his housemate was attending as well, allowing him to not go in alone which was hard for him to do. 

     She blasted in late wearing a remarkable coat that had an extremely tall collar pulled up.  He thought she looked like a Queen of France from the 1600s.  She radiated confidence as if the crowd was there to see her, not the bands, but at the same time carried a shy/coy humbleness, hiding herself, but still allowing her eyes to radiate.  She sat with 2 friends about 30 feet behind our guy.  He turned around a few times to get a glimpse of her.  One of the first times looking back, he could have sworn they were talking about him because all 3 people at the table were looking straight his direction.  He wanted to wait till she was alone before he went up to her.  She went back stage and she never returned.  He was dead tired because of the demand of his new job so he left right after the show.  "She will have to wait" he thought.

    Knowing she was a fan of French films and French culture, our guy staged a movie night at his house.  A house in which she had once been, according to his house mate and a friend who were both there when it happened.  She allegedly asked what record they were listening to at the time.  He sent the invitation, she didn't come.  She did, however, apologize for not coming, saying she wanted to but her shyness got the best of her.  He found that very cute and wonderful.  It seemed obvious to him that they would soon meet and it would surely work out.  In fact, he promised her of this.

    During a week long blizzard that hit Indianapolis without warning in early February, our guy was stuck on the north side where he worked.  He clocked in nearly 75 hours, breaking up ice and shoveling snow all night and grounds keeping and vacant sweeping all day. He slept in a hotel because the roads were too bad to get home.  That week, as he sat in a vacant office trying to stay awake, he thought about her constantly.  As if he were up late in his barracks on the top bunk with a flashlight and a small worn photo of the girl that was waiting for him back home.  He would practice their song in various empty rooms, and he would dream of what life would be like with her by his side.

Tired Words

    Surely fate hadn't brought them this close, he thought; both their lives having run parallel to each other for all these years, now coming to a point in Fountain Square in Indianapolis, Indiana.  As if the fountain, there between Virginia and Prospect, a block from the White Rabbit, and 5 blocks from his house, was a giant tree on the top of a hill where soldiers were to gather after the fighting was done.  The wounded survivors would drag themselves up the hill with the other survivors to collapse under the refuge of the giant tree, and with a sigh of relief, they'd all say, "it's over".  It was a ribbon at the end of the race.  It was a flag stuck in the ground at the peak of the mountain.  It was the beacon or rest that read, "Search no more".

    He dreamt of cold sleepy Sunday afternoons in a warm loft apartment, their favorite music quietly playing from the other end of the room, holding each other still in her bed.  His head on her chest, her head on his head, her hair falling to the side of his face, both mutually happy.  He couldn't escape the feeling that this dream was perpetually a day away, and at the same time, a far fetched fantasy that would never come true.

    The fountain was just across the street from the library, which was also on the corner of Prospect and Virginia, where our guy often went to get movies.  He imagined meeting her there, or seeing her on the street through the window.  He didn't know where she lived but he knew it was close, and he knew that she sometimes went to the same library to get movies as well.

     He asked her, "What do you do on Sundays?" He knew it was a strange question, but if you consider the amount of time he spent sitting in his room, wondering what she was doing at that exact moment, one would realize it's the most productive question he could ask.  Sundays were a mystery to him as far as what she did.  She didn't talk about going out to any bars or restaurants, or "check-in" anywhere else.  He was maybe assuming she just laid around in an extra large Smiths T-shirt and matching underwear, eating expensive dark chocolate, watching French New Wave films and cuddling with her kitties, repeating each line to practice her French.  Maybe she dusts her apartment while listening to French music, or sits in a cafe blogging on her lap top with a cup of French Roast and a muffin while listening to 60's Indian go-go.  She replied very informatively, "Activities may include cooking for the week, hitting thrift stores, and running."  He was happy about that reply, because he "just wanted to know".

    What really warmed the heart of our guy in the early days of this interest, was our girl's younger photos.  Her in college and her in high school.  She seemed like such a nice and sweet hearted girl.  She had long blonde hair and tan.  She wore comfortable clothes and she looked like she was always having fun.  She had never drank until after college.  He was under the belief that it took a certain kind of person to do that.  It was this "golden heart" that our guy could not shake.  To him, it was like she was keeping a secret about herself, covered by black clothes, black hair, and a tough and mysterious persona.

