A Bright, Ironic Hell: The Straight Read

Inspiration (5/21/08 Wednesday)*^

2009-04-26T13:50:00.000-07:00

I won't dwell on the passed time. I stopped writing because it seemed self-indulgent and personally unproductive. But as I've come to understand that I must accept a certain degree of all my shortcomings as my nature--i.e., not strive to be perfect--I must accept, too, the need to write once in a while, for whatever purpose or to whatever end.

I write now because I have no one to trust with what I need to tell someone: I have a crush--an infatuation, to be less teenish-- with someone at work. It's Julie, and it seems to have come on suddenly--that is, its growth was unnoticed until it blocked my view.

I suppose it's not so much that I can't trust someone else with this secret, but that it wouldn't be fair to burden anyone else with it. Stacey would be severely tested to keep it to herself, though, for me, she would; and Mike, though he would absolutely not tell anyone else, might himself have some feelings for Julie, and I'm not sure that upon hearing my confession, he would confide the same in turn but for respect for me would either step aside emotionally or quietly resent me.

I tried to tell Mike last Friday, when we met for a casual dinner, as we unoccasionally do, but I never got up the courage or found the opening that allowed the topic to come up on its own.

Stacey has been out of touch lately. Though we are close, her almost child-like self-absorption often precludes me sharing my own life details with her. I haven't come close to broaching this subject with her.

I have nothing to lose talking to Matt about Julie; he doesn't know her, doesn't work with us. Maybe that's why I haven't tried telling him. Or maybe it's the anticipation of sober advice that makes me hesitate. I feel full enough of my own sober advice. What I want is relief of this burden, yet I can't simply give it to someone else. I certainly can't tell Julie. I'd like to believe that if anything is there it will flower, but I'm not confident, and less so every day, as I find more "reasons" and "indications" pointing to her lack of interest in me, and more faults in myself that justify it.

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
"that is, its growth was unnoticed until it blocked my view."
that's exactly how I felt, too...

^No, I won't dwell on passed time; though it's been more than a month since I ended the blog, it seems much longer, as I again have no one to talk to about it, not even this imagined audience. I had it right all along, though, didn't I, about the "reasons" and "indications"? I truly had no reason to believe that there was a spark of attraction from Julie. I wonder if I could have followed anyone's "sober advice", anyway, at that point. I was already too good at ignoring my own. I wanted to be in love.

Let Me Not (5/22/08 Thursday)*^

2009-04-26T13:49:00.000-07:00

The burden isn't lifted, but it may be lighter; but that could be as much from talking to Julie yesterday as from writing. Of course I didn't broach the primary subject on my mind (you kidding?) but just getting her talking to me about herself gets me closer to her. Don't expect me to rhapsodize over her or "count the ways"--I've grown too much to imbue such talk with objective quality: We all feel the same things in this situation and attribute solid qualities to cloudy ideals. No, she's not the most perfect, beautiful woman whoever floated across a meadow; there's just something that attracts me to her, and I refuse (now) to enumerate, much less analyze those traits.

I ride with Stacey today. I may try to tell her, but not till the way back this evening. I won't see her again from then till Wednesday, and, even better, she won't be back to work till then. It may kill her, but it'll be good for her.

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
"there's just something that attracts me to her, and I refuse (now) to enumerate, much less analyze those traits."

I feel the same way, generally, about my love & love in general. Who wants to analyze in an "objective fashion" why we fall in love with a particular person?

^I never have rhapsodized over Julie. Idealized her to some extent; but to have made her out be perfect would have removed the fascination I had for her. And I thought that my not "counting the ways" (though it was never a conscious decision) was a sign of my maturity and an accurate assessment of my chances with Julie. Was I wrong on both counts, or just the one?

Heavy As Ever (5/28/08 Wednesday)^

2009-04-26T13:48:00.000-07:00

I didn't tell Stacey about the crush Thursday, but I told her. I fed her cat while she was away and left her a five-page "note" entitled "What I Did on Your Spring Vacation," in which I chronicled my visits to her apartment, concluding in ironic off-handedness with "just one last thing": I told her I had a "crush on someone at work" and reiterated the self-debate on whether I should tell her about it, finally concluding that I wouldn't tell her. (Cute, huh?)

But I don't feel very much unburdened for having done it. Stacey was to have gotten home yesterday. I more than half-expected her to call me last night. It's hard to believe she wouldn't have, if she got home okay. I hope she doesn't think we can talk about it at work.

^If only I'd been as obsessive a chronicler as I was to become later, I would have a transcript of that "note". But perhaps it would have revealed me to be not quite as cute as I suspected.

How Many Fools Am I? (5/29/08 Thursday)^

2009-04-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

Stacey wasn't at work yesterday--at least I didn't see her, but she would have sought me out to thank me for feeding the cat if she'd been there. When I got home I walked across the street to make sure her car was there. It was. I was surprised she hadn't even called me. Apparently, I wanted her to. I've speculated (no doubt wildly) that the cat swept the note off the counter and under the fridge. Or maybe Stacey's just absorbed in herself. Now, if she doesn't ask in the car today on the way in. ... I'm determined, even if she does ask, not to tell her who my crush is on. I'd rather she speculate and never be sure than to know and have it color her relationship with Julie, with me, and with Julie and me.

There is much evidence of my wisdom in my restraint in this matter (including calling it "this matter"). I'm reluctant to allow any emotion to reach rarified heights, choosing instead to step back from them and amuse myself with their irrationality. A tendency of mine in past infatuations is to feign indifference to the object's presence and my feelings toward her. It's happening this time around as well, but not without a grinning remonstrance to myself. I'm two people anymore, the Fool and the Wise Man--or maybe I always have been--the latter amused by the former. The Wise Man has finally outgrown the Fool, can finally step aside and let him pass, the better to observe his missteps. Though, of course, the Wise Man is no mere observer, but does the Fool know he is being watched, much less manipulated? The Fool might be grateful if he weren't a fool; and the Wise Man would not be so well amused. I'm grateful for the Wise Man's growth, and nearly as grateful for the Fool's lack of it. But I don't enjoy the pangs of foolish reaction before the wisdom rationally calms it, and I would like to shorten the distance between the two, sever the tangle that momentarily confuses the Fool with the Wise Man. Perhaps that is actually putting distance between them. But as they spring from a common source, that may be asking for schizophrenia, the denial of the Fool as a responsibility of the Wise Man's.

^There is no entanglement of the Fool and the Wise Man; neither is there separation. The Fool has always been laughing; the Wise Man has gotten in a chuckle here and there. The Fool laughs with joy, without malice, at what he doesn't know or care; the Wise Man chuckles at the feckless fool, pretending not to envy his insouciance. This post was almost purely the Wise Man's puffery. He didn't have a clue.

What About Me Me Me? (5/30/08 Friday)^

2009-04-26T13:46:00.001-07:00

Telling Stacey about the crush was sound in all respects, and I feel no burden lifted whatsoever. I underestimated both Stacey's discretion and self-absorption. She is keeping too good a distance. It's probably not too hard for her to do; she has her own concerns, after all. I'll give her those, of course, but it would be nice to get some attention, to talk about me. I at least want a sounding board. That's not been Stacey. We just spent the evening together--three hours--and not one mention of my overarching concern. Perhaps I need a little assertive self-absorption of my own. That doesn't help me with tomorrow, when I work with Julie again and probably even share a desk hour. I'm afraid the Fool is going to get wise and rationalize his way around the Wise Man. The Fool always wins--and ruins it for everyone.

^Oh, if I knew now what I knew then. But then, the Fool always had the upper hand, if only because he didn't know it.

Jullian (6/6/08 Friday)*^

2009-04-26T13:45:00.000-07:00

My quandary has manifested in a couple of different ways recently. It started out as feigned indifference and ended up as a playful attention. I much prefer the latter.Frustration and grudging resignation brought on the first attitude, with depression and surlyness. It felt cruel. One day I barely acknowledged Julie her presence, and my shoulders were in a knot. I didn't treat anyone much better. (Sometimes the Fool and the Wise Man are one and the same.) But I recognized that attitude as the same one I utilized as a teenager to such spectacular non-effect--that aloof apathy that was supposed to set me apart as a cool loner and attract that discerning girl who could see through all those phonies the other girls hung all over. But I suppose at that age the phony that cared was preferred to the phony that didn't. Anyway, this time around I decided to care. I solicited advice from Julie on things about which she knew and cared: I asked her about the Hamish MacBeth TV series, because I knew she liked Robert Carlyle ("I'd marry him if I could") and because we're both Scotiaphiles. Of course, when I draw her out I get to know her better. She's never asked any like questions of me, but the Wise Man has chosen not to care, not to take it as a sign or indication of her level of affection for me. Rather, I understand--or choose to understand--that that is her nature. She's shyish and seems to keep much of herself to herself. I can't take that personally.

At lunch in the breakroom Bethany remarked how a year ago many of us working here didn't know or hardly knew one another. "Like, I didn't know for the longest time that Dion had a thing for J--" My heart took off, but my mind overtook it: How did she know? Why does she have to blurt it out with Julie right here in the room? Did Stacey tell her? Why? Why?--"Gillian Anderson." The biggest part of me wanted her to have said "Julie."

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
I think many of us unrequited lovers secretly hope that something or someone will force our hand, force us to reveal our love so we (and the loved one) have to deal with it more directly (but without being responsible for actually declaring ourselves).

^The Wise Man's denial of his own impotence gets more pathetic with each new declaration: He may have "chosen not to care", but does he think he controls the Fool, or can even, himself, walk the walk? Every action or word Julie has tossed my way has been taken as a sign of affection--and is still.

Agley (6/15/08 Sunday)^

2009-04-26T13:44:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Julie-intensive. Three times we spent hours virtually alone together--on the desk and trading off back-up and window. I feel we get closer every hour together, as long as my tongue doesn't get tied or I try too hard, and those moments were mercifully rare today. I managed to cancel out the two evils--the extremes of attention by--somehow--concentrating on my work.

(Though I don't want to get ahead of things, I've already imagined the scene--after professing our mutual affections--in which I explain the Promethian [Herculean?] effort of restraint. Julie's reaction in this scenario is one of sweet amusement.)

For several days I'd been holding back a quip to use Saturday. With Julie in earshot I'd let someone know I'd taken off this coming Monday and Tuesday, expecting a response in the line of "Any particular reason?" Well, the opportunity for it to go down that way didn't arise, but just before lights out I wrote on the white board by my name, "Back Wed." The last three people to file past it toward the back door were Julie, Bethany, me. Julie didn't see it, but Bethany didn't let me down. "Do you have any plans?" But Julie had just turned the corner when I answered, "No, I just need to get away from Julie." Julie heard her name, though, and was further piqued when Bethany, incredulous, laughed. Julie, apparently sensing being made the butt of a joke, said, "I beg your pardon?" I knelt to pack my saddlebag. Not looking up, I said, "Bethany asked why I was taking Monday and Tuesday off"--at which point I expected Bethany to come through again and fill in the rest. She didn't, I didn't, and Julie didn't ask again. It seemed as if she didn't want to know. Then we were all out the door, and as my bike was parked in the direction opposite the cars, we quickly parted, with me muttering, "Well, that worked!" Still, I hold out hope that Julie asked Bethany what I'd said. At the very least a seed has been planted, maybe, if not with Julie, Bethany.

I planted it firmly with Stacey Thursday night after work. Tired of her respectful distance, I finally said, "You know that secret I told you? Well, you don't have to keep it from me," and I told her the object of my crush. She was delighted and said she'd been hoping this would happen ever since Julie showed up. Now I suppose it's up to Julie to oblige her.

^Just the first of my cute attempts at drawing Julie in to my affections. And no ironic backfire, though every sign of frustrations to come--the snarl of self-doubt is yet only a strained laugh at myself. There was still an element of fun to the challenge. Look at the challenge now, nearly a year later: Trying to get through a day of work without seeing her. I've really grown--the man has finally become a boy.

Show Me Yours (6/17/08 Tuesday)^

2009-04-26T13:43:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I watched the entire first season of Hamish Macbeth. Today I bought a CD/DVD of Trashcan Sinatras, Julie's favorite Scottish band. My efforts to worm my way into her affections is another track than the one I was on. Whereas once my reading took me to Scotland, now it takes me there with Julie, and being there seems secondary to the company.

Tomorrow I go back to work, and of course I'm eager to see her, but I feel unready to, as if in the meantime all the clues have fallen into place for her, and whatever eagerness she has to see me is only to ostentatiously expose the Fool. I have a feeling it will be an avoidance day. I'm becoming impatient and want to drop more clues in order to expedite the process; only now I'm thinking I want Julie to be the last one to know, though I will try to at least feign ignorance myself. Now that Stacey knows I wonder how much it's killing her, or if some silly machinations are whirring in her brain. And I want Stacey to care that way. I want her to want to do something about it. I want her to search in my and Julie's faces for the spark when we're in the same room. I want to see her trying hard not to start something. I want her to show that she knows, and not just show me. But she has to believe she's still keeping my secret.

^I can't listen to the Trashcan Sinatras anymore. They are Julie's, not mine. She introduced them to me nearly a year before I began writing this journal; told me about them the first day I met her. But they could never be mine any more than she could.

Yes (6/18/08 Wednesday)^

2009-04-26T13:42:00.000-07:00

I started a book last night: The Crofter and the Laird. When I opened it a bookmark fell out. It was from Borders Book Shop in Ann Arbor. Julie once worked for Borders in Ann Arbor. Is this getting stupid?

^I suppose it was always stupid. Didn't I want it to be?

Shifts (6/19/08 Thursday)^

2009-04-26T13:41:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was something of an avoidance day. I had one, slight, unavoidable encounter with Julie, and afterwards had a knot between my shoulder blades. Today wasn't much better, though I really did want to spend some time with her. I was disappointed to see on the day's schedule that we wouldn't be forced near each other. And, she had the early shift, whereas I had the late one, so we only had four-and-a-half hours of concurrent time in the building. The topper, though, was finding out that she'd switched tomorrow with Mary Lou. I'm not real eager to go in--or to dress very nicely, in my jeans and my tightish t-shirt. I always feel good in those togs and probably swagger a bit. Tomorrow I'll likely be a mopey slouch.

So, apparently, Bethany did not relay the message I so cutely tried to send Saturday. I'm already scheming to drop other hints to other people.

^Funny, I still have that knot. I've named it Donald. The swagger was named Jimmy, but it died in December. The slouch is named Dion.

Or Maybe Just a Toaster in the Bathtub (6/21/08 Saturday)*^

2009-04-26T13:40:00.001-07:00

Friday at work was torture without Julie--almost as bad as if she'd been there. I took on the aloof-tortured-teenager pose for most of the day, breaking free now and then briefly to laugh at myself. I imagined someone having a crush on me and me not noticing it, then wondered why I might not notice. I concluded that it was one or both of two things: either I wouldn't expect anyone to have a crush on me, or I'd feel no attraction toward that person. So, is Julie clueless, or is there just no attraction to me? If there were any attraction, then knowing how I feel about her would make a positive difference. But how do I know without telling her? I have a choice of suicides: The long, slow one I'm putting myself through keeping this secret, or Russian Roulette, where I pull the trigger and pray a flower comes out of the barrel instead of a bullet.

I told Bethany outright yesterday that I had a "big crush" on someone, but I left it at that, and she didn't bite. I'm convinced that I just have to let on to more people (that I trust) if this ball is to get rolling. I would love for Julie to find out without me knowing she's found out; though for that to happen I'd have to leak it to someone I didn't trust not to pass it into the "wrong" ears; but the person I would normally confide in is someone with whom I have a rapport; i.e., someone I trust. Hmm. This is becoming something of a life's work, isn't?

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
I'm wondering why your friends aren't following up on who your crush is? Seems that would be juicy gossip between friends. Sorry they are not more attuned to you...

^As usual, I was dead-on with why Julie wouldn't notice I had a crush on her: She didn't feel it for me. And, as usual, I chose to ignore the intuition that didn't tell me what I wanted to hear. At this point, was the "leak" I thought I was orchestrating moot?

Just Go South About Halfway Through the Earth (6/23/08 Monday)^

2009-04-26T13:40:00.000-07:00

I really can't take much more of this. Somehow, I've come to feel I'm hurting Julie. I'm bound to be sending mixed signals. I think more and more, "How could she want a guy like me? How could she respect me?" For a moment today I was amused with myself as if I were watching a sophisticated comedy-romance. The feeling quickly passed. I didn't say a word to Julie today. What am I doing? Not doing? How do I get out of this? I still can't get any relief. Stacey's still the only person I can talk to about it, and I just don't feel she's got that much to offer in the way of empathy--practical empathy, anyway. And who else can do that for me? I just can't carry this burden. Even if I could just find out if she felt anything for me, I'd have a sense of direction; I could move, instead of vibrating between extremes, powerless to move a step one way or the other. If I found out she hadn't feelings for me without her ever knowing how I felt about her, I could turn away my attention, as I'm not interested in humiliation, which I've outgrown. And, too, I don't want to get anywhere through flattery, or be pitied, so she can't know how I feel about her until I know she feels the same. I couldn't otherwise work with her any longer. But who will pass my anonymous notes? It's Hell I'm in, a bright, ironic Hell.

^Or sending no signals at all. How egotistical of me to think that I was hurting her. It was preferable to her feeling nothing, I suppose. And I would find out soon enough how well humiliation had grown with me.

Jerk, I'd Like You to Meet Jerk (6/24/08 Tuesday)^

2009-04-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

Another day without a word to Julie, another day of studious avoidance of contact with her, another day of yearning for her presence. She seemed almost somber. I won't (yet) flatter myself that it's my fault. I wanted to ask her how she was doing, but I didn't feel we were there yet, where one is allowed to show a sincere compassion toward the other, and Julie doesn't seem to be one who easily gets close to someone or allows others close to her. Regardless of the impact I'm having on her feelings, I'm being a jerk. And I know a jerk when I see one. It takes one to know one. I reached that moment of self-amusement today, but it was yet more evanescent than yesterday, and was followed immediately by a plunge into an icy dark premonition of endless repetition, doomed to push this rock up the hill every damned day.

Stacey was somewhat more receptive today, as I was little bit more assertive, if awkward in expression. I feel some slight relief--when I'm not feeling guilty for being a jerk. I caught Julie's gaze a few times; I can't easily describe what I saw in her deeply blue eyes. Was there expectation, hope, hurt confusion? It haunts me. All I've given her this week is a couple of stiff grins, which doubtless reflected my own stupid social inadequacies and total muddle of emotions. What am I doing?

^A moment of clarity, and a day of utter torment still burning my soul. The stiff grin is still all I can manage most of the time.

There's Still the Toaster Option (6/25/08 Wednesday)^

2009-04-26T13:37:00.001-07:00

When I ponder the possible strategies I wonder why my brain has been invited to this party--this is an affair of the heart, after all. The brain--the Wise Man--invited himself. Of course, the Fool doesn't want him here, and look at the mess he's made of my mind (and stomach). Without the Wise Man I'd have already pulled the trigger of the gun to my head. But I don't accept the tortuous suicide, either. Is there no voice that can speak from between these extremes? It's not my voice if it exists.

Chris and Stacey and I and a few others are going out after work tomorrow night to celebrate Chris' birthday. If the company's right I might discreetly spill the beans. I'll have a beer or two (Stacey's driving), so maybe I won't be so discreet. I'm sure Julie won't be there.

I feel less confident every day that I have half a chance of gaining Julie's affection. How could she feel anything for me and not betray it; or not notice the betrayal of my feelings for her? I've got to solve this. Which is it, Julie?