     Our guy went to see our girl in a roller derby bout as a Naptown Rollergirl.  He sat on the floor, right across from the bench.  Around him he could see several of her close friends whom he frequently saw her interacting with on the Internet, now all there in real life.  It his mind, it was like being in a room with celebrities.  It was beyond an excitement for him to see his dream girl live and in action.  He appreciated seeing her out there, knowing that she was only there due to her determination because she gets what she wants no matter how much it scares her or how hard the challenge may be.  Throughout the night he thought he saw her looking his direction.  He could've been mistaken, but he felt without a doubt that she was looking right at him.  He couldn't take his eyes off her.  She sat on the bench like a 5 year old, scooting her skates back and forth, but when she was on the track it was all business.  The roller girls had a meet and greet signing afterwards.  Our guy considered it for a second, but then hurriedly ducked out.  Later he messaged her that he went to the bout and saw her.  She messaged back that she thought she had seen him.  She described what he was wearing to confirm.  She HAD seen him.  They had spent a portion of the evening staring right at each other.  He told her congratulations.  She told him thank you.  He expressed his regrets for not going up to the track at the end of the bout to "nab a high five."  He thought, "If she only knew how proud I was of her."

    He told her she had neat eyes.  She did have neat eyes.  They were big and the shape of them were unusual.  They were his favorite of her features.  He felt compelled to tell her.  He figured a complement couldn't hurt.  Typing it gave him a little enjoyment but pushing send was exhilarating.  Her response was, "Thanks, I go through a lot of eyeliner."  It wasn't the eyeliner he was talking about.  It was her eyes.  Eyes that consume the world; pull it in as if she were the moon to close to Earth.  Eyes that could crush you or welcome you.  Eyes that could both kill you or lift you off the ground.  Eyes that could make a man weak in the knees and question the power one woman can have.  They were big, and the shape was one of a kind.  They were blue, but only slightly.  The blue would just slip out a little in pictures, like a little twinkle of blue.  They were his favorite eyes.  And he wanted more than anything for them to be one day looking right at him, through him, for him.

    The only way our guy knew how to meet girls, or one should say, the only way he has ever met a girl has been at a concert he was performing.  Being in the entertain of the evening gave him a confidence and energy he needed to be friendly and talkative.  So his goal was to start a band in Indianapolis, performing as soon as possible, and produce as many as possible.  He assumed she was bound to attend one of them.  He would surely have the confidence to confront her then.  It seemed to him like the plan would work.  Our girl was interested in his music in the beginning, it only made sense that she would want to see them. 

    It took them a while before they were performing concerts worth attending, but that summer they began breaking into the White Rabbit, Locals Only, the Vollrath, Indy's Jukebox, and also Radio Radio in the fall.  She didn't come to any of them.

Get out of your house

     Fountain Square is about a mile south east of downtown Indianapolis.  It holds a slight Bremuda Triangle mystique in the city because it's actually extremely hard to find if you are new in the area.  Stopping and asking how to get there will not help you because a majority of Indianapolis, the real Indianapolis, has not even heard of it.  The tricky part to getting there is that there is only one road that goes there from downtown.  It runs diagonal across the city and is a one way going the opposite direction until you are outside of downtown.  When you actually find Virginia Avenue, which runs south east, you still won't feel like you're approaching Fountain Square.  It looks run down and gets worse as you go.  There is construction everywhere and the pedestrians become less and less appealing, and then, it all unfolds.  Until you are within a block of the Fountain, you will have thought you've gone the wrong way.

     There will be tall, old, and beautiful buildings to one's left and right.  One will be greeted by giant letters that read, "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL" above the Murphy building which holds many art exhibits every first Friday of the month.  Though a lot of the buildings are new within 10 years they are all made to look like the Murphy building which has been there for nearly 100 years.  The most beautiful sight is once one has gotten to the Virginia/Prospect intersection.  East is the Library and The White Rabbit and La Revolucion, across the street from that is Radio Radio, a barber shop, an antique store, and a big bright marquee with hundreds of light bulbs advertising for the largest building on that side of the street.  The lit up billboards on top of the buildings give an old city feel.  It feels as if the sight is from a movie.  It feels like the past and the future at the same time.  The two movies that come to mind are Dick Tracy and Dark City.  Ahead is the emerald fountain, smaller than one would expect.  Ahead of that is the Brass Ring.  Across the street from that is Bud's Supermarket.  To the right is the Mexican Grills and the Murphy Building.

     The thing to understand about Historical Fountain Square is that the true population of the area is only 1 percent of what it's reputation holds.  Only 1% of the residences are "cool kids" who party every night and are associated with "mind numbing, drone, acid, garage rock".  Festivals like Cataracts Fest and bars like the White Rabbit and the Brass Ring give the area this reputation but in actuality, 99% of the population are poor, white, Americans.  The type you'd find on the Kentucky side of Cincinnati, but less redheaded.  Before the last 5 years, Fountain Square was slightly a meeting ground for the Rockabilly culture with shows at the Radio Radio, swing dancing next door, duckpin bowling, and a 50's diner on the corner.  It is now officially know as the art district of Indianapolis, and with it and the hep bars and the cheap rent came the artsy crowd.  A new motto was proclaimed last year (2012), "FOUNTAIN SQUARE DON'T CARE".  It seems to sum up a lot of the ideas of the Cataracts crowd.  They don't care about anything around them.  Only themselves.

     For 99% of the population, Fountain Square is something one is born into and will never escape.  The majority of the true locals are in a situation where they know they will never get out of there, maybe they will live a life of crime or work a lowly job for low pay.  But these FSDC kids had invaded Fountain Square to start a hub for a artistic punk rock culture, they chose to move there from their middle class suburban or small town upbringings.

     How our guy feels about Fountain Square is similar to how one would feel about an Uncle who is unpleasant to be around.  He's family so you love him, but you want to interact with him as little as possible.  It would be nice if said uncle would acknowledge you as a valuable adult and "not be such a jerk all the time".  The culture of Fountain Square also reminds him of the movie American Psycho.  He claims it's the one place where he is completely invisible.  He feels that if one is not 100% outgoing, wearing just the right clothes, playing just the right music, where one is throwing one's self upon one another, and one does not take every drug ever handed to one and does not go to every party one hears about, then one will go unnoticed.  Our guy, he does not do such things, therefore, has no Fountain Square identity.  He is not social.  It pains him to be in crowds of people he does not know.  He can not make these efforts though he wishes with all his heart that he could.  He dreams of it, safely, as he follows all of them in all forms of social medias. 

     The thought that our guy might end up in one of these social situations, and that he will surely fail at thriving in it, gives him a gut wrenching anxiety.  He feels it best to just avoid Fountain Square completely.

Afraid

 There are moments that haunt him.  The time he was talking to his friend Amity at a White Rabbit show about our girl. 

    "Do you remember my first week here when I was anxious about seeing a girl at the First Friday art gallery?" he asked. 

She did remember, so he began his usual pointless explanation about not having the courage to talk to her but stopped half way through the first sentence.  He froze solid.  His face turned white.  He had suddenly noticed her walking towards them, 10 yards away. 

    "What was she doing here." he wondered.  The Rollergirls were in Cincinnati.  He had read earlier that day that she had hurt her hand but didn't know it was that bad. 

    He managed to eck out like a ventriloquist, "Durts herrr".  She walked right by.  Amity caught a glimpse. 

    She said, "She's talking to someone I know, I'm gonna go talk to her." And just like that, she was standing with her, less than 5 feet behind where our guy was sitting.  She was so close, he could here her voice.  He heard her say her name and was so nervous he nearly ran at a sprint to the bathroom.  He often thinks about how close he came to meeting her.  What if he stayed sitting there for another 30 seconds and Amity would have brought him into the conversation.  He would have met her and none of this would have happened.