^My lack of confidence always seems to see it as it is. Some pessimists consider themselves realists. Is it just an unclouded intuition?

But in a Nice Way (6/26/08 Thursday)^

2009-04-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

The way I act around Julie begs me to consider how I might appear to her. My behavior is of someone self-conscious, self-absorbed, and quietly crying for attention. Needy. My hope to be noticed by her is an arrogance, an insecure puffing-up. There is nothing to gain from this besides a label of "odd." Who wants odd? And yet how do I give her attention? How do I care beyond getting what I want? How can I leave my self behind in order to understand Julie?

I haven't worked with her all week. If she hasn't switched again, I'll maybe get a chance Saturday. I miss our time on the desk together. I'd like to let her know that, or at least that I enjoy our time together. The big trick for me would be to do it without coming across as creepy.

^"Appear to her"? I didn't. At all. Better than needy, arrogant, self-absorbed, etc., I suppose. My discretion was nothing but stress.

Why Isn't Nirvana on My GPS? (6/27/08 Friday)^

2009-04-26T13:36:00.000-07:00

So, how do I become me? As if I hadn't been asking that question since I was a kid. How do I push that terrified kid behind me and take charge of my life? The best plan I can come up with is to pretend until it becomes natural--that is, give up one pretense for another: pretend not to be the terrified kid but the confident man. What the hell is a confident man? I can't even make eye contact, for god's sake. As close as I've ever been to confident is arrogant, a pretence of confidence. Of course I know change is not as simple as a few tricks and appearances; it's organic. What am I gonna do, start psychotherapy? But I have a feeling that the repair I need is more about letting go than deconstruction and taking possession. Not about forgetting but moving on. And I don't have to know where I am to just go, but I do if I know where I want to go. Where's that? It's that place where I just do the right thing, for no audience, no applause, no credit; with no care for appearances or impressions; where I don't pass judgment, where I feel good for someone instead of envious and cynical; where my eyes and my mind are wide open. Should I know where that place is? How important is it to know that before I embark?

I did not spill the beans last night, though I scrutinized every conversation within earshot for an opening. Even two beers--one of them a 10% stout--was only enough to loosen me up. Indiscretion, apparently, comes into play somewhere around blotto. Maybe I'll try that.

^Why can't I just strangle that kid? Am I that weak? That place to which I'm trying to get is probably more accurately called Oblivion. I know how to get there, I just don't want to go yet.

Do You Think It Matters How I Rub It? (6/28/08 Saturday)^

2009-04-26T13:34:00.000-07:00

With time together neither at the desk nor in the workroom, Julie and I were rarely in the same place together all day. Not even the same lunch hour. But I didn't avoid her or studiously or (in any other way) ignore her. I gave her a bright "Good morning!" when she came in. At the turning of an hour late in the day, Julie, as we all do, checked the schedule for the next hour's duty. Upon finding she was to be on the window and, turning to it and seeing no one there, she asked, "Who am I replacing?" and consulted the schedule again. I was sorting a cart. "Dion," she said. I'd already looked up upon hearing her voice, and when she scanned the workroom our eyes met. I don't know which of us smiled first, but mine was an unabashed beam, I'm sure, and hers nearly did me in. I'm trying hard not to wishfully see what's not there, but it's become harder since then.

^It's embarrassing to have read so much hope into a smile. It's embarrassing to have been so hopeful in the first place. The joke was always on me.

You Don't Need to Pin It on Me--I"ll Just Put It in My Pocket (6/30/08 Monday)^

2009-04-26T13:33:00.000-07:00

An excellent Julie-day today. I managed to be solicitous but with good reason, open and spontaneous, and genuinely caring. We had only an hour together at the desk, and it wasn't our most intense engagement, but it came after she'd already spent nearly the entire previous hour out there as backup. She was a bit frayed at the ends, but in good humor when she came back out for an encore. Of course, I was eager to converse, but I was also determined not to force it. That was not difficult to accomplish, as it was another busy hour, though I somehow managed to avoid a card registration, while Julie had at least four. I felt badly for her, and when I was relieved by Jennifer to go to the window, I looked sadly back at Julie. I even started a step back toward her, about to offer to relieve her till her replacement came out, but I knew Mike was waiting at the window for my relief of him. But I couldn't go straight to the window; Tammy's next interview had arrived that hour, and I'd sat him down to wait. At four, the end of the hour and my time on the desk, I needed to seek out Tammy and let her know he was here. So, when I got to the workroom I told Mike the situation, hoping he'd head out to the desk straightaway, but, apparently, I had understressed the need for Julie to be relieved, and Mike seemed determined to stay put till I'd returned from my search for Tammy. Then, in a strong voice I didn't recognize as my own I said, "Mike, could you go out there and relieve Julie? She really needs to get off the desk. She's been out there nearly two solid hours and could really use some relief. James could you cover the window while I track down Tammy?" The results were immediate, positive, and wordless: James and Mike switched out, and I went for Tammy, who I found still in her previous interview; this I informed Mr. Thompson, her four o'clock. Just as I reached the workroom, Julie all but staggered in from the desk like a returning soldier. I could've sworn I heard cheers. I said to her, "I had to pull some strings to get you off the desk," and Greta said, "Yeah, he was yelling and waving his arms. ..." Julie looked at me. "I guess it's you I have to thank." Embarrassed at seeming to want to take credit, my mind stumbled in reply. "Well it wasn't really what I was after, but I'll accept it." All Julie needed to say at that point was, "What were you after?" to make me blurt out, "Your undying love!" or something equally as compromising to my cover. Ah, but she didn't.

The entire episode nearly, selfishly, overwhelmed me with a pride ironic to the compassion spontaneously unleashed on Julie's behalf. I think I've said all I can without cheapening the moment by basking in my heroism.

^And she still didn't have a clue? I'm still shaking my head over that. She couldn't at least notice the quantum leap in lumens from all the lightbulbs flicking on over her coworkers' heads? Wow. I hardly needed to be discreet, did I?

You Mean Like Kudzu or Athlete's Foot? (7/01/08 Tuesday)^

2009-04-26T13:31:00.001-07:00

I saw little of Julie today--she works late, I early on Tuesdays--but for a significant moment. At four o'clock I took a few minutes to scarf down a cheesestick in the breakroom before shelving. Much of the late crew was breaking for "dinner". Sitting nearest the room's entrance, I saw Julie approach. I smiled, she smiled. She stopped at the arm of my chair. I could have touched her dangling hand with a lift of my pinky. I looked up at her, she down at me. "I'm starving," she said, "and I didn't bring food." Her voice was low, addressing me solely. "Are you going to beg for some?" "I was considering it. But, you know, there are some frozen dinners in the freezer that have been there since even before I cleaned out the refrigerator. I think I'll go for one of those," "Oh, definitely go for it."

That was the extent of our exchange. I'm aware that it doesn't appear significant; and I've vowed not to unduly inflate an innocuous moment with inferential importance, but we're closer--that much is true. How about if I just refuse to say how much closer I think we are? At first I thought, "She's coming around," but that became distasteful immediately, as it I were chasing a trophy, that the hunt were the thing and not the quarry. And if the quarry doesn't know it's being hunted, then it's being deceived. Of course I don't want to trap Julie. I want to grow on her as she has on me. I want the distance between us to close in; I don't want to have to cover the entire distance myself. It's been both endearing and maddening to think that she hasn't a clue as to my affection for her. The questions I grill her with on the desk should make it feel like a date if only she displayed a like interest in me. I wish someone else could tell I had a crush on Julie. That would be delicious. With all those women there with their famed "intuition", their obliviousness of the situation has to be downright collusive.

^Were the women there still oblivious at this point? Or is my discretion already ironic? WHat could possibly have been "endearing" about Julie's cluelessness; as I alluded from the git-go, she just didn't care. Was I, indeed, deceitful, or was it just impossible to give big enough hints to clue her in? "I don't want to have to cover the entire distance myself"--another early unheeded red flag.

King and Queen (7/3/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

Early this week I noticed half a dozen Ellis Peters’ on the sorting cart. Julie was manning the window, and, knowing her for a lover of British mysteries, and suspecting her of being a fan of Ellis Peters, I said to her, “Someone’s on an Ellis Peters jag.” “Oh,” she replied, “Brother Cadfael is one of my all-time favorite series’.” Inwardly, I smiled at my perception.

Last night–-we work the same shift Wednesdays-–I asked her where one should start reading Brother Cadfael, and what kind of background knowledge one might need beforehand. She told me of Cadfael’s background and of Maud and Stephen’s battles for the crown. I was rapt. Today I’ve ordered A Morbid Taste for Bones from the Fairfield branch. Eventually I’ll take Julie up on last night’s offer to lend me her DVD’s of the book adaptations, though she said Tuckahoe carries them. She seemed eager to lend them, so I think it’s important that I take her up on it.

In Bobby's Shoes (7/4/08 Friday)^

2009-04-26T13:30:00.000-07:00

Julie’s birthday is September 9. I won’t forget. I will break from my policy of not-signing co-workers’ birthday cards, but only pseudonymously. I’m working on a good one to sign “Bobby” for Robert Carlyle. It will have to be obviously (but accurately) Scottish and peculiarly Hamish MacBeth. Problem: He doesn’t have a catch-phrase. How about “When will my Bonnie come over the ocean? Bring back my Bonnie to me”? I think it will work after I put a kilt on it and add a “C.” to Bobby. At first I was thinking about “Just have a really good, really, really good, really good time,” and sign it “Bryan.” But if she’s not a Roxy Music fan it could fall on blind eyes. Now I’m determined to put them both on there-–not to confuse her (she’ll be able to match the handwriting), but to be playful. I’ve almost decided to give her something, too, but I can’t figure out how to give her something even half-special without her doing the math. I’d like to give her a tiny bottle of scotch, but besides the inappropriateness of alcohol in the workplace, it would point only to me. I’ll keep the brain wheels rolling on that one. September! Can I make it that far?

^The more hope I read the more my pride seethes. Between this post and the previous, the mocking couldn't be louder--though I don't remember what the next post has in store. To think of the life I'd already wasted up to this point on misplaced affection--and the worst yet to come....

Anyone But Woody Allen, That Is (7/6/08 Sunday)^

2009-04-26T13:29:00.001-07:00

When I said at the beginning, "I must accept a certain degree of all my shortcomings,” the one at the front of my mind at the time was vanity, in the sense of what others thought of me. Now, I find that it’s very important what at least one person thinks of me. Last week I got my hair cut, well before it was out of control. I’m washing and conditioning it with ever-more expensive salon product, and tarting it up a notch with peppermint hair oil. And now I’ve bought a body powder to augment the toner and moisturizer (and exfoliant) that I use religiously on my face. I all but strut in my new jeans, feeling very comfortable and sexy. But does anyone notice (much less Julie)? I even take my shirt off when I’m outside in the garden so that I might even out the cycling tan. I remind myself to laugh at the guy in the mirror.

It occurs to me I should be preparing myself for rejection. I can hold out till September 9, but I can’t promise I won’t give away the trick at that point. (The bit is like taffy in my mouth already.) I don’t know how; I just expect it. It’s what I want, isn’t it?–one way or another. This long suicide is really only about fear of rejection, despite all the other faces I put on it. I want a sure thing, and I already know there’s no such thing. To prepare myself for rejection, though, is to expect it to a not small degree. That’s me, expecting failure. It’s a question of maturity. Am I ready for a relationship? Never mind failure; I’m not sure I should succeed. Is there freedom in a relationship? Yes, but will I allow myself to have it? Can I allow myself to be myself? Can I not worry about how good a boyfriend I’m being? Can I not be so vain about it? Big questions for a neurotic. Help anyone?

And–-I’m not really sure about this–-it’s probably not myself as much as Julie whose feelings I dread hurting. I don’t want anyone else involved in my pain. Perhaps that’s why I’ve prolonged this whole thing-–aside from all the practicalizing I’ve done to avoid committing to my feelings–-or, rather, acting upon them. Well, yes, it would be awkward to admit to Julie, someone I have to work with every day, that I feel fondly toward her. But do I want to go to another job so I can tell her from a safe, “professional” distance? I want to be with her. Why wouldn’t I want to work with her? All these questions, I know, serve only to convince myself I’m a fool bound for failure. I am not a fool. Am I? If being up at midnight on a Sunday–-now Monday-–making grist for the nightmare mill qualifies me, then go ahead and brand me. I guess the distance from Julie of a three-day weekend. ... I don’t know how to finish that; I should be in bed.

^Sober words that I chose to treat as mere pessimism. Sometimes the reforming pessimist can't tell the difference between pessimism and stark reality, but sees everything not positive as mere attitude, as with all the "signs" and "indications" that Julie felt nothing toward me. I couldn't even admit that it would be my feelings that would be hurt, despite not being able to convince myself that I might actually hurt Julie's feelings by telling her how I felt about her. The idea made no sense, and I chose not to try to make sense of it but to believe the delusion.

I'll keep my vanity, thank you; and though I do still consider how Julie will see me, I dress for myself, wear my hair as I want it, and shave when I see fit (down to twice a week now). I hate even caring what she thinks of my appearance; it's not worth the effort, but it's still nearly impossible to not want to impress her.

I never had so much confidence that I could have been shocked by the rejection. I never had any confidence at all--just hope.

Obelievious (7/7/08 Monday)^

2009-04-26T13:29:00.000-07:00

So, when does a girl notice a boy's got a crush on her? I showed Julie A Morbid Taste for Bones. I just finished the Hamish MacBeth series, and will tell her that, too; and, god, don't I moon enough at her yet to make her squirm? She's got to figure it out; she's not oblivious. Is she disbelieving? Does she not want to believe it?

^If she doesn't want to know, she will never know before she's told. Etch it in stone.

There's a Difference? (7/8/08 Tuesday)^

2009-04-26T13:28:00.000-07:00

I'm enjoying the book. It's good to know there can be literature within a genre that makes no pretense of transcendence from the genre. I will make no attempt to talk to Julie about this book. As a test of her interest, I will wait on her initiative, though I'm still waiting on that relative to The Waterhorse movie and the Hamish MacBeth series'. Why should this be any different?

The birthday ideas are still swimming through my head, none of them landing in the net. I'm toying with a simple flower or two. Will she even work that day, though? I thought of taking that whole week off, depending on how audacious the Fool lets me be about a birthday gift--the more audacious, the longer I should take off. And by audacious I mean the relative likelihood of my giving away the game.

I've given up listening to baseball on the internet, and I almost never watch TV. Even my reading has taken a turn from the Scottish track I've been following for more than three years. Have I now dedicated myself to the pursuit of Julie? or have I simply become obsessed?

^"Obsessed"--now there's a dirty word--though it didn't become so until Chris accused me of it. I'd taken the word pretty lightly till then. Then I replaced it with "love." Now I'm not sure which is the euphemism for which.

Thank God There Were No Seagulls Screaming (7/10/08 Thursday)^

2009-04-26T13:27:00.000-07:00

At lunch yesterday in the breakroom Julie said, "How do you like it so far?" I had the book open in front of me. Julie was at the next table. I didn't at first realize she was addressing me. Though I'd rehearsed my reply to the expected query, I was caught off guard by the impersonal address. I told her I like it very much but hadn't yet settled into the book's rythms. I asked her if she had trouble pronouncing the Welsh, because "I like to be able to pronounce what I'm reading." She replied that she "picked it up" in her reading.

I've figured out what I want, how I want this to go down: I want Julie to get a crush on me. I want her to do as I did and suddenly realize how much she really likes me; that I'm attractive and nice and have a lot in common with her. Maybe, in the midst of this revelation, she'll realize how solicitous of her I've been and be flattered by it and, perhaps realize also that I've had a crush on her all this time.

But what if she did develop a crush on me? How would I know, or even suspect? What if she does right now and is performing her own agonizing dance of cloaking subterfuge? You know what? In my life, that's how things happen.

I had a Julie moment today that had me as close as ever to confirming her crush. On the desk, two minutes before the hour and the changing of guard, I'm helping a patron. Aware of the time, I glance over my shoulder when the workroom door opens, and I recognize Julie's figure in the periphery. I know she's out here next. But instead of hearing a polite offer to take over, I see a DVD slowly slide onto the counter beside me and the hand retreat. I don't interrupt my work with the patron, but the work doesn't require all my attention. I peek at the DVD. The Mighty, which, of course, has in it Gillian Anderson. I chuckle to myself and finish with the patron, then start to the back, DVD in hand. Through the window in the door I see Julie approaching and time my entrance to meet her in the doorway. There I stop her with the upraised DVD and a question. In the doorway we are forced to within inches of each other. I ask, "Did you do this for me?" She turns her face up to mine and replies, "Yes, I did. I knew it had Gillian Anderson in it and thought you might not have seen it." "I haven't. Thank you." She passed through. In that moment that I asked that question I held my gaze on her left eye, dark blue with a tiny black dot on it, and was glad the Fool had the Wise Man's wits about him--that is, around his arms and legs and stuffed in his mouth--because I just might have kissed her. I settled for not being able to eat but about half my lunch. Yesterday, too, I was unable to finish my lunch. That had been right after Julie had asked me about the book.

Stacey told me after work that when Julie was hired just over a year ago Gay-Lynn was bubbling over with the hope that Julie and I would pair up. She also said that Chris today, with no prompting, said, "Maybe we should try to get Dion and Julie together."

I don't know when Julie became attractive to me, but if I were ever to actually pinpoint the date I might be shocked. Every day I recall a new instance from a more distant past that indicates a growing affection toward her. I remember the moment now when I first saw her: I was at the front desk when Julie came in and told me she was here for her interview with Tammy. Perhaps I was sizing her up relative to the job and not her general attractiveness when I found her lacking. Perhaps she saw that as I handed her the clipboard with the interview questions attached and urged her to have a seat, because I've never forgotten the look in return. I've also never been able to interpret it--intense, cautious, dubious, incredulous, maybe none of that--but it certainly wasn't love at first sight for either of us. Or was it? Nah.

^"Nah" with a screaming, capital N-O. First The Rescue, then this--no wonder I was insane with hope. How could I ever be blamed for thinking there was a spark? Rereading this brings me THIS close to believing she really did have feelings for me. Please don't let me go there again!--and this ain't Br'er Rabbit talking.

Vanity, First Name Dion (7/11/08 Friday)^

2009-04-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

Ironed a t-shirt for work tomorrow. I'll be sure to coordinate my underwear with it in the morning. Oh, and I soaked my feet and sanded my calluses to make them worthy of display from my new sandals.

^Forget the toes and t-shirts--it's all about the hair now.

The Ears Have It (7/12/08 Saturday)^

2009-04-26T13:25:00.001-07:00

Ah! Let me just get that out of the way.

I'm finding myself more comfortable with Julie every day, and I think she feels the same with me. Nearly every time she hoves into speaking range I find something to say to her, about the littlest things--the pick list, this book or that patron--and no longer in such a premeditated, rehearsed way, but in a more natural, spontaneous way than I do with most anyone else.

Today's mission started as the search for her earlobes: I couldn't recall if I'd ever seen earrings on her and was determined to notice today. Julie adorns herself sparely--a silver ring she doesn't always wear--and her makeup seems to consist only of black pencil around the eye and mascara. Her ears, it turned out (or at least the one I saw) were accoutred accordingly with the thinnest and smallest of metal hoops--whether gold or silver I couldn't determine in the shadow her hair.

That mission accomplished, the importance of the day turned to simply making the most of the time I'd get with Julie. That started off strangely enough with the first thing she said to me: "So, Dion, I hear you liked to read magazines in ninth-grade English class." My brain instantaneously transformed into a knot. A cupped hand to my temple, massaging, I sputtered, "Wha-huh-what?" until my lips froze puckered, about to say "What?" again but feeling desperately close to stroking out from the incomputable input. "Where is that coming from?" finally issued intelligibly from my lips. Julie said, "Joe Kauffmann told me you used to read magazines in English class in the ninth grade." I'd recommended Joe to her to fix her bike. On the way into work I'd seen the bike rack on the back of the car. Everything fit together now--my brain no longer hurt--but that was a cruel thing to do to a guy first thing in the morning. Also not the most flattering memory he could have recounted to the woman I'm so desperate to impress.

But it sparked two more conversations, if they could be called that, brief as they were. When Julie returned from lunch I said, "Julie, I have to know: Is that the best thing Joe could say of me?" "Well, he just said you two go back a long way." "But that. ... I don't remember that myself." "Maybe you need to talk to him." "I do."

At the end of the day, as we filed out the back door, I asked her if Joe had given her an idea when her bike would be ready. She said he told her he was a little backed up, but she wasn't concerned, as she couldn't get it before Thursday, anyway. "I've gotta talk to him," I said as I fumbled for my sunglasses. "He's really done my legacy a disservice." She seemed quite amused by that, or at least by the cumulative harping on the subject.

"Hey, Dion! Over here." Maddux, with whom I'd ridden in. I'd strolled past the car with Julie toward her car. I hastily said goodbye to Julie and immediately began to wonder if I was getting obvious. Somebody's bound to be able to tell by now. Not Tammy; she didn't schedule me and Julie anywhere near each other all day. But I did manage to eat all my lunch.

^Who the hell wrote this?--"more comfortable with Julie every day"? What went wrong? Really--I don't remember. I'm afraid to read the next post. The last time I saw him, Joe promised he'd have something more flattering to say to her the next time she was in. I won't tell him the jig is up, but Julie won't be in to his shop for a long while yet; she's hardly an everyday cyclist.

The Toaster Gag'll Have 'Em Rolling (7/13/08 Sunday)^

2009-04-26T13:25:00.000-07:00

As hard as I think I'm trying, I probably am not very subtle. C'mon, someone has to see it, this crush. Someone's bound to notice my vanity, anyway. Boy, when I feel attractive I can't help but swagger, drag myself around loose-limbed, chest out, swinging my legs from the hips, landing more heavily on the right foot than the left (what in high school we referred to as a "pimp"). Geez, I don't want to come off arrogant. What has Julie noticed? If I've expressed nothing else to her, I've made my confusion pretty clear. What have my actions told her? The mixed signals continue apace as I alternate between full-throttle and full-stop, between solicitousness and ignore-ance. I want her to know me. How can she, when I make each move only after a complex rationalization based on its speculative efficacy? I'm afraid to be wholly genuine. How could she like the real me? But how could I be anything else but honest and still have a meaningful, lasting relationship? I keep telling myself this will all look very funny from the wrong end of the telescope of time, but that's only if it works.

I have to keep my humor; that's all there is to it. All my convoluted psychological machinations--aren't they all just one huge ironic joke? I have a crush on a girl, I can't tell her; I want her to know, but I don't; I want her to have a crush on me, but not just yet. If I'm not playing to my own sense of humor, I'm just torturing myself--and I already know I'm doing that, so why not loosen up and laugh at myself, instead of agonizing over the prospect of doing or saying the "wrong thing"? I'm madly infatuated with a beautiful, fascinating woman with whom I have much in common. What could be more natural? Or maddening?

^Self-doubt is what happened to "more comfortable with Julie every day." Just couldn't leave well-enough be, could I? Forget the telescope; I'm still pressed to the microscope. "I'm madly infatuated with a beautiful, fascinating woman with whom I have much in common. What could be more natural? Or maddening?" just about says everything. 60,000 words, and I could have left it at 22. The knot on my neck is twisting.

Julion (7/14/08 Monday)^

2009-04-26T13:23:00.001-07:00

I'm killing myself. Julie's not doing it, I am. I just can't do this. Everybody I saw and spoke with--co-workers, the clerk at the grocery store, even patrons!--I wanted desperately to tell about this crush, this PROBLEM! I want help with it, advice, an advocate to talk to Julie--I don't know. The Fool doesn't give a damn for the Wise Man's words; he'll just beat him till he can't talk anymore. What a fool I feel already, staring at Julie, grinning whenever she looks at me. I'm becoming the Creepy Guy! And tomorrow, because I was that guy today, I'll be Sullen Aloof Guy. When the hell am I going to be me? Somebody else has to be told. Gay-Lynn. She's always been a cheerleader, and can be trusted to be discreet. Maybe I'll get Stacey to tell her. I don't know what will come of this; for once, I'm not thinking ahead, pondering the variables, concocting scenarios--I simply feel it has to be done. I will feel better for it, is all I know. I'll at least have a support group. I feel better already, having a plan, of sorts. That still doesn't help me with my daily behavior, but Gay-Lynn can likely be counted on for some meaningful advice or philosophy.

Humor--hah! The joke's on me. Reading what Julie reads, watching what she watches, listening to music she likes--am I trying to get to know her or to be her? I want to know what she wants; I want to know her failures, her sadness, her triumphs, what makes her happy--all those things I will never find out reading Cadfael and listening to Trashcan Sinatras. My empathy might be misdirected, but I feel she's in pain. I don't know her age (though I could easily find out) and don't want to know before she tells me herself, but she's not far off my own, maybe a little younger. I don't know if she's been married. I find it very hard to believe she hasn't. She may be somewhat shy, but she's no wallflower. I can't be the first guy she's struck dumb, though maybe also not the first to be cowed by her slate-blue eyes and her blazing smile. (Maybe I'm not even the first guy to strain to express her unique beauty.) Julie fascinates me, and something tells me that that's the bottom line, the origin of my feelings of her.

Well, look: Here I am, at eleven p.m., having just had some coffee, knowing full well how sensitive I am to caffeine, not caring how late I might yet be up, because I can't stop thinking about Julie, and I have to try to express it, let it out, or I'll just dream fitfully about her. Besides, the less sleep, the less dreaming.

^Well, look: Here I am, none the wiser for any of this speculation and empathy. The fascination may still be there, but it may be just my pride trying to not let me admit I lost sleep over someone who, after all, was only beautiful. I am permanently the Sullen Aloof Guy now, that's definitely pride's fault. I still can't listen to my Trashcan Sinatras. (Oct. 21, 2009)

SAG (7/15/08 Tuesday)^

2009-04-26T13:23:00.000-07:00

An angry, angry day. Five hours of sleep is a good starting point for one of those, but that was not the entire problem. I don't know what I dreamt, but by the time I woke I had all but confirmed that Julie had no feelings for me, so--poof! Sullen Aloof Guy--emphasis on the Sullen. I was contentious with patrons, in a low-level, snobbish way, looking for a fight. The result, to my surprise, was submission. I guess a jerk who knows his job is an authority to listen to. I grudged everyone a smile today, except Julie, though I essentially ignored her when I could. It felt good to be angry, though, as if it focused me, on what I don't know. I wanted a fight, a catharsis, but by four o'clock I hadn't gotten either one and was angrier than ever. All day I was daring people to ask me what's wrong, but my anger seemed to distance me even from people with whom I normally converse. Mike didn't speak to me at all during our hour together on the front desk, and Bethany only ventured to ask if I needed time at our shared workroom desk. I responded only with a shake of my head.

What am I angry about? My ineffectuality? The frustration of all this happening in the last place I can allow it to? I'm thrashing to get out of these binds, but they just get tighter. If I were less sensitive I'd tell Julie how I feel about her and suffer the consequences, good or bad. But how could I do that as who I am?

^"Suffer the consequences"--and suffer, and suffer.... (Oct. 21, 2009)

Double Threat (7/16/08 Wednesday)^

2009-04-26T13:22:00.000-07:00

I feel much better this morning, with a longer sleep, but not wholly reconciled to yesterday’s mood. I have a better feeling about today. I woke and went immediately to washing the dishes, something I would normally have left on a Wednesday morning till I come back from dropping the clothes in the washer across the street. Shortly thereafter a knock sounded on my back door. A maintenance man informed me that my water heater and the floor underneath it were to be replaced very shortly. I asked him if I had time for a shower. With his foot he closed a cock on a pipe and said, "Yeah, a short, quick one." Five minutes later I was out of the shower I wouldn’t have taken for another two hours. So, I’m well ahead on my day, which will now not press on me so hard as it nears time to get to work.

But what of the day with Julie? It will be a short one, she working early and I late, but I must use it to what advantage I can find–-without creeping her out. My best strategy, I realize, is no strategy. My head has proven no match for my heart in territory in which it interlopes. If only they would talk to each other, these brothers in me. ... If only Head didn’t cow Heart with rationale and strategy and Heart kindly and dumbly acquiesce to every idea simply because it hasn’t one of its own. ... Head suffers from the burden as heart suffers its own unrequited needs because of its timid inaction. How to level this playing field? Not with an imbalance on the other end (not that I could do that without too much of the Fool’s help). In the balance is my self.

^The Fool was always the one in control, the man behind the curtain. Head and Heart didn't have a clue, just followed where the Fool led them, playing the scales to the balance he liked.

Still Perfect on the No-Point Shot (7/17 Thursday)

2009-04-26T13:21:00.000-07:00

I was wrong about Julie’s schedule, though not for being misinformed. Tammy forgot Julie was switching to Thursday nights and put her down for Wednesday. So I had a full day with Julie. I may even have scored a point or two. Puzzled, I asked Julie about her schedule. She explained about the mix-up and offered, unbidden, the reason she was switching: to take class. "What class?" I asked. "Oh, the one I’ve been trying to take for ever." Before she told me what that was, I said, "Web design?" "Yeah," she said, though with a disappointing absence of appreciation for my memory of a months-old detail. In February, I think it was, we had to attend a circ meeting at Dumbarton. Julie and I were scheduled to go at the same time, essentially to assure me a ride there. She told me on the way–-I’m not sure now why-–about her career plans, which included learning web design and working for an online music publication (a specific one, but the name didn’t stick). I remember being disappointed that she wanted to leave the library, but that came from a kind of envy of her ambition and my feelings of inadequacy–-that the job I was doing, though I liked it, was only good enough for me; that others found it wanting. I was not feeling a loss of a friend, much less of a companion.

What happened in the meantime?

Two Wheels Good (7/18/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T13:19:00.001-07:00

Today was a short day with Julie, but I made the most of it, engaging her in conversation within seconds of seeing her. Some well-minded soul had checked out our only book on bike commuting, and returned the 25-year-old paperback in pieces, the glue having turned to dust. This is the kind of thing that lands on my desk for repair, but I’m often simply the agent of refuse, and this was, without doubt, my role with this book. I flipped through it to see just how pathetically archaic it was and landed on a photograph of an "adequate safety helmet" that was in fact none of the above–more of an open-topped, padded hat. Julie was on backup, a few feet from my desk, discharging mail. I walked over and showed her the picture, which appeared to amuse her to the same extent it did me. (There was my day made already!) She remarked on the paucity of such information in our system with a lament of her own regarding cycling-trail books. "Oh," she added, "I got my bike back. I can finally ride it." "Yay!" I said. Agee’s was the third shop she’d taken it to just to tune up the gears. Joe did me right in that respect, anyway, if he couldn’t put in a good word for me with Julie. Maybe my recommendation put a few points on my side of the board.

I didn’t see much more of Julie before five, when she was to leave, but just before then, while I was at backup, she stood over the neighboring terminal to do a search. "Hey, Dion?" she called. "Yes?" I stood and came over. She said, "I thought you’d said we didn’t have this in the system, that you’d have to get it from Richmond." I looked at the screen: One Corpse Too Many, the second Cadfael book. "I thought we hadn’t." I’d checked the catalog the day before, but not knowing the title I looked it up under Ellis Peters and was dependent upon the subtitle designating its ordinal number in the series. This title had no such designation. Thinking I’d have to go into town to get it, I asked Julie if I could borrow it from her library, instead. She had no qualms in lending it to me; however, she had to find it in still-packed boxes from her move-in with her mom. "Give me a few days," she said, "and if I don’t find it by then, go ahead and get it from Richmond." That was Monday. Wednesday, at lunch, I sit across from her at the table and pulled out a book, The Acid House by Irvine Welsh. "Before I start this book, Julie: Do you have a book for me?" "No, I don’t," she replied, in a voice sagging with apology. "You know, I started to look for it last night–-I thought I knew where it was. Now I’m not so sure. That’s going to be my Saturday project."

It wasn’t until she left, with that smile and a wiggle-fingered wave, that I began to wonder why she was looking the book up, especially as she was about to leave. I will ask her pointedly tomorrow. I hope we get some time together on the desk. It seems a very long time since the last.

Population: Me (7/19/08 Saturday)

2009-04-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

Not what I’d call a Good Julie Day today. No desk time together, not even in the workroom together at any hour. And the "pointed" question seemed to have not just fallen flat but backfired. "Shortly after you left last night," I said, leaning "casually" against a book cart "I got to wondering why you bothered looking up that book." She took a few steps toward me, stopped, and said, looking away to the right, "I just couldn’t believe we didn’t have it, that’s all." Her tone, I inferred, was that of one appeasing a paranoid. I didn’t help, probably, when I explained about the missing subtitle. I felt, and must have seemed, defensive. She moved past me to look at the schedule, saying behind her, "It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you or anything like that." "Oh, I know," I said, and in an attempt to prove it continued with, "I just thought you were trying to save yourself some work this weekend." Feigning (I hope) hurt, she said, "Oh, thanks a lot," and left for the front desk. I felt the fool, of course, and during that hour vowed to apologize for "impugning her character," though I hadn’t truly felt I had, but was clutching at character redemption. I knew she would say it was "nothing," at which I would say, "I know, but I need to salve my conscience." Even if I could have made that sound like a joke, though, I probably could not have helped but reveal my insecurity. I had to let it go. Not that I have. I just didn’t let on to Julie. Believe me, it’s still grinding my gears. I think today I may have crossed into Creepy Guy Country.

I hit the liquor store after work. I felt like a bottle of whisky. My birthday whisky didn’t make it halfway to the next one. With trepidation I bought a small one– a little sampler–of The Glenlivet for Julie. I thought, then, of sneaking it into her desk drawer on Monday. A calmer head has already prevailed. Tell me that wouldn’t have blown my cover! Apparently, I’m still apologizing. I got myself a bottle of Scapa. I’m still thinking I’ll give the little bottle to her, but on her birthday, and in the guise of Robert Carlyle ("Bobby C."), with a Gaelic salutation of "Slainte mhor!" I have time to find out "Happy Birthday" in Gaelic.

Patton, Rommel, Burn (7/20/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T13:18:00.000-07:00

Weekends are the worst. I have two days to reflect on my interaction with Julie, and as I’m my own worst critic, I don’t come out smelling very good. Thursday, my strategy was to not have a strategy; yesterday was quite the opposite, with the planned question. I’ve been depressed about that since, because I’m more convinced than ever that I’ve become transparent, and not in the manner in which I wanted my affections exposed. I’m trying too hard, I know. I over-think everything.

There was a time when this was fun, but I’ve become desperate for some sign from Julie. I try to remember that this isn’t about winning Julie, but to do that I need to focus on what this actually is about. I haven’t, yet, a clue. I need some perspective beyond myself. The secret must be spread. I’ll ask Stacey how I can tell Gay-Lynn and how discreet she thinks Chris can be. Gay-Lynn, especially, I expect to be a very strong, active advocate. It would thrill her no end, I’m sure, and I actually think it would charge her creatively. Without doubt, with my permission she would take this on as a mission and would perform it with great discretion. So, it appears that my best strategy is to leave the strategy to someone else. I’m feeling better. If only I could get Friday off my mind.

At Least Not Before I Draw a Moustache on the Mona Lisa (7/21/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t sure what kind of attitude I’d have at work today toward Julie, and that was how I wanted it. No strategy. I decided (yes, a strategy) early in the weekend not to fash myself over it too much and try as best I could to just take it as it came, so Sunday was more than bearable. I decided, also, that I wouldn’t write Sunday, give the neurosis a break.

On my desk this morning was a large gift bag full of Cadfael paperbacks, I laughed and sought out Julie. I found her packing mail, on the floor with the Gayton bin. "Thank you for the Cadfael," I told her bowed head. She looked up and smiled, but looked slightly disoriented. Her mouth opened, but it was a moment before words came out. "Oh. Well, it turned out they weren’t so hard to find. And I thought, ‘I’ll show him.’" "Oh, no," I said, with genuine, guilt, "I didn’t mean to goad you into it," but I was flattered, too, though not so much as amused with her declaration. She then spoke of her need to cull her collection and the difficulty of getting over-attached to her books, but she stopped herself, embarrassed, perhaps, for thinking she was boring me. As I left her she called, "Now, you know I want those books back. I’m just lending them to you." "Oh, I know. The pretty gift bag didn’t fool me." She laughed. What a nice start to the day.

I packed the mail later and looked at the Gayton bin Julie’d been packing. It was as tight and flat as a sealed box. First chance I got I told her, "That Gayton bin is a work of art." I never saw a bigger smile on her face, and I swear her eyes actually twinkled. I continued, "I started to put another book in there, but I just couldn’t. It’s what I hope to attain every time I pack the mail." It wasn’t so thick; I meant every word. She said, slightly abashed, "I’m pretty anal, especially about packing the bins. You’ve probably noticed that by now." I had, but I let it ride. That was the third time I’d heard her refer to herself that way, and it hurt a little to know she thought of herself that way. She may have joked, but it was not something she liked being reminded of.

I’ve not really had a conversation with Julie, when I think about it. I haven’t followed her comments with much more than quips, not built upon them with insight or clarifying questions. I’m still scripting myself, trying to elicit a rise and being satisfied with that small success. I need to listen with not myself in mind, but with the speaker’s words (for this is not a problem limited to my talk with Julie). When Julie trailed off talking about her books, I knew how she felt–boring, lacking confidence in both the content of her speech and the attention of her audience. I’ve been there, go there every day.

Damned Lucky Cat! (7/25/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T13:16:00.001-07:00

A few days from the pen and paper. I felt it was making me too expectant of "results," news to relate. I’ve had enough stress about this whole thing without straining further just to have something to write about. That said. ...

Wednesday night, on my way, home, I rose from the handlebars, placed my palms together and supplicated the stars, "Please let me have an hour on the desk with Julie!" and chuckled. But there it was on the schedule the next day, the last hour of the night. I spent most of that day from the point of the schedule discovery alternately plotting my conversation points for that hour and throwing the plans away with the admonishment, "Chill out. Don’t force anything." I finally compromised a couple hours before the "date" with one question I knew would get her talking. The hour before I went out there my stomach was a boiling knot. I felt like I hadn’t eaten all day. I got out there first to stake a claim to the second seat, from which I could both watch the incoming patrons and steal glances at Julie under that pretext.

When Julie came out I stifled a comment noting how long it had been since we’d been out there together, and let her settle in a few minutes. At a quiet point with no approaching patrons I said, "So, how is Nigel doing?" From under a knitted brow and squinted eyes, she echoed, but with heavy stress on her cat’s name, "How is Nigel doing?" with probably much the same puzzlement she elicited from me a few weeks earlier when she came out of left field with Joe’s magazine comment. I was slightly abashed at her reaction, having struggled with the appropriateness of the question, though deciding that it was little different than asking about one’s children, and that decision overrode my trepidation and kept my face from registering the former reaction.