 He was very excited to see Jonathan Richman perform at the Radio Radio.  He had mentioned him to her in a message months earlier.  He talked about him a lot on the Internet.  He had a tattoo of his lyrics on his arm.  Richman was coming to the Radio Radio and our guy wanted to get as many people in there to see him as he could.  According to the Internet, she said she would be there.  He was looking forward to seeing her.  He thought maybe this was it, he would meet her at a Jonathan Richman show.  He would "See her from afar, in that lonely rock & roll bar" and know that "there must be a higher power somewhere", as the JR lyrics go.  He was in the back part of the standing crowd.  He looked for her the whole show but didn't see her.  Then in the end, as he was leaving, he was talking to a friend while walking out the door, he looked up and there she was, an ear shot away, looking right at him.  He froze and went white.  He stopped talking and walked out the door in shock.  He immediately went across the street to the White Rabbit.  It was $2.50 Tuesdays and had guessed that she might have been going there after.  He saw her walk out of Radio Radio and walk towards the Brass Ring.  He guessed wrong, but was slightly relieved.

    Another time that haunts him was when a Smiths Tribute band was came to the White Rabbit.  Our guy was extremely excited.  The Smiths were his all-time favorite band, maybe hers too, and when he saw that she was going, he had big plans.  It was early March, and very cold out.  He had talked about seeing the show for weeks to his friends and one by one they backed out of going because of other plans.  He needed "a wing man" though at the time he didn't know what one was because he rarely went out or felt the need to talk to people.  All his "wing men" had "bailed" do to a 12 dollar ticket price, cash only, and also due to people "just plain disappearing".  He gave up and was preparing himself for the big encounter, alone.  He wanted to talk to her.  He wanted it more than anything.  He needed to talk to her so he could get to have dinner with her or a coffee with her.  He needed that so he could continue writing her.  That could continue all day everyday.  He wanted that so he could watch a movie with her.  He wanted all that so he could lay with her on her couch in her warm apartment.  He had to take it one step at a time, and it started in the kitchen with a can of coke and a bottle a Jack Daniels that he had just bought.  The thought of going there alone was so terrifying that he felt he had no choice but to chug at least a quarter of the giant bottle.  He knew that he would not/could not walk through the door of the White Rabbit into that place full of people, and in there somewhere was the one person that could potentially cause him to pass out. 

He drank quite a bit.  He was already feeling it by the time he got on his bike.  It was a very cold night.  His eyes were watering from the cold and tears were running down his face.  Though it was the cold air that caused the tears, once they weld up, he went ahead and let them go.  He wanted this more than anything, and he was very afraid of what he needed to do. 

     He chained his bike to the pipes on the corner of the building, not your usual place to tie a bike and it concerned him a little because it was in front of a fire station though that has nothing to do with the story and I have digressed.  He walked timidly through the small crowd of smokers outside to the front door.  He was wearing his usual winter clothes which happen to fit a Smiths Tribute show to a T.  He, like Morrissey was an 80's Deaner.  Old black Doc Martin steel toed boots with blue laces, black wrangler jeans, black and white striped t-shirt, red zip-up hoodie, pale green 60's bomber jacket, 60's turtle shell glasses, and a dark green sailor sock hat covering a buzzed blond head.  With the boots he was a towering 6 foot 5 when he wasn't hunched over minimizing the amount of attention he would get when walking through a room.  Though this hunching and cowering, which sometimes translates as lurching, is what caused most of the attention.  While standing in line he got out his wallet and realized he didn't have enough cash to buy the ticket.  He had spent it on the liquor.  He went back outside and thought about where the nearest ATM would be.  He began texting friends from the area to ask them, when one of Fountain Squares more famous beggar types, a kooky old lady who liked to yell at girls for dressing slutty, walked by the White Rabbit and started talking to him.  Asking, "Why would you want to go in there?  Just to drink beer?" 

He replied, "The music."

"Oh, there's music?  What kind of music?" 

Just then, OUR GIRL walked by.  She was wearing a short black dress with a brown belt, black leggings, black winter coat, and red lipstick.  She had moderately short hair with bangs and it flipped forward on the sides.  She nearly brushed up against him and walked into the White Rabbit.  It was the closest he had ever gotten to her.  She was laughing at something her friend had said as she went by with her head down, never looking up. 

    He asked the old lady, "Where is the nearest ATM?"

    With which she replied, "It's the gas station down there.  Downtown's too far." 

The two of them started walking toward the Fountain Square Express.  He said to the old lady, "Actually the reason I want to go in there is to meet that girl that just walked by us." 

    "The one with the short dress?" She asked.

    "Yeah, her." 

     "She's pretty.  Looked like she was with someone already though."

    He replied, "Yeah, that's just her friend.  I don't think they are a thing." 

    She said, "Oh, okay, I see." 

Our guy was amazed at how attune she was to what was going on.  She was very easy to talk to and surprisingly helpful. 

    "I've wanted to talk to her for a really long time, but haven't had a good chance." He continued.

    "She doesn't seem like a very nice girl." She said. 

    "Well I think she is." He assured her.

    He asked her where she lived and she was reluctant to tell him.  She told him that she didn't like Fountain Square much because the people didn't give the good cans to the shelter, only "the bad stuff".  They exchanged names and when they got to the gas station and he got his money, he gave her a dollar for the talk and told her that if she remembered his name the next time she saw him that he would give her another dollar.  She seemed excited to do that.  She stayed in the gas station and he started the journey back to the venue.  On the way back he thought about how the ATM machine had charged him 2 dollars and 50 cents to take out 20 dollars.  $12 will be to get in, and he would end up buying a beer for $4 plus a dollar tip.  There had been a lot invested in this night. 

    As soon as he made it back to the White Rabbit the alcohol kicked in.  The world was spinning and he could barely walk straight.  Our guy almost never drinks.  He needed to "take the edge off" but what he ended up doing was made it impossible to walk through a crowd of people without falling over.  A few shaky steps in and his glasses fogged up.  He showed his ID, which he hated to do, due to having always felt like he was doing something wrong because of his upbringing.  He paid his 12 dollars.  He stood there for a minute to collect himself, assessed the room and was hoping the fog on his glasses would go away.  He decided to walk straight to the bathroom and take a breather to collect.  He walked right by our girl and went straight to the front behind the stage where the bathrooms were.  When he did that he felt an enormous pressure, as if people were expecting him, or if people noticed him and knew he was out of his element.  The event that held this Smiths/Morrissey Tribute band named "These Handsome Devils" was a birthday party for a girl he did not know.  There was a birthday list, and if you were on it you got in free, but it was open to public and you could get in for 12 dollars if you weren't.  This fact added to the difficulty of feeling out of place.  Our girl was a friend of the birthday girl.  She was supposed to be there, not our guy. 

    He came back from the bathroom fog free and walked directly up to the side of the bar.  Our girl was sitting 3 seats over with her back to him.  He glanced over a few times and caught eyes with the guy she came with, who was sitting facing her.  He looked right at him with a look, as if they were talking about him or maybe he knew the whole story.  Even the two bar tenders, when he ordered a drink, were giggling about something.  He was sure of it.  It was all too much to handle.  He felt like he was too drunk to understand what was going on or to make rational decisions.  He felt like he was going to make a fool of himself.  He had drank too much.  Instead of taking 3 steps over to our girl and simply saying hello, he blew right by her with his drink and sat in the very back corner, as far away as he could possibly go.  So he sat in the back of the room and stared for the rest of the night, sinking deeper and deeper into sadness. 

    Our guy watched as his dreams of being with our girl became more and more unattainable.  Then, even before These Handsome Devils played "their" song, she got up, and left.  Our guy left shortly after.  What was the point?  He had blown it.  He wasn't going to be able to continue writing to her as if it was only a matter of time before they met.  Now there was an elephant in the room.  He had no excuse.

I think about you often

     When he swept, which is something he had always enjoyed doing, he thought of her.  At work, he spent a quarter of the day sweeping the salt off sidewalks in the winter, mulch in the spring, grass in the summer, and leaves in the fall.  Every time he'd get out the broom, he would think of her; so, a quarter of the day was time that he spent with her in his mind.  8 hour shifts means 2 hours a day.  So for 2 hours a day he was surely thinking of her.  That's not to say the rest of the day he wasn't.

    Our guy had read something years ago in a time travel science fiction novel about a man who traveled back to the 1890s.  When walking the streets of New York the man was overwhelmed by the significance of the fact that he was looking these people in the eye, and they were looking back at him.  The idea that he was making a difference or that he was even a part of his surroundings, was a phenomenon.  He gave value to every interaction.  He was communicating face to face with matriarchs and patriarchs of families that will eventually spread into hundreds.  That same thought can be applied to today.  He has the opportunity to stand before her, and affect.  He has the opportunity to cause her to reply.  He is not dead.  He is not living in the future.  He is not in prison.  With every move, he is changing the coarse of mankind.