It was the right question, though I had to follow it quickly with a more specific question when I could tell she didn’t know quite where to start with the first one. "Is he still terrorizing his housemate?" I’d remembered her telling me months ago about how Nigel occasionally badgered her mom’s cat. "Oh, yeah," she answered, and expounded on his character–a mischievous but loving "lap kitty"–and even attempted to recreate his "squeak." I listened, enraptured not with her words but with her being, marveling at the smoothness of her face, the smallness of her nose, the slimness of her lips, and the slender lengths of her fingers. Oh, I heard every word. I found out quite a bit about Julie’s cat, and just a little about Julie. It was a glorious hour.

But it was not my only shining moment that day. Julie’s shirt was predominantly red. I said to her, "I’ve noticed that you’ve worn hot colors all week." "Have I?" she replied, and stood in thought, trying to recall her attire of the previous three days. I helped her with one, having to describe the turned up cuffs. She finally had them straight and had to defer Tuesday, when she wore maroon–-"But close," she said. I said, "I thought you might have been in sympathy with the weather." "Oh, no," she said, "just whatever was available." Was she flattered by my noticing what she’d worn all week? I could at least tell she wasn’t creeped out. Will she think of me tomorrow when she dresses for work? Which way will she go? and should I let her know I notice? For once, the questions don’t burn with serious possibilities, but bubble with playful speculation.

If Only I Had at Least Uno (7/26/08 Saturday)*

2009-04-26T13:16:00.000-07:00

Another weekend and–guess what?–another regret to stew over.

My lunches at work are pretty bland, and for a long time now they’ve begun with three boiled eggs. Julie entered the breakroom for water as I sat for lunch, the eggs on a paper towel before me. "Dion," she said, "I have a new nickname for you." "Oh, no," I said, knowing the eggs were somehow involved. "What’s that?" "Tres huevos." "Ugh," I groaned. "I knew it!" I was amused, though at the connotation she obviously hadn’t thought of, but before I could convey that, Judy, the only other person in the room, jumped in with an irrelevant and many-times-told anecdote that followed Julie out of the room. I vowed to have my say before we parted for the weekend, and I finally got my chance in the parking lot after work. "About that new nickname of mine...." "You mean," and she brandished it with a flourish. "Yes," I said, but instead of "You must be discreet with the company in which you use it," I continued haltingly, "You should be careful with it." "Be careful with it?" I could tell by her tone that she took me seriously. I was sunk. The scripted reply, "I can explain it away as a birth defect, but people might wonder how you could know" became "Yeah. Huevos is slang for cojones." She paused and said, "Yeah, you’re right." No laugh. We parted to separate vehicles. Can you believe the last word I spoke to her was "cojones"? Now if that isn’t worth denting the wall with my head....

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Oh my god! Last word, cojones, and no laugh, the whole thing fell flat. Shit! Your unspoken line would have been great. I know what you mean about saying embarrassing things.

Not Just LIKE Like Me (7/29/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T13:15:00.000-07:00

I have to consider divesting myself of the Julie obsession. Regardless of whatever "signs" there are or aren’t pointing to her interest in me, I’ve been feeling such a fool that whatever impression I’m making can’t be good. What does she think of me?–and I don’t mean "Does she like me?" I mean, what am I like in her mind’s eye? As a person, as a coworker. Then, maybe, as a man. I used to be satisfied that, professionally, I’m about all I ever will be, but knowing that Julie strives for more is a disquieting consideration. For myself, I’m still satisfied, but for Julie, I fear, I’m not enough.

Julie and Stacey are going hiking Sunday. Stacey knows it’s something of a fact-finding mission, but I don’t want her to be burdened by it; nor do I want her to betray Julie’s confidence to me. Stacey and I will have to talk about it before the weekend.

Still I ache to tell someone else about the crush. I missed my chance at Gay-Lynn for two weeks. Chris would be fine to tell, but he’s just turned thirty, still too young, really, to fully empathize with my predicament; and I most need someone who can offer real advice and sympathy, and possibly even some active help. I judge everyone now by those standards, and nobody else seems to reach them. If I thought that to even the smallest degree it was safe to confide with anyone in my own department, I would tell Mike. For a long while today I considered Tammy. I even considered Julie herself for one insane moment, but decided I should keep the awkwardness to myself.

And Goodbye, Wise Man! (8/02/08 Saturday)

2009-04-26T13:14:00.000-07:00

I told Mike after work Wednesday as he was dropping me off at my bike. My fears were unwarranted. Not only does he have no feelings for Julie, he’d been thinking that she and I might make a good match. He’s even eager to help me, though neither of us know in what form that assistance might take. He was touched that I would confide in him, and that touched me in turn.

The little bottle of Glenlivet will be on Julie’s desk Monday. No, the Fool has not beaten down the Wise Man, but maybe he has wised him up a touch. A conversation last week combined with one yesterday has given me all the incentive–and cover–I require to pull this off without setting off Julie’s alarms. During the first of these conversations Julie mentioned liking to buy those little bottles. This week I stepped into a conversation between her and Hinckley about liquor. He drew me into it as "the man to talk to about scotch." I told them both about the Scapa I’d bought; Julie bemoaned the selection at her nearest ABC store, and I told her where I got mine. At the end of the day I asked her if she was going to have a "wee dram tonight." "I would," she replied, "if I had some." Hello, Opportunity! Today I bought an inexpensive gift bag at the Hallmark, and as I was agonizing over which color paper to wrap the bottle in and stuff in the bag, I thought of asking for help, then began wondering how I would describe this gift: "More special to me than to her"; "Special, but I don’t want her to think that"; "For someone special to me who doesn’t know it and who I don’t want to know it, yet." Perhaps the act will decide, but what it decides will be more definitive than those options, make them moot or obsolete. On the card I’ll write, "Ye maun hae yer wee dram lass! Slainte mhór!" I won’t sign it; there’ll be no need.

Hallmarks of My Obsession (8/03/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T13:13:00.000-07:00

But then what? I prepared the card. The handwriting was sloppy. I hope it conveys casualness and not the truth–nervousness. What the hell am I doing? And what do I say when she confronts me with it? Hell, what is she going to say? I hope she doesn’t read as much into it as I’ve written into it. This seems a big step, but if I stopped seeing it that way, maybe she won’t see it that way. Whatever she says, or whatever I think she’s going to say, I’ll try not to script a list of responses. But, dammit, I can’t hide a blush, and that’s going to happen. I’ve already turned tomorrow into a nightmare.

Julie and Stacey are out together right now, hiking. Stacey promised me she’d be discreet and very low-key, that information-gathering would not be the point of the hike. Stacey and I were supposed to go pay rent together sometime this weekend. She didn’t call yesterday or Friday, so maybe it’ll happen tonight. I’m having trouble occupying my time since I read the last 120 pages of One Corpse Too Many. I did laundry this morning (something I never do on a Sunday) and took a route that took me in view of Stacey’s car, ostensibly to take advantage of the shade on the eastern sidewalk. Her car was there from eight to at least nine-thirty. I don’t know if Stacey was going to Julie’s or vice versa. It doesn’t matter, except to this obsessive, love-sick puppy. I could probably see her parking lot from here if I stepped out the back door.

*****

I went back to the Hallmark and bought another card. Much better job, this time.

Which One of You Two Is the Mirage? (8/04/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T13:12:00.000-07:00

Stacey and Julie never went hiking, but I didn’t find that out till Stacey came into work at twelve-thirty. However, I did give Julie the whisky, in a mod little gift bag tufted with purple paper. I got it on her desk before she arrived–I can always count on Maddox to get us there early–then shakily changed out of my cycling togs in the bathroom. Changed, I checked the schedule: Julie on the desk, I with the pick list. So Julie was out of the workroom, and if I could get the pick list printed and get out there.... I wasn’t eager to see Julie; I was sure I’d done a stupid, inappropriate thing, and I didn’t want to be confronted with "What the hell is this about?" But I was still at my desk when Julie strode up to it and effused, "Thank you so much!" her eyes sparkling. "You didn’t have to do that. That was so nice of you!" I don’t think I managed to stammer a word, but just grinned, and probably blushed . "I’ll have to save this for a special occasion." I chuckled meekly. She’d reacted as I’d only dreamed she would, and I couldn’t have been more embarrassed about it. It was an excruciating day from that point on. I was trapped. I couldn’t speak to her, could barely look her in the eye. The jig is up, I told myself. The Fool has trumped the Wise Man.

Why I was believing this, I don’t know. Shouldn’t I have been high on that face she presented me? I went away with the pick list and cart glad that I hadn’t said something stupid, but each following minute brought a new charming rejoinder to Julie’s gratitude and a new regret for leaving it unspoken. I saw myself in her eyes as an awkward, developmentally arrested dolt that she couldn’t possibly love. For most of the day I beat myself up like this.

And I'm Left Holding It (8/22/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T13:11:00.000-07:00

I have considerably scaled back my hopes for Julie, if not entirely conceded defeat. I’m not on her radar, and couldn’t be. And here I am with a bag of Cadfael.

I decided first to just be friendly. It’s where a good relationship starts, anyway, right? Last night we spent the last hour on the desk. I didn’t ask her anything or make any personal observations aimed at eliciting conversation. It was an experiment in a way, and a resolve. Julie’s not averse to starting a conversation, except, I’ve noticed, with introverts. Put Tyger or Ahmed, Tammy or Becky in front of her, and she’s not unlikely to be the first to speak. She had nothing to say to me that hour, but when we left work she chatted up Tyger from her car as he geared up for his motorcycle. Angry tension wells in me now, my jaw clenching, muscles bunching in my neck. I’m sick with jealously and self-hatred.

Romeo's Void (8/28/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T13:09:00.001-07:00

Julie’s last day before her vacation of more than a week, and I didn’t get an hour on the desk with her. I’ve known for nearly a month that this was coming up, and I’d wondered how I’d feel. I’d thought I might be relieved of the pressure to be "on" around her, but, right now, I feel very alone. Perhaps that will change over the course of the week, but I’m making no predictions. Added to the hurt is Stacey’s leaving for half of the next week. We’ve become closer since she moved over this way, and her friendship has become very important to me. Friends like her are very hard to find. I’ve never had a friend who would call me up, say, "I’m bored. You wanna watch a movie or play a game?" And we’d talk, about anything–growing up, relationships, our emotional pains and fears–all those things I want to talk about, want to trust someone with and be likewise trusted. She’s there, and I’m glad; and I’m sad she’ll be away, especially now.

No Toasters or Guns, Either (9/04/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T13:09:00.000-07:00

Julie’s absence has not been so hard as I expected. For the sake of drama, I muster an occasional heavy sigh at work, but besides the pining I'm mostly free of tension but for thoughts of what I must do when she gets back.

Hinckley has brought me to my senses. He sees no obstacle to my asking Julie out, and, when forced by that opinion to spin ‘round to his perspective, neither can I. Any obstacles there ever were were fabricated from cowardice. All this stratagem, all these inky words have been ladders against a wall of cloud. It makes no sense not to ask Julie out; it’s only wanting opportunity, in the path of which I must be assiduous in not building any obscurantive obstacles. I’d like to do it as near to the end of next week as possible, in order to more easily make my escape into my vacation–to lick the wounds of rejection more privately, should that dread contingency win out. But I haven’t planned for that. In fact, I’m doing my best to not plan at all, right down to openly admonishing myself with "No planning, no scenarios, no scripts" as a mantra against those imaginings that will creep in.

And to the Academy, God, and My Mother (9/07/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T13:08:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow brings Julie back, as well as my anxiety, which, given my mission for the week, just might reach a new apex. I’m still chanting the mantra, but I can’t do that in my sleep, where my anxiety runs free and gleeful. I rarely look at the next day’s schedule (it’s hard enough to remember two hours in a row), but I don’t know that I can stop myself from peeking at tomorrow. I’d better not, though; that would smell of planning. Frankly, I just want to go out to the desk on my turn and find Julie as my company, and let me ask her what I need to ask her. I suppose I can make my own opportunity–but there’s that smell again. What if the natural opportunity doesn’t arise? After all, I’m not giving myself a very big window to get through, waiting till the last two days. Maybe I won’t wait that long. I need to be open to the chance all week–without actively looking for it. Will I recognize it? Will I disguise it with an excuse? Ah, but I obsess.

Hinckley has expressed great confidence in my ultimate resolve. I don’t know how genuinely he feels that way, but I’ll take it as cheerleading at least. He says he’s really excited for me, and that I believe. I told him of my intention for the week before I told Stacey. In fact he joined me and Stacey for gelato after work to make sure I told her and that he would be there for it. His enthusiasm is touching and inspiring. I feel almost as if I were doing this for him. Maybe that’s not a bad way to think about it: If I felt I were doing this for someone else, then I would feel better about doing it, as if I were coming out of myself to get something done for someone else, putting my own needs on the back burner. Sure: I’ll dedicate this effort to Hinckley.

Next Birthday, a Centerfold (9/09/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T13:08:00.000-07:00

I just barely survived Julie’s birthday with my mind, stomach, and dignity intact. Sleep the night preceding could hardly have been called that if not for the dreaming of sitting naked beside a path in a park that seemed to become more urban as I sat there, tour buses passing behind me so close I could hear a lady complaining (at me? I wondered) about an appalling sight. I woke with head and neck aches, likely from endless thrashing and general restiveness. By the time Julie came in that afternoon I’d overcome the aches and the concomitant sour mood to be the first to wish her a happy birthday, to which she responded with cheery gratitude. That was where my day peaked. The Roxy Music quote on her card apparently fell flat–or she didn’t actually read it–and so I was just someone who didn’t sign her card.

I tried looking ahead on the schedule, but Tammy apparently decided that this would be the first week ever in which she doled out the schedules a day at a time. The only sure thing about tomorrow is that Julie and I will work opposite shifts again, making it unlikely–wait, impossible–that we’ll have a mutual desk hour. I just remembered that she’ll be leaving for Gayton at two and stay till four, after which she’s not likely to come back for an hour’s work. I get in at twelve-thirty, she goes to lunch at one, and I don’t see her the rest of the day.

Hinckley asked me if my "resolve was still strong." I didn’t hesitate to answer in the affirmative, though my less-than-emphatic delivery could not have been but so convincing.

D-Hour (9/13/08 Saturday)*

2009-04-26T13:06:00.001-07:00

It didn't happen Thursday. There just wasn't a natural chance. Hinckley pointed out to me that Julie and I shared a shelving hour at six, so I set my sights on that. It wasn't my ideal, stalking her in the stacks (Hinckley likened it to chasing down an ice cream truck), but I prepared myself with a negativity-chasing line from Gang of Four's "Guns Before Butter": "Just keep quiet, no room for doubt." I consciously triggered it whenever my imagination presented my mind's eye with, uh, less-than-optimum-case scenarios. The line played almost incessantly.

But by six Tammy had posted Friday's schedule, and there it was:
11:00
Julie--D
Dion--D
An hour on the desk with Julie! This was the hour!

I didn't sleep well, of course. I fitfully overslept the alarm and still found myself on the sofa ready to go with a half-hour to kill after breakfast before I set out for Hinckley's for the ride in. I watched an episode of Black Adder and trod off, nervous but happy and strong of resolve. It would happen today, before lunch (which I might not be able to eat). On the way in Hinckley pumped me up with his own ebullient confidence. After I walked in the door I don't know what I did before eleven, besides chant my mantra, which, by now, was able to trigger itself.

Julie was close on my heels as I made for the desk. Upon her offer of my choice of seats, I took the far one, for the aforementioned advantages. She immediately brought up her work email to check. I decided to wait until she would no longer be distracted. Between that and a few patrons, it was nearly half-past before I saw my chance, and I didn't hesitate. Turning to her, I said, "Julie?" My voice, to my own ears, sounded smooth and low. I was pleased with its timbre. "Yes," she replied before looking up at me. She was still sitting, I standing, leaning against the narrow counter between our stations. Her eyes grabbed me, held me softly in their expectation, as if knowing what I was about to say. I nearly forgot the only words I'd scripted for the moment, but I pushed through, ignoring all doubt--without the help of the mantra. "Would you...consider...meeting me...somewhere, sometime...for a cup of tea, say?" Briefly, as I struggled to recall the right words, I lost eye contact, but regained it as I finished the last word. Without hesitation, she replied, "Yes, I would." "Oh, good," I said, as if fireworks hadn't just exploded in my chest. "Mmm," she murmured, "tea." "I have a favorite place," I told her, straightening bookmarks on the ledge between us and grinding a shoe-toe into the carpet. "Stir Crazy on MacArthur." She knew where it was, but when I asked her if she could do it the next day, she cited a family visit and homework. "Give me a couple hours," she said, "to think about it."

Hinckley was our backup. The moment Julie became occupied with a patron I stole to his station. Making sure only he could see me, I pumped a fist and mouthed "Yes!" and turned back to the desk. I felt no nerves whatsoever around Julie, and she seemed a bit less reserved herself, even asking me a couple questions on the desk. But it wasn't until we had left the building at the end of the day that we were alone together again. Hinckley discreetly continued to the car as I hung back to hold the door for Julie, the last one out. "So," I said, "is it going to happen tomorrow?" "No," she replied, reiterating her obligations. I didn't conceal my disappointment. "We could do it Sunday," she offered. "No," I said, "we can't. I'll have the kids." "Do you have them every weekend?" "Yeah. Saturday evening to Sunday evening." "Oh." By the time we got to her car, we'd established that the next work week was out. "What about Friday? You're off then, " I said. She replied, "I'm going out of town." I threw my head back and puffed a great sigh. Julie offered consolation to the effect of "It'll happen." "I know, but it took me so long--both fists pumping with each word--"just to get up the nerve to do this!" and I laughed at the sky. Julie had a laugh, too. "Well," she said, "think about it," and slid toward the car door. "Okay," I said. "See ya." "See ya."

So, here I am, two weekends and a work week from Julie, and at least another week from a "date." I suppose I'm glad I'm off next week: It might seem a cruel tease to work with her all week knowing there was no pot of gold at the end of it. But I did it, didn't I? Finally, after nearly four months of self-imposed torment. And, you know what? It was worth it!

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Good for you, you did it! I haven't read the entire blog yet, so I don't know how the story ends, but at least you asked and got an answer instead of just thinking about it...

Or Maybe It Means She's Got Me By the Short Hairs (9/15/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T13:06:00.000-07:00

I recall a snippet of dream I had last night: Julie and I were walking toward a tall, black chain-link fence, on the other side of which was our destination. A gate at the end of a cinder path would be our entrance. Upon approach I noticed that a padlocked chain prevented our passage through that gate, which I noted out loud in mild lament. But Julie continued past me and through a break in the fence to the left of the gate. I hesitated, both pleased with her discovery and chagrined that I hadn't seen it. I'm sure this is significant. I believe it's telling me to follow her lead, but without hesitation or prideful questioning. And I do believe she is asking me to do that. When she said, "Think about it," I was frightened by her apparent nonchalance, but I've since interpreted it as a trust with the responsibility of keeping up with this ball I've started down the hill. It's a role ("roll") I will cherish and relish. It means getting out of, and staying out of, myself in order to stay attuned to her. It's an exciting challenge, the thought of which brings a smile to my face, and the execution of which I can already envision doing the same. This an outstanding opportunity to shed the obsessive thought and behavior that has been a hallmark of this endeavor.

Polishing the Sky (9/16/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T13:05:00.000-07:00

So, I suppose I'm on Cloud Eight, but not for the sake of rhyme and affinity to the The Temptations' song will I say I'm feeling great. Great is better than fine, and I'm almost feeling fine, so I'm almost on Cloud Nine. I'm decidedly glad not to be at work--of course, not-working is great, but I'm glad not to be around Julie. Just let me bask in Friday's glow for a week, recall the gleaming face and glittering eyes saying, "Yes, I would," over and over. Let me not obsess over imagined ramifications of this word or that look. Let me stare out the window with an open book in my lap--but don't let me imagine too vividly our meeting-to-come. Just let me grin and sigh expansively.