    There was a month long gap of no communication. The internet relationship was getting tiresome.  He needed to meet her.

     She posted a video of Anna Karina dancing while dressed as a roller girl.  She couldn't have posted that without thinking of him, he thought.  He wrote, "I'm glad to see you're coming around to Anna Karina."  She wrote, "I like her moodiness."  He had heard a story about Anna Karina.  She had just moved to Paris from Copenhagen.  She barely knew how to speak French.  She walked into a cafe and this woman telling the story saw her.  The woman worked for a fashion magazine.  She described Anna entering a room as if there was gravity involved.  She said her eyes were so wide and intense that they consumed everything that was around her.  That's exactly how our guy felt about his encounters with her.  She radiated with intensity and it stopped him cold.  He liked that she mentioned her moodiness.  From what he knew of her, he imagine her being a moody person, with high ups and low downs.  He supposed he would have it no other way.  He pictured her to be much like Anna Karina.

    Our guy was talking about our girl to his housemate at our guy's favorite restaurant La Parada.  The housemate had met her many times, and would consider himself an acquaintance to her.  Our guy and his roommate ate there once a week and the only thing our guy ever talked about was our girl.  This day, a bartender who worked at the Brass Ring (on Virginia, a block from the fountain in Fountain Square) was sitting at the table over.  He was a friend of both our guy and his housemate.  Our guy asked him what he thought of her (knowing the Brass Ring was her favorite place to have a drink and that she went there at least once a week).  "Oh yeah, she's a babe."  He slowly and dramatically said with a smile, "after signing her receipt, she doesn't just put the pen down, she places the pen down with everything that's within her."  It made perfect sense to him.  Our guy asked, "Did you know her as a blonde?" Jesse said, "I like it black, like her heart."  Our guy was sure he was joking about that.

     So, why did our guy like our girl so much?  What did he find so appealing?  Was it just her image?  Was it her internet persona?  Many times he's had to explain himself.  He didn't like to because it got him flustered and upset.  Because it's not just one thing he likes about her.  It's a number of things.  It's little things and it's big things.  It's that she does what she fears the most.  She dives head first into the things most people say can't be done.  For instance: she likes art and fears talking to crowds of people - she becomes the PR for the Indianapolis Museum of Art, she likes art and entertainment and fears being in front of a camera - she becomes the spokesperson for Nuvo (Indianapolis weekly entertainment magazine and television channel), she attends one rollerderby bout and is terrified of what it would be like to be skating around and slamming against opponents - she joins the Naptown Rollergirls as if it was her duty now to do it, she likes social media marketing and writing about the city of Indianapolis and fears that quitting her job to do what they do on Mad Men is crazy - she becomes a freelance marketer and eventually has her pick from the cream of the crop marketing firms, her interest in urban farming grows and specifically bees (assuming being covered in a swarm of angry bees would be something to fear) - she becomes an urban bee keeper.  Our guy saw our girl as a remarkable human being that he respected and admired and would love so much to personally tell her these things.

Take Fake Make Break

     Maybe it was easier for him to admire her from afar; easier than having a real relationship.  He felt it was better to want but not have, than to have and not want.

    Our guy had the impression that our girl didn't date guys.  If she did it was only for a short time and it only happened in a moment of weakness.  Weighing his odds always intimidated him.  Not only was simply talking to her an issue, and her being shy and potentially stand-offish an issue, there could be an immediate rejection, or there is the seemingly inevitable rejection a month or two later.  She has many guy friends (who all love her and would kill to be with her) and they are privileged to spend time with her, but only as a friend.  It's a tragedy to watch from where our guy's perspective.  He sees the look on their faces and he knows what that must feel like to be near someone so extraordinary, but he knows there is no crossing over from a friendship, and one would ruin it by trying.

    Our girl was in a relationship for a long time rather recent before his arrival to Indianapolis.  The pictures still existed and she still seemed to be down on love with recurring pessimistic comments and reblogs.  Our guy understood, having been through a failed marriage a year prior.