And Just a Wee Dram More (9/17/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T13:03:00.000-07:00

A decent sleep last night--all the more so considering the task ahead of me. Tammy posted today's schedule last night, and I had a peek--several peeks--at it. None of those peeks revealed an advantageous time to ask Julie the big question--no desk together, and, generally, nowhere near each other all day. Yesterday I never saw her. Tomorrow? I can't count on the schedule being any kinder, any more than I can count on getting a preview of it.

I'm grateful for the night's sleep, because I could hardly be more nervous. Hell, I'm drinking whisky before ten in the morning. I'm obsessing over what to wear. And what to do till I leave for work--besides drink. I feel I should be amusing myself or physically working off the tension. Imagine if I'd been going this alone, without Mike or Stacey or Hinckley. I wouldn't be doing this at all but probably looking for another job just to get away from the whole situation. I'll never take another friend for granted. But "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" runs through my head, and I don't want to wallow in that. I don't want to think about love and life fulfillment--nothing so loftily hopeful, however positive. Hell, I don't want this situation, but here it is, and it's not a bad one but for what my cowardice has imbued it with. How do I laugh at that, the cowardice? How do I remove its power, lower its self-importance? Whisky, whisky, and more whisky. That was a joke, but having to tell myself so is more than a little disconcerting.

Cloud One (9/18/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T13:02:00.000-07:00

It was gelato night, as usual. I walked up early to make sure the shop wouldn't close before Stacey got there from work. The only other company would be Chris; Hinckley bowed out. For that reason I wasn't very excited. I wanted someone else there along with Stacey who was in on the Julie thing. Stacey said yesterday she'd ask Julie, but Julie had never come, though asked, before, and today's refusal was hardly surprising. It was hard to talk about dating, a subject high on Chris' mind, when he included me in his circle of trolling singles. Stacey and I both dropped a stack of hints in his lap, but he never picked them up. My neck is a knot.

Stacey says she's been dying to talk to Julie about my asking her out but doesn't know how to broach the subject. It would seem natural enough that I would tell Stacey about it; there's no secret she's my friend. I wonder if Julie has told anyone. I came home depressed.

That's "At", Not "With" (9/20/08 Saturday)

2009-04-26T13:01:00.000-07:00

Now is the need to stay cool Monday and not attack Julie to firm up plans for our first date. (Yes, I'm calling it that, and unironically, too. Isn't that what I've always meant it to be?) Not that I've a clue as to how to accomplish that, but the Gang is creeping in again. If I ever needed meditation, this would be the time. I'm of the mind that what I need most of all is to laugh at myself and the absurdity of what I've been putting myself through. That could probably be accomplished reading this journal. Hmm.

Om Mane Padme Dolt (9/22/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T13:00:00.000-07:00

The interminable week ends, the interminable week begins. It was a horrible, spastic dance of avoidance most of the day, and I was angry for the duration. I simply didn't know how to face her or what to say to her. I greet her sheepishly from behind in the morning and get a "Hi. Welcome back" in return, and suddenly I'm nearly furious. What did I expect? a leap into my arms? I got better than I gave, I guess. What the hell kind of greeting did I give her? No confidence. There was no confidence at all in my manner. But, dammit, she said yes. Did I expect her to change her mind in the meantime? So this is neurosis! Give me strength--and confidence, and common sense. Oh, to "burn with optimism's flame"!

But the day did finally end and we did set a day and time. The last hour of the day Julie had the pick list and my hour was open. I was at such loose ends waiting for her to get to the quiet and secluded upstairs that I fixed a Captain Underpants book, which is normally shortlisted for the trashcan. At a quarter to five I just couldn't wait any longer for her to get upstairs. I found her cart in children's amid a cauldron of kids. I spun around looking for Julie. On my second rotation I spotted her approaching, books in arms, pencil in teeth. I somehow understood her to say "Who are you looking for?" but made her say it again, to stall for time and to hear it again from her pencil-barred mouth. "You," I said. "Oh?" she said. "What about?" Slowly, holding her gaze, I said, "About a bit of non-work-related business." She smiled. "Oh. Can you wait till five?" "Yep," I said as casually as I could, considering I suddenly felt very stupid for interrupting her while she was so busy, and immediately turned away and walked off.

I went straight to Hinckley, on his dinner break upstairs with a newspaper in the back of the non-fiction. It was my second visit of the hour. The first was to let him know of my intent and my ill confidence toward it. Essentially, he reminded me that she had agreed to go out with me. Somehow it made much more difference than the few thousand times I've told myself. Did I say I lacked confidence? This time up I told him about my encounter, and he gave me another boost. Am I the boxer to his trainer? or the Tom Hanks to his Rob Reiner in Sleepless in Seattle?

Five o'clock finally came--and then five after, then ten after before Julie found me sitting in front of the lockers by the back door. I expected her to be on her way out when she was ready to talk to me. She wasn't. Suddenly, again I was feeling indulged. I stood, but my six-inch advantage didn't make me feel any more in control. Luckily, I had formulated an apology to open with, and actually got it said: "I'm sorry I accosted you, but my patience and resolve were skating together on thin ice." She appreciated that with a laugh, but didn't speak. "So," I said, "how full is your dance card this weekend?" "Well, I'm pretty much free the whole weekend. I have homework, but that's a given." Here is where I should have made a suggestion for her approval, instead of, "Well, what would work best for you?" "Saturday, I guess. Is Saturday okay?" Dammit! My line! "Yeah, that works for me." "Okay!" She seemed to think we were done, but I didn't return her smile, but raised my eyebrows expectantly. "And..." I said. "What about...." "The time," she finished. I didn't help her out this time, and I could tell it was another mistake. She thought a moment. "One o'clock?" That was disappointingly late, but I accepted it with at least the satisfaction of finality.

So the date is set. Hardly the red-letter day the 12th was, but a lot closer to really happening. Now I just have to hold it together one day at a time, to remember that looseness I felt the rest of the day after "Yes, I would." This is nothing to be tense about. See if that stops me. Where's my mantra now?

Out with the Cat, In with the Elephant (9/23/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:59:00.000-07:00

Today was hardly better, just shorter due to the contrasting shifts. She said, "Hi, Dion," and I said, "Hi, Julie," and that was the extent of our conversation over the four-and-a-half hours of our mutual presence in the building. (Tomorrow may be the same, for the same reason, in reverse.)

I began to think about things to talk about Saturday after we'd set it up, but the strategizing seemed as pointless as ever. I decided, then, that I would simply be honest: "Julie, you fascinate me, and I'd like to get to know you better." That is all I'm sure I'll say, and it's enough. If that doesn't lower her guard, well, I can say I gave it my best shot. But I'm not going to walk away without her knowing how I feel. I've pussyfooted long enough. For a few days yet, anyway.

Prep Talk (9/26/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:58:00.001-07:00

So, it's going to happen. Of course I'm excited and nervous, but I'm not psyching myself out of this. I won't dwell on the parting this evening that buried my head in my hands for the duration of the trip back, but on "Yes, I would!" I don't care that it's likely to rain tomorrow. What's to care about at this point but showing up on time? And, believe me, I'll beat her there by at least twenty minutes--time enough to change and primp in the coffe shop bathroom. It's happening!

I took out Hinckley and Stacey tonight to show my appreciation and get one last pep talk. Stacey set up my outfit, which I really was stuck on, though it was Hinckley who asked what I'd be wearing. Stacey said I had to wear what she called my "ass pants," a particular pair of jeans, and my new red shirt that was a hit last Thursday at work. (I just this moment had to jump to my closet to confirm that it was here and not in my work locker. Phew!) She also suggested I wear a brown t-shirt underneath. (I'll try to refrain from telling Julie Stacey dressed me.) So I'm feeling great about that.

I walked Hinckley home after dinner--Stacey was going to watch the debate with Chris--and he likened himself to a coach as he pumped me up. But no empty platitudes here; everything he said was heart-felt, relevant, and spot-on. Before dinner I had been dreading the end of the evening, when I would be home alone, brooding, trying not to scheme; but I'm buoyant, almost ready to go--not quite ready to scream, "Bring it on!" but maybe a good night's sleep will get me the rest of the way.

Soundtrack to a Train Wreck (9/28/08 Sunday)*

2009-04-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

Well, it happened.

The day began an hour or so before daylight, when I awoke gently chiding myself for negative thoughts. I no longer had to beat down those thoughts; I had tamed them and could amuse myself with their occasional presence, like pets. But there seemed nothing to do about the giddiness of anticipation. Breakfast disappeared from my stomach the moment it disappeared from my bowl. A banana and yogurt did the same. As I ate I listened to music:

Beating of Hearts
Wonderland
Love on a Farmboy's Wages
Great Fire
When You're Near Me I Have Difficulty
Mayor of Simpleton
I Don't Mind
Everybody's Happy Nowadays
Why Can't I Touch It?

I went to the grocery store. I ate. I went to Agee's for a part, bought some bike shoes, too. Ate. Showered. Still that hole in my gut. Listened to more music:

The Thrill of It All
All I Want Is You
Out of the Blue
A Really Good Time
No Matter What
Burning with Optimism's Flames
Sgt. Rock (Is Going to Help Me)

Packed the change of clothes and left, later than I had wanted to, a mile up the road before realizing I'd forgotten the belt. Did not turn around.

Adrenaline pushed me hard for a while, and my mind's monologue distracted me from the effort. After I turned onto MacArthur I released the handlebars and tried to relax my arms and shoulders. But as I rolled onto the sidewalk in front of the shop I saw Julie's car in the lot. I tried to shrug it off. The physical action was a lie to the emotional. She was at the counter when I walked in, dressed very casually, in jeans and blue-gray t-shirt with off-white collar. A pang of alarm twisted my gut over the inference to her attitude toward this meeting. Still, I had a line: As I came aside her I leaned over close and said, low, "Pretend you didn't see me." I heard a chuckle as I continued to the restroom.

I muttered as I dressed, my humor ebbing as I staunched the ride's sweat with paper towels. Because I was hot I forewent the t-shirt, but even with the shirt I felt ridiculously overdressed. Who was there to impress at this point, but with the pathetic transparency of my effort to impress? When I emerged Julie was still at the counter. I said, "What are you getting?"

"Oh, I've paid for it already." I was irked by her inference, but didn't try to clear up the misunderstanding. She was handed two cups and walked away. I ordered an iced spiced chai and walked to the table she'd chosen, at the end of the counter. She sat facing me, back to the wall. I hung my satchel full of sweaty bike clothes on the back of the facing chair and said, "Are you early or am I late?"

"I think I got here a few minutes early."

"That wasn't part of the plan," I said with mock (I hope) ruefulness. She asked how long it had taken me, how far I'd come. I estimated nine miles and forty-five minutes. It was already the kind of conversation I didn't want. I paid for my chai and overtipped. I never put money in a tip jar; thirty percent makes up for a least a couple omissions.

Julie had gotten the same drink (the other cup was ice water), and that sustained the chitchat for a couple seconds. The first few minutes were spent dancing against the silence. Julie contributed more than I did, as I was girding for my proclamation. I stroked the condensation on my clear plastic cup with pincers of the thumb and middle finger of my left hand.

"Julie," I said, watching those fingers reach the table. I raised my gaze to her eyes. "At the risk of embarrassing at least one of us, I have to tell you that, the reason I asked you out is because you fascinate me, and I want to get to know you better, in a way that I can't at work."

Julie blushed deeply, but for a moment--an endless, ominous moment--the expectant smile did not waver, the eyes did not blink, the head did not turn. I was seeing the shadow of the hammer over my head. Finally, she turned to her left and dipped her head. Her smile widened, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the still-red cheeks. I grasped for uplift from that image but saw in it the sand under the icing.

"Gosh, Dion,I don't know what to say." But then she looked at me. Her tongue darted to moisten her lips. She said, "Dion, you're a really great guy"--Oh, please! Not the "great guy" line!--"but I really don't think this can go any farther than this." She may have added "I'm sorry," but she needn't have, given the look of pity on her face. I don't know what she may have said because I was reeling. I never took my eyes from hers, but the thudding of my heart was shaking my vision.

I said, "Okay." I pursed my lips, shrugged shoulders and eyebrows, and looked away. Water welled on the far side of my left eye. What was that? I didn't feel like crying, though in a fleeting welter of self-pity I gazed into and across a black chasm of loneliness stretching to the end of my days. But I wasn't going to jump in just yet. I looked out the plate-glass window at nothing.

Julie said, "I hate having to say that."

"It's how you feel," I said, without conviction or eye contact, staring now at the ziploc bags of loose tea hanging from the slat stand beside us.

Quietly, as if to herself, or to the stand in line with her vision, with a flattered wonder she said, "I don't know what you could find so fascinating about me."

If I'd ever actually tried to pinpoint that for my own edification, I couldn't have expressed it now to the least degree. Instead, my mind did what my face didn't dare, and smirked--a cruel, self-pitying smirk--thinking, "Would it do me any good to tell you?" I looked at her.

She said, "It's just that I believe that there are two ways of getting to know someone: by working with them or by living with them. That doesn't mean we can't still hang out."

"But I'm not me at work," I protested, "especially around you." I'd looked away, but I heard a sound of amusement. I threw a hand past my face to dismiss my attitude. This was not a healthy direction. I looked briefly her way before resting on my cup. "Well," I said to her, "now that I've made everything awkward..." and laughed with an insincere self-deprecation.

But those five minutes stretched to nearly two hours, despite my taking every opportunity to break down this belief of hers. The logic just didn't work. I was becoming more determined to bring down her walls than to plead my case. Yet Julie seemed just as determined to keep the battlements intact, and she seemed much better drilled in her defensive maneuvers than I in my attack. Her prowess at deflection bordered on sleight of hand. I can't even give an example, it was so subtle. But I never let small talk get too good a hold on the proceedings. She came back from the restroom and told me there was a private room for reserve back there.

"Hm," I said. "About this theory of yours--not that I'm challenging you--"

"Yes, you are."

"Yes, I am," I admitted immediately, quietly thrilled that she would call me out on that. But I continued. This was becoming something of a chase through a maze: I'd lose her if her voice didn't betray her bearing. I had to keep her talking on this point; she'd have to lead me to her self eventually. "But how can you really get to know someone at work? It's such a contrived setting."

"True, but you see how people work together, their interaction with one another."

"But that's such a small part of anyone. No one is the same at work as they are outside it. Seems like a lot of extrapolating going on."

"Well, here's an example: Marion."

"What about her?"

"She was a control freak. Couldn't you tell?"

"Of course. From day one."

"You learned that from working with her."

"Sure, but that's easy. How does one get to know you at work?"

(Activate deflector.)

Later, I tried, "You strike me as very guarded."

She stared an instant before saying, "Guarded? I am guarded."

"How do I get past that? Do you ever let it down?"

"I don't know. There are things about me even my mother doesn't know."

Here I slipped, not asking for an example--not that she'd have given me one, but I might just have gotten a glimpse into the courtyard of the fortress. Instead, I said, "Well, there's plenty my parents don't know about me, too."

"I guess that's just who I am."

"Well, I accept that there are some things about ourselves that we have to accept, but is that really something you have to accept about yourself? Do you like being that way?"

"Well, not always." She turned her head and was quiet. I backed off, a little ashamed at having pushed in, then twisted the dagger.

During another challenge she said, regarding her previously stated affections toward me, "If I change my mind, I'll let you be the first to know."

"You know," I said, "I don't believe you would tell anyone, even me, if you changed your mind." I didn't smile. She didn't reply.

The time to part came. When Julie reached behind her for the purse slung over her chair and said, "Well," I said, "Oh, no," and she laughed. It was an awkward parting. I walked her to her car. She said, "See you bright and early Monday morning," and I inwardly lamented the speed at which she'd reverted to polite detachment. She'd started to slip into the car when she stopped and straightened. "Oh," she said, "I had a really good time." "I did, too," I replied,"except for a few details." It was meant as a playful dig to show I was okay with the "rejection," but I think it came off sounding like the first cork popped at my pity party. An exchange of good-byes and a "Have a safe ride home" from Julie and I went back to the restroom.

Initially, the ride home was marked with a pronounced absence of that gut-twisting stew of regret and self-doubt. I felt I'd done all I could, laid it all out on the table. But then I began seeing the missed opportunities to chip at her walls with a bigger chisel and heavier hammer. Then I reallized that this had very likely been my only shot at this, the only intense one-on-one that I might ever have with Julie. I didn't kid myself that she would even want to do this again, given the grilling and the likelihood of more of the same. I didn't miss her kneading her shoulder.

But the real sand in my craw was the implication of her statement about getting to know someone: What was it about me at work that she used to rule me out of her affections? It's a question I could never ask, not the least because I didn't want to know the answer. There is no pleading a case without loss of dignity, especially a case that can't be won, and if I can't retain respect I'll never get a second day in court.

So I was very angry when I got home. The rest of the weekend (it's now Monday morning) has seen a fluctuation of moods from that anger to acceptance to resolve. I'm not angry with Julie--I find myself incapable of that--in fact, maybe I'm no longer angry at all. I respect and accept Julie's feelings as her own and valid--to a point. My resolve is to continue challenging her theory, but in much subtler ways. You see, my fascination with Julie grew at least ten-fold Saturday afternoon, and I'm more determined than ever to get to know her, to swim that moat and smote those thick walls of hers to dust. Perhaps this is not fair to my heart, this new tortuous pursuit taken up on the heels of the last. Perhaps it's less my heart than my head that wants this. Most likely I don't care which is the case. Delusion or not, I want to believe it's my heart leading the way, and maybe by believing that I can learn to believe in my heart's ability to guide me safely to success. It's what I want.

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Sorry about how it went. That sucks. It is really hard to reject someone, and people often give mixed signals because they like being noticed or liked.
I agree with you about wanting to trust your heart, that it will lead you to safety, or to good choices at least on some levels even if not on manifest levels. I believe we are drawn to others who are good fits for us in some ways, there is some good and healthy reason for why this person appeals to us.

Date? What Date? (9/29/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:57:00.000-07:00

Rolled out of bed, into Stacey's car, and off to work on just a couple hours sleep--no time to eat breakfast or make lunch. Julie was in her car when we pulled in beside her. I looked over, took a deep breath. Stacey said, "It'll be okay." It helped, but I still felt as if I'd slipped back a few months. I was afraid to see her, to have to talk to her, my resolve to start again on a different footing dissolving. I was getting angry with myself. But I turned and offered "Good morning," and we three walked in together, Stacey in the middle engaging Julie in conversation about their next possible hike. At the coffee shop Julie had invited me hiking with them, as a friendly gesture. I'd told Stacey such that evening. I think now she was bringing up hiking for my benefit, to contrive to get Julie and me together again.

Julie showed no signs of awkwardness toward me during the day, and no sign at all that she had been even the least affected by our get-together Saturday, if she, indeed, even remembered it. We shared the desk at eleven, and I thought I'd playfully remind her. I said, "So, how was your weekend?" She didn't turn when she said, "Oh, it was good. My new great-niece was born Saturday, so that made it pretty nice."

Did I hear crickets? Did she just pass right over our two hours together? Who is this? How many of her are there? Wow. Not even an ironic nod to my intimation. And the conversation continued in the usual Julie fashion, wherein I prompt her with a question or two, and she talks about herself. No thought of me, not even token reciprocation. Not a complaint, mind--that's just how she is; that is, no different than if we had only ever conversed at work. That's my complaint. This woman seems to have compartments within compartments. The complexity of her emotional defenses is beginning to frighten me. What is the pain that requires such partitioning? The task I've set before myself is now even more daunting.

It Couldn't Be That Hump on My Back, Could It? (10/01/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:56:00.001-07:00

The questions don't stop, and the answers don't come. Of course, the most persistent is still, What ruled me out? My left-handedness? Not always covering my mouth when I sneeze? Glasses? Height? What? It isn't the most most important question, though it starts that muscle in my upper right shoulder tightening.

Is there any degree of artlessness to her behavior? And, if so, what degree of calculation is there? If there is artlessness to any degree, I believe it was cultivated by an intense practice of its converse: Practice made perfect, a kind of psychological muscle memory. It's something we all do, anyway; some of us must do it to a greater extent than others. I think of Julie's seeming obliviousness to my feelings toward her all this time, and I can't simply write it off as naivete. She's seeing what she wants to see, and she has an acutely atuned defense mechanism that can block anything from her consciousness with deft efficiency. Perhaps it seems a cruel attribution, and I admit a lingering bitterness has likely accelerated my logic to that extreme, but it's simply speculation, a gurgitation of possibilities. What else do I have to go on when I haven't keys to the castle?

But the bitterness is a factor. It blocks my compassion, the key to understanding any person, and isn't understanding Julie what I set out to do on this second go-round? It's only my intellect that isn't satisfied with what Julie told me Saturday. My heart understands that it wasn't a personal attack--only my pride thinks that. My heart knows Julie is only trying to protect herself. What part of me is it that wants to know why? I feel a sadness for her, but I don't want to pity her. I can't deny that I hope to gain by this endeavor, but I also know that her affection is, by a significant margin, the lesser of the gains I hope to make. I want to know Julie.

Am I being realistic? What's realistic in this case? The result and the possibility of attainment? Then realisticness isn't even a consideration yet, because though of course I want to succeed, I'm not pursuing success. This is not a hunt; there is no prey I want to kill.

Who's Here to Relieve Me? (10/02/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:56:00.000-07:00

What if Julie just isn't as deep as I've imagined her? What does fascinate me about her? What has ever fascinated me about her? Surely more than her availability and proximity. It took most of a year for this crush to blossom. I was not attracted to her when I first saw her. Something grew from working with her. It may simply have sprung from the common interests discovered along the way. Was the fascination grown from the possibilities planted in this common ground? Is that enough?

It's been a difficult week for me. Yesterday, I started by trying to avoid her, but stepped right into her parlor. When I got in she was shelving, according to the schedule, and I was to do the same. The non-fiction cart was missing, so, assuming that to be her location, I took out the easies. But there she was. She had loaded a smaller cart with easies. I didn't greet her as I pulled up a row down from her. She didn't look up as I approached--at least, we didn't make eye contact. Feeling stupid for my (non) action, I seethed at myself as I hid among the lower shelves, where it seemed most of my books belonged.

"Here, hot off the presses." Julie stretched out a book to me. A page protruded above the rest. A scant glance from the book, a "Shrek 2" tie-in, saw a smile. I said, "I hope I can't fix it," and quickly inspected it. "Oh, it looks like I can." Got a little, maybe indulgent, chuckle out her. It was no icebreaker, though. Eventually, I asked her head, bowed over the books in the top bins, "How's it been today?" Without looking up, she said, "Oh, not bad. A little slow." That went no further, either. Much later in the day I remembered telling her Saturday that I had difficulty around her. It seemed now a good hedge against this most recent behavior, as well as such future behavior. By five, when I relieved her from the desk, I was nearly cheerful. "Are you here to relieve me?" she smiled up at me. "Yes, I am," I said to her eyes. He started past me then turned her head across her shoulder to look at me with a "Thank you" on her lips. The evening passed quickly.

Puzzles (10/03/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:55:00.001-07:00

Mike's reaction to my Saturday experience was of respectful dismay--to the outcome and my strategy. He knew beforehand what the strategy would be, but it was only after its result that he ventured an opinion: I should have taken a much more casual approach to the discourse, been more patient. I could see his point, and told him so, but I also told him that at that level the discourse might never rise to the realm of ideas and emotions. "That might work for anyone else," I told him, "but not for me." Or with Julie, I said to myself. I did the right thing; Julie knows how I feel about her and hasn't pushed me away. How could chat have accomplished that?

Yesterday evening at work I strolled to the breakroom to fix my second cup of tea. Julie was already there, on the same mission. The silence outside the burbling pot quickly discomfited me. Then Julie said, "I thought you were working on that puzzle." The table on which we'd together assembled three jigsaws was bare of the puzzle I'd started on it last week in hopes of eliciting her participation. She'd never joined me.

"I was."

"Did you put it away?"

"Yes, I did."

"Why?"

It was a question I'd been pondering since Monday, when I swept the pieces back into the box and replaced it on the top of the fridge. My lips parted, closed again. I took in and let out a deep breath before turning to her. "I lost interest," I told her, thinking as I held her gaze, "because it's no fun alone."

The water roiled. She said to it, "I have to get that card table out of my storage unit." She'd mentioned bringing it in for us to build our puzzles on.

"What else is in your storage unit?" I asked with a bit of bitter mischief before I recognized it as such and had a chance to stop it.

Instead of giving me the usual motive-seeking stare, she said to the pot, "Oh, boxes. My housewares."

I was suddenly glad I hadn't simply microwaved a mug of water. Still without a discreet editor, I asked, "So, was it the plan all along that when your mom moved up here you would live with her?"

"Not really," she said to me. "When I moved up here my mother didn't really want to live there alone."

I sent her a puzzled squint. She poured our water. "But," I said, "don't you have a brother down there?"

She looked away, hesitated. I looked at my mug, started to mutter an apology for what I'd perceived as an infliction of pain.

Slowly, with calculated restraint, she said, "They...probably...wouldn't help her as often as she would like."

My editor put a finger to his lips. I obeyed.

A Puppy, Not a Baby (10/07/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

Woke this morning to the realization that only one work week had passed since tea with Julie, and many times during the day--and even now, at ten p.m.--I counted back the days for verification, and each time came up incredulous. Certainly, the first three days of last week were difficult and long, but the fourth was, if not a triumph in but the most optimistic spin of the word, at least headway--some insight into her darkness and decided candor of my own. Still, it was not a long way to have come over the course of the week.

The distance, this perceived temporal elongation, has, I believe been induced by Julie's thorough displacement of the event. I searched in vain all week for a sign of acknowledgement of something that by the beginning of this week I had allowed her to make me believe was only a distant memory quickly fading into doubt, as confusing as this sentence.

Yet, in a way, there has been an acknowledgement from her of my proclaimed affections--or I'm grasping at straws. I'm hesitant even to acknowledge that myself, to somehow make it true by writing it. So I won't, without substantial corroborating evidence. (I believe that that is at least proof that my heart is in the driver's seat here: Despite the sober caution, I did not allow the head to rationalize a chimera into existence. The Wise Man and the Fool both are spectators at this event.)

In looking for that sign from Julie, patience will not likely win out, but I'm counting on just enough to force the issue, if subtly and only an inch or two. Just as in asking her out, there are two essential elements involved in the success of my next task--knowing what that task is, of course, and knowing when to perform it. I have had the task in mind for most of a week now, since shortly after the failure of "How was your weekend?" and I'm simply waiting for that most opportune of scheduled work moments to implement it: On our next mutual hour on the desk together I will tell her, in effect or verbatim--depending on my nerve--"Julie, for the record, I still find you fascinating." I may even raise my hand and turn my head afterwards as if to both deflect comment from her and defer elaboration from myself; but that gesture is wholly dependent upon my confidence in the strength of my statement. I think I have a lot of capital to bank on, given Julie's virtual detachment, but it might be only just enough. I'm only looking for a rise. I don't want to send her scuttling back across the drawbridge. A smile would do, and would do for quite a while--or, rather, would have to do for quite a while, for I want her to remain aware of my affections without feeling any threat from them. I would like to simply set them on her doorstep without a note and walk away. I'm not asking for more than she can give, nor even more than she thinks she can give. At the very least, I want her to know that I could never do her any kind of harm. At the most.... Well, I'm just not sure about that yet.

Next, We'll Try the Drunken Advice (10/08/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:54:00.001-07:00

I told Gay-Lynn yesterday. She had gone about the library a few weeks ago with a camera, taking casual head shots of us all. First thing, I walked into her office, closed the door, and asked her to send me Julie's picture. "You aren't going to do anything mean with it, are you?" she asked. "No, no, no, no, no," I said, a tad surprised she felt a need to ask me. "This is purely for my own enjoyment." "She is beautiful." I murmured reverent assent then said, "I had tea with her, outside work, not this past Saturday but the one before." Gay-Lynn clasped her hands in front of her mouth and squeaked, "Ooh!" I hated to disappoint her, but added, "I got the 'nice guy' line." She sank. "Well," she said, "give it time. Things can change; the longer you work together, the better she'll get to know you."

I left her office with one more ally and cheerleader, someone else who will look at both Julie and me differently, puzzling over Julie as I do, meanwhile sympathizing with me, wondering why she's passed me up. Or, perhaps, wondering what could be wrong with me that would put her off. Whimsical confidence fantasizes such a groundswell of indignance over Julie's rejection of me that she, at worst, caves in and gives me a second chance; or, at best, admits to herself the error of her philosophy and welcomes me back with renewed appreciation. This seems not so far removed from that fanciful hope of having everyone know about my crush except Julie, at whom it finally jumps out, as at a surprise party when the lights go up. All fantasy, I know, especially with that thick-shelled nut breaking all my tools.

*****

Tomorrow night at six: My latest D-Hour. It's going to happen; I just have to avoid working myself into a knot of dread. There seem all kinds of reasons not to do this, but I'll make no attempt to identify them; consequently, undefined, they gain no existence. I rode with Mike tonight and told him of the mutual desk hour and that I was going to "work on" Julie, but I didn't clue him in on the precise strategy, knowing how he felt about my previous one. I was afraid he might dampen it with caution. He's on my side; he just doesn't indulge my fancy as much as Stacey or Hinckley would. He said tonight, "You said she told you she had a good time at the coffee shop, but maybe she didn't." I had to ask him to repeat it. It was too sober. Maybe not what I really want right now. All I want is to not talk myself down from the throne of resolve. That and a change in my attitude at work from the serious regression I've suffered this week. I've hardly been able to say hello, and she looks right through me. But I'm psyching myself out.

In the workroom today Angie showed me a movie she likes. It had Sharon Stone in it, whom I told Angie I didn't like. Angie was disbelieving and asked me about this actress and that actress, of all of whom I emphatically denied any appreciation. "Well, who do you like?" she said. I pointed to the picture on the storage cabinet over my desk. "Who's that?" "Gillian Anderson." "Oh, she's alright." "Alright?" "She's cute, I guess." She tried a few more on me, and when she got to Angelina Jolie I exclaimed stridently, "No!" "Well, you know what you like, and you can look at her any time you like." "I do," said, looking at Julie's profile at the discharge counter. "I look at her every day."

Tiptoeing Elephant (10/09/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:54:00.000-07:00

When I told Julie on that long-ago Saturday that I was done pussyfooting I was challenging myself, forcing a resolve that I hadn't fully acquired. And when I think of that I feel the resolve and know that it's the most important thing I can grasp, that from it comes all the strength and truth of my mission. Which is...? Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, jaw set, I stare out the window, don't see the answer. Part of me--I'm afraid to know which, the neurotic or the realist--doesn't believe there is an answer--at least one that doesn't expose the whole endeavor as a tilting at windmills. As it may very well be. Will I know it when I see it? Can I even possibly see it? But that is a long way off. I have a lot of work to do.

Sometimes it feels as if the work is the thing, a challenge for the sake of challenge. Not only am I willing to believe that, but I'm willing to embrace it as likely the best way to focus. But I could focus better if I could bring the challenge into sharper definition, break it into manageable chunks for incremental goal-setting. If I can see progress I will be encouraged. Doubt is the ultimate regressor, taking the sunlight from the path ahead for a spotlight on the road already traveled. For this journey I need only know the way ahead. Where is the light?

*****

Crack! Or, more accurately, Chip!

As with asking Julie out, knowing the time and place of my latest, next-important endeavor hardened my resolve. I started right off the bat with a small confidence, telling her that I had "Hallelujah" by Prefab Sprout running through my head, and had had for the better part of these two days. "Been listening to Prefab Sprout, have you?" "Well, I hadn't been, but I played it today because the snippet I had in my head yesterday wasn't long enough to give me the title." We each had a patron or two to deal with, then I brought some leasebooks out of the workroom to shelve. I didn't want to attack her straightaway and perhaps reveal a desperate agenda, but the ticking clock and the closing window preyed on my diligence. I finished the shelving in time for a sudden flurry of activity at the desk. The clock was ticking louder and the window creaking down the sash when a man with a straining plastic bag approached from Children's. Without parting teeth or moving lips, I quietly hissed, "Use the self-check, use the self-check." He didn't, and I despatched him as quickly as courtesy allowed. Julie worked on a registration. The rush might have lasted all of ten minutes, but it seemed as if no air were getting through that window by the time it ended. A trio of chatters lingered near the desk and my teeth tried to make dust of one another, when Julie said, "Poor Mike." He was trying to shelve the fiction DVD's, whose stock woefully dwarfs the allotted space for their display. I stood and moved toward the higher counter between us. "Poor anybody who has to shelve DVD's, " I said. "I've shifted them all twice this week." Ensuing was a short discussion about the problem, then a lull. I slid away from the partition. The trio was still there, but I knew this to be the time and beat back a nervous hesitation before sliding back toward her.

"For the record, Julie," I said, "and then I'll shut up..." I paused while she turned to me. Adrenaline surged. I never felt more confident. As I spoke the next words, the volume of my voice descended to less than a whisper. I couldn't hear the last word, only feel my lips form it and my breath push it through..."you still fascinate me."

Instantly, she turned away (but not before I caught the bloom on her cheeks), dropping her head, her hair falling over her face, and I heard the most delightful, most charming, most endearing murmur issue from the mask: "You've embarrassed me."

And from me, spontaneously, came the upraised hand and the turned-away head. "I just had to say that," I said, and sat down heart thudding, imaginary fist pumping.

Neither of us ventured a glance at the other for a moment till I noticed, peripherally, Julie throw her hair off her face. She then reached up to the counter and straightened bookmarks that didn't need straightening (because I'd just done it). Looked like victory to me. Soon, she left her seat for the magazine area, ostensibly to tidy them and pick up the strays, but possibly to pick up a few of her own pieces. She returned visibly recomposed. The rest of the hour was business as usual, even with a little chat, though of course not about That.

I have since, of course, analyzed the event and my actions therein, and found the usual cast of missed opportunities and regrets, but I have cast them adrift like whiny mutineers. I behaved in accord with my nature; to have done otherwise would have been a regret impossible to throw overboard. After all, I am not just trying to know Julie, but myself as well. I was myself in that moment, and that just might have been as great a triumph as the moment itself.

So, what now? I asked myself that on a Saturday almost two weeks ago, and I'm still waiting on that reply. I don't believe I have an advantage, per se. This is not a game or competition. What I have is an opportunity. What I have is a heightened understanding. What I have is a deeper appreciation and respect for Julie and higher value for our friendship.

What do I do with what I have? It may be too late at night to ponder that one efficiently, but I don't mind a sloppy go at it. If I want, as I've claimed, to get to know Julie first and foremost, then I have to give myself, come out of my self and my self-conscious cares, to find out who she is. Yes, I want her. Did I ever deny that? But though I also want to have fun, I have to stop treating this as a game. This is not for my amusement, or even for my gain. Purely and simply, I have to remove my self. (Well, purely, anyway.) If this is not for my gain, then I should not seek gain, but accept it as a consequence of compassion. That gain will be the understanding I seek. I feel that. I know that. I believe that. How do I do that?

I Don't Think I'll Ever Get That Thirty-Day Chip (10/10/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:53:00.001-07:00

I tried to build on yesterday, but I just didn't know how. I was friendly toward Julie, but I couldn't find the balance between "knowing" and indifference, and Julie, if anything, seemed a bit more aloof. But there I go seeing things. If that blush last night wasn't good enough for my confidence, what will be? I'm tempted to blame it on Julie's shell, but that would be grossly unfair. Where's the compassion? Where's the actual interest in getting to know her? I'm trying to validate my feelings for her through her. What the hell have I learned in five months? That I have all the answers and don't know what to do with them. There's an organic problem that goes deeper than any neatly boxed rationale. I don't need a self-help book full of mental tricks. It's not a New Year's resolution. It's not deciding to be a certain way and doing certain things toward that end. It's me looking where I don't want to look to find what I don't want to find and doing the work I don't want to do. And the irony is, these are just words.

Here's a revelation: I'm obsessed. Care to dispute that? I deny myself any bit of life that distracts me from Julie. Everything I do is for her approval or notice. How can I expect that of someone or subject myself to it? Is this something I didn't know? No, just something I hadn't admitted. Is this an addiction? I think I've just taken the first step. "Hello, my name is Dion, and I'm addicted to Julie." What comes next? Apology? Who have I hurt, and how, with this addiction? Don't tell me.

And my support group and sponsor is me. Not much help there. Hinckley, Stacey, and Mike have been great helping do what I've told them I wanted to do, but when is one of them going to tell me what I've just told myself? When I'm with them, how much do I care about anything but the one person I'm not with? As happens with nearly everyone in my life, I've come to take them for granted, taking what I need, giving little, and ignoring them when they've outlived their usefulness. How much have I really grown? How much do I really appreciate anyone?

And what do I do about any of these discoveries besides beat myself up over them? Where's the compasion for myself? Not the self-pity--that's been done to death (sadly, not it's own). When am I going to stop accepting these things and do something about them? These are not among those acceptable flaws. I wasn't born this way; I was made this way; and I can be unmade and put back together the right way. Can't I?

(10/11/08 Saturday)

2009-04-26T12:53:00.000-07:00

I have no life of my own, and I'm scared.

Zoo or Lab? (10/13/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:52:00.001-07:00

I'm not the least bit equipped to deal with this, yet I can't let go--or it won't let go of me. Distraction is impossible, even at home. Is it, indeed, gripping me, caging me? I'm trapped. I can't get to my life, I can't get away from Julie in any way. If not for Julie I wouldn't be writing again, though suddenly I wonder if that's a good thing. Is this a passion or an obsession? Is there a difference? A practical difference? I see no way out but to bring it out in the open. Not to spite Julie, but to stop hiding, stop pretending I'm able to deal with this on my own. The advice of the people I've trusted with the problem would be stacked against that strategy, but when did I ever really listen, except when Hinckley told me to "go for it"? I've certainly been desperate along this trail, but I've never felt more so than now. But desperate for what? I don't want to force Julie into any action against me. I don't want to put any more stress on her than I already have, but I just can't pussyfoot around the way I feel, and I can't turn it off. I try to find things about her to build up a debit against her, but if they're there I can't see them.

I am caged. I have no room to discuss this with Julie, who is the only person with whom this needs discussing, and that enrages me! "Great guy"! "Great guy"! What's so fucking great?! How can that change anything? It doesn't break that clot of stress that builds up in my right shoulder at the thought of her or the sound of her voice. It doesn't let me sleep all night. It doesn't do anything but listen to me shriek and watch me roll violently around the cage walls tearing my hair out and shredding white knuckles on the bars.

I tried not to write after Saturday, but my mind began to eat itself. I've had no one to talk to anywhere. Stacey seems tired of hearing me talk about it, Mike doesn't mention it, and I've barely had a word with Hinckley in over a week. I've become tiresome. Nobody will tell me to give Julie up, but they can't indulge me any longer, either. Dammit, won't someone be honest with me?