     He wrote a song called White Rabbit/Gold Heart because he began to understand that she had two sides to her.  There's the sweet side, always doing things for people, loyal to her friends and loves her family, and has a nice Internet personality.  But the other side to her is a dark and troubled side.  She mentioned dealing with seasonal depression, and love loss, she went a year where it seemed she only wore black and had jet black hair, she couldn't have achieved all that she has achieved without be a little cut-throat, and she's a heart breaker.  With all this said, ultimately, our guy knew she had a heart of gold and our guy believed that if he could come to her under perfect pretenses, and everything was done right that they could both open up and trust one another, that her golden heart would be so big and so loving that it would surround them both. 

Trouble

     He enjoyed writing blogs, and knowing that she also wrote blogs and that she would maybe be reading something he wrote pushed him to keep writing them.  Then one day, it backfired.  After many missed chances, and much thought and discussion our guy decided to just ask her to meet him.  He asked her if she'd have breakfast with him.  She said she couldn't, but then wrote again and said she wouldn't.  She said that based on something he said in a blog, he came across as a "homophobe", and she did not want to be "associated with someone like that".  It shocked him.  It completely devastated him.  He went back and read through all his blogs that he wrote.  "Which one was it?" He wondered.  He slow sighed in agony.  Our girl was through with him.  Their playful messaging was over.  The obsession didn't go away, just the gratification. 

    He continued seeing her around town, each moment more intense than the next.  It gave him such a panic he would tremble.  She represented his limitations.  She represented his fear.  She represented his failures.  He started having anxiety attacks when thinking about the situation.  His left arm would go limp and tingly and his heart and his chest would hurt.  He couldn't stop it.  He couldn't calm himself down.  He'd be exhausted by the end of the day from countless anxiety attacks.

Clean Slate

    In the past year and a half he had seen her 18 times; at the White Rabbit, the Brass Ring, at Radio Radio, at the diner, in the window of an art gallery, at the antique mall, leaving work, on Prospect, behind him in her car on Fletcher, and every time was an opportunity to do something.

    Our guy often thinks about wanting to move on and date someone else, but then he'll have one of those nights where he gets on the Internet and ends up going through our girl's pictures and blogs.  He sometimes notices things he never noticed before.  He could get mesmerized by one photo and could sit at his desk and stare at it.  Just stare.  He could see a yearning in her eyes, like she was saying to him directly, "Come and meet me." "We belong together."  "For the sake of our future children..."  "For the sake of love!" 

    Our guy gets tattoos.  He gets tattoos after certain events that happen in his life.  It's not a rule he has, it is a trend that he has noticed, usually events that concern him.  Things that had happened to him or a bad choice he made.  They are a sort of punishment - masochistic way of dealing with grief.  So in a way they are a reminder of the hardships of the past, not FOR remembering, but they are a reminder.  The other dimension of his tattoos is that they represent an improvement or a least a change and new direction.  He could go into a huge long explanation about what he was going through with each tattoo but he should never do that because it's not about remembering the events, it's just a thing he does when dealing with them.  However, the black rose on his elbow is a tattoo, a self-inflicted scar that deals with the situation with our girl and every shortcoming that is associated with her.  His introverted shyness, his inability to go out and socialize with acquaintances, his inability to seize the day, his struggle just to leave the house; it represents the grief of the loss of everything in life he didn't get because he was afraid of taking the leap and trying.  He got it when he gave up and moved to Bloomington, an hour away from Fountain Square.

    Did he only want a woman who was out there, out of his reach, who was perfect in every way?  Did he want to leave her there so he never would know the faults in her personality, or her physical imperfections?  Or was he worried that she would find all of his?  Wouldn't that be much worse than never meeting her at all?  Doesn't it make sense, when given the choice, to seek heartache over heartbreak?

    So, one last time, our guy climbed down through those awful feelings of inadequacy, and rejection.  Those delusions of a grander woman than could actually exist.  How many opportunities of redemption did he squander throughout the two months he spent weeping the words into his pathetic essay of regret?  Covering all the grounds, sparing no details, hoping as a blind hail Mary to silence his mind and to whiten his heart; to liberate himself from the grasp of her infinite mystery.