One Hammer Handle, One Toothless Saw (No Anaesthetic) (10/15/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

Got a glimpse in the toolbox yesterday. The inventory was obvious.

My early day and Julie's late, I knew already I'd try to avoid her. It worked until she showed up. The desk was my duty after lunch, and I went straight there from the computers upstairs. For half an hour I was fine. Then a patron couldn't find her hold. I double-checked the hold shelves, hoping to find it misshelved and avoid a trip to the back. It wasn't there. I'd keep blinders on, not look for or see Julie, if I could help it. I open the door to the workroom and guess who crosses my path, returing from mail-packing with a small cart? I saw her glance at me and couldn't smile: That big-eyed smileless face scared me lifeless. I mumbled, "Hi, Julie," got no reaction. Perhaps she hadn't heard me, but that's not what my mind made of it. I was sunk, a well-cast pebble capsizing my battleship. I looked on the sorting carts, then made the mistake that fatally challenged my equipage: I asked Mary Lou if she had any holds. She didn't have any, but had to bounce from her desk to follow me out. "It's not out here!" I all but belllowed at her as I opened the door. Her bad hearing selectively ignored me, and again at the holds shelf, when after she checked where I just had and declared, "It's not there," I replied loudly, in front of the patron, "We know that, already!" and turned to check the stacks. I found it there, but that didn't rid me of Mary Lou. She was in front of my monitor when I got back. I inserted myself in between and inflated like a mad toad to block the screen from her view. Mary Lou asked, "Is that the one we should've trapped?" "I don't know," I curtly replied. "It doesn't matter. Just go away." She did. My behavior in front of the patron disgusted me, but I wasn't feeling apologetic toward Mary Lou, and at first intended to elaborate on my displeasure when I got off the desk. But good as that might have made me feel immediately, it wouldn't have stood me well with my other coworkers, though it might have served notice to Mary Lou to just not "help" me in the future.

I couldn't sit the rest of the hour. I knew it was time to talk to Tammy; this was not work-related. My first intention upon getting her ear was to get the rest of the day off--flee--but we were short-handed and I didn't want to make matters worse. I was at the window the next hour. I listened for the sound of her keyboard and approached her in her office. "Will you be here, in your office, next hour?" Slowly, she answered, "Yeah," almost with a question mark. I said, "I need to talk with you." "Oh, no," she said, dripping dread and sympathy. We settled on the next hour, though she'd have to leave at a quarter after. I got back to my post, feeling better already. Just a few minutes later, though, she found me and told me she'd gotten Becky to cover the window for me, and I followed her into her office.

I closed the door behind me. "Uh-oh," said Tammy. "Closed door meeting. I don't think we've had one of these with you before."

"I don't think it's that bad."

"Oh, good."

"I don't think it's that bad."

"Oh." Her lips froze around the word.

I took a deep breath and stared at the wall a moment before turning back to her. "I'm having trouble," I said, "working with someone here." I hadn't really known what I was going to say, so I was being careful. I knew I could trust her, but.... "It's not about their attitude or their work habits, or anything like that." Tammy was leaning toward me across her desk. "I guess I should tell you who it is."

"You better," she laughed, "now that you've built up the suspense."

"It's Julie."

"Julie?" More than incredulity was written across her face. The reaction unsettled me slightly, but relieved me somehow, too.

"A couple weeks ago," I started--"no, a few weeks ago, I asked Julie out for tea, and I , uh, expressed myself." I was pleased with the expression; Tammy's laugh confirmed her understanding. "But I got the 'nice guy' line."

"Oh, no!" She seemed almost to take it personally. "Oh, that's so sad!"

"Well, so, since then it's been very difficult working around her. I've been very...erratic, for lack of a better word." I hesitated to, but concisely detailed Julie's stated philosophy on getting to know someone. Tammy's puzzlement equalled mine of the time--and that of everyone else I've told.

Besides offering to schedule Julie and me away from each other--"Or would that make it worse?" "Much worse"--Tammy had no solutions, but I wasn't expecting or wanting that. She offered a sympathetic ear, and that was what I needed.

Tammy told me she'd noticed "something, some"--she pointed her fingers at each other and wiggled them--"spark."

"Oh, really." I shouldn't have been surprised, nor even at my lack of notice. I'd thought that "feminine intuition" had failed the test in the workplace, but it was only my powers of observation as I was absorbed in my mission; though maybe my fear of discovery was well-founded.

"And I wasn't the only one." I wanted names but thought that indiscreet. "With the puzzles, you two bent over the together. And other things." Again, I didn't let myself ask for elaboration.

We talked for the better part of the hour. As usual, I wished I'd done this long ago. How could I doubt anymore that someone would be rooting for me? I went back to the window, just a few feet from Julie at her desk, feeling nearly buoyant from the lifted weight. I never did ask to leave early.

The Unleavenedth Hour (10/17/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:49:00.002-07:00

The relief lasted until I came in yesterday--or, rather, until I saw Julie's car in the lot as Stacey pulled in with me and Hinckley. I'd always rather get in before Julie; I don't want to see her before I can at least pretend I'm immersed in work--checking email, repairing books, sorting carts--so I can pretend I didn't notice her arrival. Pathetic, eh?

So I was already besieged by neuroses armed to the teeth when I turned the corner of my desk and reflexively glanced down the row to the last desk. Every day Julie is more entrancingly beautiful than the day before. It seems almost a taunt. She was wearing a sleeveless, black-print dress. I was lost. The schedule said shelving at the top of the hour. The carts were all nearly empty. A discharge cart needed emptying. I started toward it, but its proximity to Julie, a desk away, might as well have been my head in the lion's mouth. I backed away, my mind a riot, and fled the workroom with the heels of my hands against my temples. A tour of the hallway was no relief. I resolved to grab a cart and escape into the stacks pronto.

I took the fiction. It was the heaviest cart, but still not half-full. And though not half-sorted, either, it didn't take long (enough) to empty. With blinders on, I returned, sat at my desk to repair a small stack of books. The end of the day seemed impossibly far away. I took off my glasses, squeezed the bridge of my nose. It occurred to me then that if I couldn't see I couldn't see Julie. Three of the books were goners; I took them to the second discharge counter to send them on their way, leaving my glasses behind. Mike was at the first station. "Did you get a ride in?" he asked. "Yeah. But I wish I'd come in on my own. I already feel like leaving." "You don't look like you're feeling well." "Oh, it's not physical; it's emotional." "Well, let me know if you want to talk about it." "Sure. Thanks."

Last in my stack was a book/CD Julie had given me the day before. "A present for you," she'd said, handing it to me. "But it's not my birthday yet," I'd replied, stinging myself with the lame response. The block and front board were separated, but I noticed a piece of tape across the back of the CD inset in the board. I replaced my glasses (I didn't want her to ask; I would've told her) and strolled to her desk. "Julie." "Yes?" She removed her headphones. "Did you notice this when you gave it to me yesterday?" I handed it to her. "It wasn't like this when I saw it," she said. Hating to contradict her, I said, "Well, it was like that when I got it." "Huh," she said, head pointed at her crosslegged lap, where she was scraping at the tape with a short fingernail. I gazed at her bare knees. She repeated her claim. I, yet more painfully reluctant, repeated mine. "Huh, well," she said, "you know what?" Julie held up a round plastic cover. The CD still lay in the other half. Embarrassed but not mortified, I managed a good laugh at myself and took everything back from her and to my desk. She followed to show me the damage she had meant for me to repair. The damage was obvious; I didn't have to be shown, but she wasn't Mary Lou. I didn't shout her away.

I felt better--sometimes I think that all I really want is for her to talk to me--but the glasses still came off again and remained so till after lunch.

As last Thursday, Julie and I were on the desk at six. Knowing since a peek at the schedule the night before, I pondered strategy. I wanted desperately to get another rise out of her somehow, if only by ironically, letting her know I wouldn't be bothering her that hour. But part of me also wanted to passively spite her by not talking to her at all. Of course, that wouldn't work. It's probably what she would want. She never seems craven for conversation. But the "Library Card Challenge" took the strategy out my hands. The line to the circ desk reached nearly to Children's the entire hour as we registered one kid after another for cards. I was angry the entire time for having my decision made moot on, likely, my only shot of the week.

Talked with Stacey at her place after work. She confirmed that she had needed a break from my obsession. I'm glad she was truthful with me about it. I hope I wasn't taxing last night and that I was a good listener. I told her something Tammy had told me about my desk rescue of Julie back in June: that it clued a few people in on my feelings for Julie. (Really, how could it not have?) Stacey told me Megan came to her afterwards and recounted the scene, amused and surprised that I could be so loud and demonstrative. The picture is gaining a deeper focus.

A Cannonball into the Kiddy Pool or a Pebble in the Ocean? (10/19/08 Sunday)*

2009-04-26T12:49:00.001-07:00

Hinckley brought up a point yesterday that might help me right my ship. He's been re-reading the blog, and he noticed a two-week period from the end of June in which I exhibited a strong confidence in my efforts and the likelihood of their desired results. He said I have to find a way to get back to that. The difference, though, I told him, is that I had a goal then; that now there wasn't a rainbow and pot or a tunnel to find the light at the end of. I tracked down the entries of which he spoke and was amazed at the confidence exuded. After reading them, though, I told him, "I figured it would come down to an irony." "How so?" "All the time I spent trying not to strategize, and what was I doing then but strategizing? I hate scripting my actions." "What you need to find is a happy medium." A recent self-admonishment, of course, but it always seems wiser when coming from a voice on the outside of my head. The question remains, though: What is my goal now? I've said I want to get to know Julie and for her to get to know me, but I'm finding that more than difficult. I think of her "two places to get to know a person" and I feel resentment at having to play that game--her game. I can't play it. I can't believe I'm getting anywhere with small talk, and that's all the talk there is. She has the ball and won't send it back. No, it's my game I have to play if anything's to get done, and I've already started playing it. The no-pussyfooting challenge is not going unheeded. You remember me saying way back when that what I really wanted was for everyone to know? Well, I've already taken steps. There was Tammy the other day; yesterday, it was Bethany.

On the desk I asked Bethany if she remembered me telling her about my "big crush." She did. "Well, " I said, "it's on someone here. She doesn't feel the same way, but she knows how I feel." I didn't tell her who it was, and she didn't ask, if not because she didn't have to, at least in deference to my privacy.

Another effort has been a somewhat indifferent discretion toward exposure of the blog, bringing it up at my desk during my lunch or on the circ desk. Yesterday, I "forgot" to clear the history before I was relieved at the desk. It was Julie who relieved me, though. It's not her who I want to find out that way. She didn't. (Or did she? Would even that be enough to get her to talk to me?) I'm sure a few people have seen the screen over my shoulder, the title there readable at a glance. There is probably no one else I could tell outright who would both care and not tell the world. This has to be subtle, a groundswell.

So, the goal? I'm still not sure, except to have fun finding out. I'm even developing a side project: I'm putting Brother Cadfael to a surreptitious task. Eventually, Julie will get her books back. But inside each one will be a three-by-five notecard with a question or comment on it--for example, "I want to climb your walls, not tear them down" or "You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect." Twenty of them--not all written yet--for twenty books. The thickness of the card will ensure its discovery.

Honestly, whatever I'm ultimately trying to do, I don't want it to end--not, anyway, without a friendly resolution. Hurt as I feel, it's my hurt. Julie didn't inflict it. The greater hurt for me would be to hurt Julie. This has been good for me. Julie has been the inspiration for every word, every personal discovery, pleasurable or painful--but all indispensable--along this bumpy, curvy, hilly, inky road, and I hate to think of trying to follow it without her light.

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Hoping for an "accidental" discovery of your blog, I know how that goes. I'm always checking to see who is reading mine and where they are from, etc.
Sounds like you've identified some positive self-discovery from your feelings about Julie. I felt the same way about my own love. It has become more clear to me what I want, what I don't want, the passion I've been missing in my life.

Whyne (10/20/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:49:00.000-07:00

If this is good for me, why am I so angry? Why do I sleep worse than ever? Why do I dread seeing Julie? Because I'm not satisfied. There is no resolution. Did she really think I could be satisfied with being a "great guy," with being allowed to "hang out" with her, with getting to "know" her only at work? What should I expect? What am I due? What does she owe me? Nothing, on all counts. Yet I can't accept it. Why? My emotional investment? I can't step back. I can't find my life. Nothing is mine anymore. Every action, word and thought is given to Julie--all to no more effect than what feels like madness. I want to run away. But I won't. I can't. I can't do this to myself. And I can't not. Every day I want to call in sick. Every day at work I go crazy. Should it have been easy accepting her verdict? Should I have been able to flick that switch off and shut the door? How could those illogical words she spoke that Saturday help me do that and walk away? But would logic have helped?

If It Doesn't Fit, Force It (10/21/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:48:00.001-07:00

I must insert my life between myself and Julie. What is that life? Where did it go? How can I again feel good about the thought of reading, something at which I've spent all of twenty minutes in the past week? What else do I have every day? Music has become a co-conspirator (enabler?) in this obsession; I can't listen to what doesn't remind me of Julie. The kids, even, can hardly distract me when they're over. And I think this has been good for me? If I could see personal growth along this way, I'd feel this was worth it; but I've read this journal over at least twice and seen the same questions in September that I asked in June. And the answers? Where are they? Are they in here? They are hidden well if they are here at all. I'm creating a puzzle I can't begin to solve.

One thing I've learned from the re-reading is to take a cue. After eating lunch today I stayed in the breakroom writing while waiting for Julie's arrival. I greeted her warmly, noted that she was on time and asked if she'd tutored. She said she had. She's usually late when she tutors. "You must have made record time," I said. She told me how the room had no clock and that the teacher--they teach as a group--usually does not inform them of the time. That was pretty much that, but it's a (re)start.

And I know where I'll go from there. If I'm to have any resolution I have to plow right in and ask for what I need to know, and that can only happen at the desk. I have to ask, say, "When you asked youself why I would ask to meet you at the coffee shop, what did you answer?" I also want to know if she had any foreshadowing of my intentions. If this is stepping on toes, she's going to have to keep dancing, because the music's not stopping. To make the emotional break from her I have to be unemotional, be dogged in pursuit of what will make the break for me. I don't see the possibility of hurting her as long as I harbor no bitterness, and to ensure that I have to have a plan. The plan is to have an agenda for every hour on the desk with Julie--a question, a theme of conversation--and pray for time to implement it. I'm confident Julie won't close me out. Though I am sure she'll continue guarding herself, I think that guard protects her emotionally when dealing with a candor such as I intend to implement. She will answer my questions, and I will slacken the line a bit but not let her off the hook. That will be the tricky part, following up her responses, hearing them from the viewpoint of logic and responding in kind. But no attacks, no forced retreats into the fortress. There has to be a meeting place, where chitchat and bald-faced candor can become a conversation, an engagement, a dialogue. I have to bring her there. God, what a thrill that would be! That would be a discovery!

But opportunity. When do I get that? The Library Card Challenge is on again this Thursday, so if the schedule hasn't changed we will be just as swamped and unable to interact. I'll have to bide my time, but it's those intervals that will be the most troublesome; I still have a great difficulty with the incidental moments of working with her. Every interaction is fraught with meaning--all mine, I'm sure--because all I want to talk about is her, yet she is safely insulated with coworkers, and I can barely look her in the eye, anyway. Another reason to get things out in the open. I won't say time is on my side, not till it and my patience kiss and make up, and their differences seem irreconcilable. But there's time for that, too, I suppose.

No, That's Just the Flames of Hell (10/22/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:48:00.000-07:00

Purpose. Resolution. Full circle. How far I've come. How far I've yet to go. Is that, actually, a light I see? Funny: To get what I want now is to lose what I really wanted. Irony--what could be crueler? Or could this resolution bring about the preferred resolution? Even the cynic in me doesn't want to see me hurt by that kind of hopefulness. Besides, it's irony in control of my life; irony decides what I'm to have. It would not give me what does not satisfy itself, only what will elicit from me a smirk of perverse appreciation for its power over me. It's my God, and I'm stuck with it. How quickly I move from resolve to resignation! They cannot be that far removed from one another. To resolve to do something is to be confident of its outcome. That confidence sees the outcome and is satisfied, becomes happily complacent. Resigned.

And Who Knows What the Hell the Name of the Game Is! (10/22/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:47:00.000-07:00

I've never felt more desperately alone. I'm staring into that chasm, and I'm ready to step into the void. There's bound to be peace there. I don't want to give up on Julie. I can't admit what I know--that she'll never feel anything for me. Dammit, why do I have to feel anything for her? Why does she make it seem so goddamned easy? Why can't I take this like a fucking man? Because I'm not a man. I'm just a person out of his mind with frustration and bitterness because he can't have what he deserves and has no control over getting it. Women hold all the cards and the rule book, too. Nobody tell me about fairness!

Now with Moebius Loop-de-Loops! (10/26/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T12:46:00.001-07:00

There is a new resolve, a fairer and more final resolve, not a cry-wolf resolve. Not a cute, passive, ironically hopeful resolve.

Julie will get her books back. Julie will not be grilled at the desk. The books will have no cards in them. There will be a letter of sorts, a long statement, actually, at the bottom of the "pretty gift bag". The tone of this statement will be unenmotional but not passive; not accusatory or defensive; respectful, not hopeful. Resigned? No, but not expectant. Questions, but no obligation to answer. The basket will be placed on her doorstep and I will turn my back and walk away, if with great reluctance and with a monumental force of will suppressing my urge to turn around. My statement will be that force, so it must be strong and complete, as strong as Julie's fortress, only not a defense. I will not push an agenda nor ever after do so. There will be no pity, for either of us, only respect.

But (here we go again), what do I hope to accomplish? I want to give Julie the basket and let her do whatever she likes with it; relieve the stress for her on the desk wondering how I'll embarrass her next. What will it do for me?--that is, that no other strategy has done for me. Can I really expect it to help me place some emotional distance between us a work? Or, rather, since she's achieved that already--indeed, never had to--can I hope to work with her without anxiety, look at her without longing, hear her voice without the knife in my gut? It's a giant order, even if I say eveything I need to say the way I want to say it and ask all the questions it's fair to ask, because Julie, I'm fairly certain, will not respond--to me. I will dangle. What will knowing she's read this letter do for--or to--me? Leave me suspended in hope, likely; not at all satisfied with having cleanly expressed myself. Here come the expectations!

I felt good when I began writing today. The roller coaster rides are getting faster.

With a Declaration of Undying Love, No Doubt (10/28/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

The letter's coming very slowly. Here's about as far as I got with the first try:

It's funny, Julie: I almost have to agree with you. I wasn't attracted to you when I followed you outside at lunch our first day at Twin Hickory. I thought you were too young! (And you call yourself old!) No, I wanted to talk about Scotland. It was the first and last time you heard me babble. But I came to know you, at work, and the more I did the more attractive you became. How much more can I know you there? How much more attractive can you be to me?
Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation, I believe you have little choice but to accept that getting over you will take me awhile--not the least because I don't really want to. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, either. My fascination with you did not end during those first ten minutes at the coffee shop; it grew. You wondered aloud what I could find fascinating about you. I wish I could have expressed it. It's difficult even now, after so much reflection upon it. You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect. At the coffee shop I'd hoped you'd lower you drawbridge. I'm sorry I tried to batter it down. I didn't mean to try to storm your fortress; I just wanted to scale the wall and look at your garden. How does the sun reach it? I wondered. Another reason giving you up will not be easy is that I'm a one-choice man. I take my time making up my mind, but when I've decided what I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.

Jumbled and pathetic, barely restrained from accusation. The second attempt is, so far, more naturally restrained and rational. It very nearly has a structure. Notecard, marginal scribbles, even recorded "notes to self" litter the sofa when I'm home, and the breakroom table at lunch at work. I'm impatient to get it done (I have a dread she'll ask for the books before I can give them to her), but determined to do it right. Those are only two of the warring factions. Hinckley says he's written one of these and it wasn't till he stopped trying--around the eighth draft--that he was able to pour it out exactly how he wanted it. We were interrupted before I could ask him how the recipient responded.

Probably, If I Get It at Least as Drunk (10/29/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:45:00.000-07:00

The latest draft has come much more easily, naturally and more confidently. I've found the voice; now I'm waiting for the words. The letter could almost end where it is, at about five hundred words, I've so sharply expressed myself; but I know there's more to say, and I want to give it time to surface in my mind. Confidence of purpose should aid my patience.

I have not been living in the minutiae of a Julie-day. Though I'm still hopeful of impressing her, as Tom Sawyer to Becky Thatcher, it's become more of a vestigial reflex than a conscious effort. When I discover the reflex I grimace and slap it away. My last conscious effort to elicit anything from Julie was made last Thursday, the night I lost my desk hour with Julie: I checked out a DVD to Inhouse for Julie to fix, and on the bottom of the slip, the part concealed in the case, I wrote "Fascinating!" Of course, there was no reaction. The letter will be the last of that sort of thing, and though I would hope it made some impression on her, I wouldn't expect to ever know what that was. Will knowing that I did what I had to do and did it thoroughly be enough to convince my heart that I'm over Julie?

And If I Weren't Trying to Assemble It in the Dark (10/30/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

I may not be convinced of the letter's power to flush these emotional toxins, but I feel a more dire need than ever to complete it and give it a chance. Just when I think the torture can't get worse, I show up for work. I can't talk to Julie, I can barely look at her. Every day I determine to change that, but I look at her and can't believe that she's become yet more radiant than the day before, and that's all I want to say to her, so I'm struck dumb. If I ever had a grip, it's a flea sneeze from slipping clean off. I feel stupid on a gargantuan scale for being so overwrought over someone who feels nothing for me. I told Stacey tonight that I wished this was a real breakup, so I'd know the emotional investment hadn't been entirely mine. She said, "Unrequited love is always harder to deal with than breaking up from true love. Don't you think?" "I wouldn't know. I've never been in love." That saddened her terribly, which deepened my woe, but touched me, grasped me, pulled me from deeper despair. Sometimes I wonder how I still have friends, as taxing as I can be and so deeply in debt to them that I can't imagine repayment.

But the letter. Though it seems to be taking solid, cohesive shape, I feel I'm beginning to lose my voice to sentimentality and hope for what I know can never be mine.

Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably only responded with a practical truth: that I felt I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back--something like that. Another truth is that it allowed me to drop this letter on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.

I'm not writing to plead my case. I'm just talking to you, perhaps the way I'd hoped to at the coffee shop, only, this time, don't feel compelled to talk back. I'll still likely ask a lot of questions, but I'm only planting seeds; whatever grows will grow. Neither am I trying to dissuade you from your position. If anything, I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. That will take some doing. Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation for my feelings for you, please appreciate that getting over you might take me a while. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, but neither does being a one-choice man: I take my time making up my mind, but when I've determined what
I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.

Do you remember me telling you that the trip to the coffee shop had been much longer than the literal miles and time? I also said I might tell you about it if you ever changed your mind. Well, that likelihood seems but a dim gleam in the eye of hope, so we'll stick a thumb out at the point where I asked you to meet me for tea. That should get us a ride to the first time you said, "I wondered why you asked me to meet you here." What I've been wondering since is how you addressed that wondering. Did "Julie, you fascinate me, and I'd like to get to know you better in a way I can't at work" take you entirely by surprise? If so, I hadn't been quite the Tom Sawyer to your Becky Thatcher that I thought I'd been.

When you said, "If I change my mind you'll be the first to know," I responded, "You know, I don't think you would." I'm sorry. That was unfair. It came from a bitter place. I'm sorry, too, for the stress I caused you that day. When you wouldn't lower your drawbridge, I tried to batter it down. But I only wanted in to look at your garden. How does the sun reach it?

What I won't apologize for is embarrassing you--not that I intended to do that (the first time). I was trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) But nothing I've ever said to you was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about your bin-packing). I am truly fascinated with you--your beauty, your mystery, the depths you conceal, the Julie you hide and protect. I can, in time and in the ever-growing, obscuring face of reality, give up the idea of "us," but I'll never stop wondering about the Julie I'll never know. Be assured, though, that I will never again blow on your fire. I cannot assure you, however that I will not steal glances your way or outright stare at you. But it will be as at a work of art, something to appreciate, marvel at, ponder the meaning of. If it discomfits you, would you let me know?

I seem to be reaching, almost pleading, by the end, as if I really were talking to her, looking in her eyes for a sign of emotional life. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad thing. It's coming from a passion and genuine feeling. I have to let her know my feelings, as long as I don't ask for the same back--as long as I don't actually ask for anything at all of her that I truly expect her to answer. I'm feeling very far from finished, but much closer to having all the pieces laid out in front of me. Putting them together would be easy enough if I could just see them all and be sure none were missing.

Well, Okay--Maybe a Sticky Note (10/31/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:43:00.000-07:00

I transcribed a clean copy of the latest draft to hear again the words in my head and get a running start at the next paragraph. Then I stared out the window with slitted eyes and beetled brow for the better part of half an hour. I looked again at the last paragraph. Slowly, a grin both humble and smug stretched my face. I turned back to the first page and wrote at the top "The Work of Art and the Piece of Work." Then I had a good laugh, and I'm still having it. There it is in a nutshell, the definition of this entire endeavor--the attitude, the ridiculous futility, the irrational hope. The title was all of my original output of nearly three hours, yet I felt as productive afterwards as if I'd filled a book.

Web Design (11/01/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T12:42:00.001-07:00

I started off yesterday morning (an hour-and-a-half after my alarm) with the realization that I was going about this letter backwards: I was too concerned with structure--following one paragraph with the logical next paragraph. I have been passing over ideas because I couldn't foresee their paragraph potential; a sentence is a good start, I'd think, but what's after that? The better idea is to get all the ideas--sentences, scraps, words--onto paper, then cut and paste and embellish. That's a strength I've overlooked, my ability to construct a concrete whole from bits of chipped stone. Forget whatever attitude might imbue the words or what ulterior meaning they may be fraught with. It'll all come clean and nice in the wash. Easily said. Do I scrap what I've written? The title reflects an attitude that the letter doesn't deliver. The letter has said much of what I need to say, but seems to be holding back, a kind of dishonesty by omission. Can I have fun with this and still have my say? I have to have fun, or I'll come off pathetic or righteous.

For fun, I took the picture Gay-Lynn sent me to the drug store and had some quick prints done--two 4 x6, three wallets. One wallet is, well, in my wallet, another hiding behind the picture of Gillian on my over-desk storage cabinet, and the other I plan to tape to the front of my front fender, like a flat, rear-facing maidenhead. Yesterday, when Bethany and I were the only two in the workroom, I bade her take a peek behind Gillian. She did and gasped, "I knew it! I wanted to ask you, but I didn't think you wanted me to." "Are you kidding? I was dying for you to ask me!"

Hinckley saw on the schedule that he and I had been separated from the desk hour we usually get together on the weekend and was unhappy, to say the least. What concerned me was the portent it kicked into my mind: Would I be separated from Julie, as well? My thudding heart was preparing for outrage. My name was on the bottom. I had a desk hour with Sofiya at ten. I took a deep breath and scanned across my line. I stopped at a second "D" at two o'clock and started climbing up the column to find my partner. I breathed again: Julie.

True to my word, I did not badger Julie. I asked her about her web-design class and let her talk about it, trying to follow with cogent questions, not expecting (but still hoping for, though not getting) any questions from her. It was a good hour, if not in the way I'd have preferred--but those hours will never be. I finally see that I am no more than Mike to Julie--someone she has little or nothing to say to. I'm still jealous of the ease at which she'll pick a conversation with Hinckley--or anyone else not an introvert (except Jennifer). Would it help to know why I'm jealous? (I'm not helping my attitude at all. I feel miles away from writing that letter.)

How seriously have I considered that there really isn't more to Julie than she presents? Of course, my feelings for her have both imbued her character with a rich depth and virtually obliterated my objectivity. So the answer is, hardly at all. The way is beginning to look clearer, though. Not seeing these depths is a better reason for not believing in their existence than for making them real and discoverable. But why am I talking reason? Face it, I'm not over her. Is the letter going to help me make that break, or do I have to make the break before I can write the letter? Neither is anywhere near completion.

I'll Have to Take My Socks Off for This One (11/03/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

So, here's the deal now: This letter is entirely self-serving, right? I'm writing to someone who doesn't care about stuff she doesn't care about, so who else could this be for but me? Then, how is this even serving me? What purpose does it have? Not to recriminate or whine or defend myself or plead my case or beg her change her mind. What good do I expect it to do me? Am I getting something off my chest? How do I go about that without also doing any of the above? Remember "no pussyfooting"? I have to tell it straight and raw and with plenty of self-deprecation, to show I'm not that hang-dog, pathetic guy who can't let go of a lost cause. In other words, lie, right? Because I'm nowhere near being able to pull that off. But I can't last long in my current state of sleep-deprived tension. Julie has never lost a wink over me; that's an easy bet. So why am I killing myself over someone who feels nothing for me? (And how many times have I asked that?)

Pretential Logic (11/05/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:41:00.000-07:00

I've begun a new draft; one, I hope, without deference or flattery or pretence of the absence of either--for I realized that I was still, in a way pleading my case and holding out vain hope. This letter is about me, and I won't pretend otherwise. Nor will I pretend that Julie might care what I have to say; it's the only way to be comfortable writing the letter; and if I can't be comfortable I can't write it to my satisfaction, which is all that matters immediately. In all the other drafts, notes, fits and starts, I have addressed all I meant to, but haven't done so in the right way. I don't know for sure that this new way is the right way, but it's righter.

Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably said something like, "I thought I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back." The whole truth is that it allowed me to drop this on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.

Don't be alarmed. This is no proclamation of undying love or anything close to that--no greeting card singing "You Are My Sunshine". It's a totally self-serving letter that, as far as I can tell, serves no worthy purpose whatsoever. You don't even have to read it; I can pretend you did. I don't expect a response, though I'll ask a lot of questions. (I'll be nicer than I was at the coffee shop.) I won't challenge you or try to dissuade you from your position. If anything I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. Of course I accept how you feel about me, but disengaging myself from my attraction to you will take some doing. This was never an attraction of convenience, so it won't be conveniently put aside. The bottom line is, you still fascinate me and your beauty is no less striking than ever.

That said, I won't apologize for embarrassing you. I was only trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) Nothing I've ever said to you, though, was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about the bin-packing). I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but it's hard not to speak what I feel. I'd like to promise that I won't ever again blow on your embers, but what the head decrees the heart can't always abide. I'll have to stare at you now and then, too--that just goes with the territory.

Take a ride with me here in my time machine back to the coffee shop on the day of Hazel's birth. Did my proclamation really take you by surprise? When you wondered to yourself why I asked you to meet me there, what did you surmise? What were your expectations of that day? Have you since reflected? Have you, in retrospection, seen "signs" of my attraction? And all this time I thought I'd been Tom Sawyer--walking on my hands and punching the other boys--to your Becky Thatcher.

Righter? I think so. Maybe a little hopeful, a touch flattering; but I do still harbor hope, in my heart if not in my head--that can't be helped, must be left to run its course. The Wise Man is running the show. The Fool can do as the Fool does and be relegated to the comic relief.

I got a desk hour with Julie yesterday. I asked her about the new Reginald Hill she had plucked the day before. She hadn't started it because of a couple others ahead of it. I asked her about those--Margery Allingham and Jonathan Kellerman--and asked if she'd read Val McDermid. (This whole conversation was going almost exactly as I'd mapped it out in my head at lunch.) She had, and had checked out the first season of Wire in the Blood but hadn't watched it before having to return it. I had just watched it. We talked about Robson Green--we'd both loved Touching Evil. I was careful not to let the conversation wander to Cadfael; I didn't want her wondering when I'd give them back or asking how many I'd actually read (four, but if she asked, five--it sounds better). She never asked anything of me. I wonder to what degree interest in her registers with her and what, if any, meaning it has to her. I talk to her in the interest of getting to know her but, also, consequently, in piquing something likewise. I think that that's a very tall order, though. If I could peel off the veneer of selfish motive, the genuineness of my efforts might be more plain. If only my efforts were genuine.

Anything But Blue Serge (11/06/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:40:00.001-07:00

A good day. And a good week so far, in an ironically Julie-centric way. The rope of emotional attachment has frayed considerably. The irony is in having accomplished this by striving more ardently to get to know her. I've had to put myself aside somewhat, try to forget how I (once) felt toward her. She still, very much, fascinates me, but now I want to know her, not simply search for validation of a misplaced affection. Yet I find I have not given up hope. There's a kind of reality to this hope, though, not of its fruition, but of its essential truth and necessity. That may be as well as I'll ever be able to explain it, but it's right. Stripped of what I wanted, what's left of this attraction may be what I actually need. I can't say now whether it's been either my heart or my head guiding this endeavor. It's been both, but in an almost evil manner, as if in league against my soul. The dawning reality to this hope is the dominating emergence of a unified control over this poisonous collusion. I'm shocked at the extent of the manipulation of these forces, but nearly elated at the apparent triumph over them. I hedge my glee knowing the war's far from over, but I'm claiming more territory every day. It remains to be seen just what that territory is, but I can't question its value.

I've had significant time with Julie this week in both quantity and quality. I have both bided that time and made the most of it. I've been confident--truly confident, not arrogant. (I can hate myself later, if I still feel like it, for being the selfish ass all these months; I just can't indulge those feelings now.) We were on the desk together again today. Julie spoke first; I was in no hurry. "I suppose I should bring a cart out." I read the reluctance in her voice and laughed, then she laughed. She thought it might be a slow hour. Neither of us made a move to bring out the lease books. Tyger stopped by on his way up to the "village," chatted with us and left. I said to Julie, ignoring misgivings of her wondering what brought this to the front of my mind, "Did I see you in glasses a few weeks ago?" "Who, Tyger? I don't think so." "No. You." "Yeah, I guess you could have." And we talked about that until we were interrupted by work. When the patrons cleared I sat back down and stared ahead, into Children's, seeing nothing. Peripherally, I saw Julie's head turn toward me once or twice, but as I was in the first seat, she would have to look past me to see entering patrons. Maybe bored, she got up to check the event schedule under the register. "Pruning class tonight," I said. "Oh, is that tonight?" "Mm-hm," I replied, and barely hesitated, with the usual qualm but with highly unusual disregard of indiscretion, before saying, "So, why horticulture?" (Her degree, I'd found out at the coffee shop, with no little surprise.) "I don't know," she said, after some hesitation; then, as if she'd willed it, a patron walked up to her counter. Off the hook, I thought, because I considered the answer untrue. When the patron cleared--and it was a few minutes--I waited, determined not to press and confident I wouldn't need to. I was rewarded: "I was living with a boyfriend at the time, and he was into gardening, so I thought I'd try it." "And yet," I remarked, noting her casual tone and recalling the "personal mess" she mentioned in the coffee shop that drove her from Blacksburg and horticulture, "you went all the way with it." "Yeah, well, I still like it, but if I did it over again I'd probably have done something else." "What would you have done?" "Oh, I don't know, probably something in music or the arts." She would have studied voice or illustration, she said, when pressed, though how she would follow the learning professionally she had only a vague notion, a vestige of a dream. Then she muttered something in that way I've seen several times now, turning away and lowering her head, abashed at revealing herself. I didn't catch it, and as much as I wanted to know what she'd said, I, too, looked away and down, chuckling with her, feeling it would be insensitive of me to ask her to repeat the utterance, and tried to satisfy myself with at least understanding her tone and respecting her for the difficulty of the disclosure.

I bided my time, too, for her to ask me something of myself, but when it didn't happen, I didn't waste energy rueing it. I'm expecting it to happen--or maybe my confidence is stepping out of reality. I imagined, as I sat out there in silence, that the more time we have together the more comfortable each of us will be with the other. I can't tell how far Julie has to go in that respect, but I can't even see halfway from here. The next hour off the desk Tammy passed me on the way to posting Friday's schedule. She tapped it with a "V" and whispered, "Two times." Boy, I have to come up with more material.

In Exchange for My Sanity, My Life and Six Months of Restful Sleep (11/08/08 Saturday)

2009-04-26T12:40:00.000-07:00

I made no headway yesterday and made no effort to. I didn't want to raise Julie's suspicions. It was difficult, sitting there waiting for what I knew would never come, an initiation of conversation from Julie. That still irks me, I admit, but it doesn't irk me with anyone else. Of course, that's because I care about her and want her to care about me. It's just my ego hurting. Not much room for ego here, though.

The day before, during conversation on the desk, Julie lowered her head to let her hair fall before her face, then with both hands swept it back over forehead as she raised her head. Normally, her hair lies flat, but the sweep had folded back, into a wave. If I didn't gasp audibly, it was a miracle; and how I didn't scream, "Stop that!" could only be attributed to some kind cosmic control, because I all but lost my mind and my heart together at that moment of concentrated exudation of everything about her that has captivated me, lo, these agonizing months. Life seemed at its cruelest and most unfair. Instantly, I had stumbled back into that web from which I'd deluded myself I'd been extricated. The sleeping dog was kicked. That's how I'd tried to think of this crush, as a dog I could let lie. When I awoke yesterday morning, after only a few hours asleep, I thought, with a sense of liberation, that the crush was something of which I had to accept the existence--reason didn't create it, so reason wasn't going to make it go away. Obviously, now, I must also accept its unpredictable awakenings.

I may be only a paragraph away from finishing the letter--the note now, as it's so short and will contain no salutation and no sign-off. I have the last line, but I need a wind-down paragraph to bring it all together. But I have time. I've taken Monday and Wednesday off to bookend the Vereran's Day off Tuesday. Thursday, now, is the day I plan to give Julie her books back.

Fender Off (11/10/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:39:00.001-07:00

After an eleven-hour sleep and a ninety-minute dawdle, I left the apartment with just enough Cheerios in my system to get me to Stir Crazy. It wasn't until I'd sat down with my coffee and egg-and-cheese bagel that I realized the possible significance of where I'd come to finish the note to Julie. But I didn't consider it long; I had work to do. It took two large coffees (the second because it was free) and about a couple hours, but I finished the job and left for Carytown--Plan 9, more specifically, for Nilsson Schmilsson. (I settled for Son of Schmilsson.) I strolled slowly through Carytown, not eager to get home, enjoying being on the sidewalks and in the shops with other people. But there was no conversation, save with the stationer, from whom I bought some nice paper for the final transcription of the note, about the selling of his store after thirty years. He wants to retire, but the sale of the store must be strictly a "turnkey" transaction. (Thank god for coffee. How else would I ever initiate a conversation?) A few women initiated smiles and greetings. I felt attractive, despite a three-day, salt-and-pepper beard and a helmet-made hairdo. Another reason not to go home, where there was no one to make me feel good about myself.

As I sat in the coffee shop staring out the window a man walking by stopped to look at my bike. He lingered a long while before coming inside. I met his eyes, smiled and nodded. When he left again he took another look, then suddenly moved closer and bent over the front wheel. He straightened and half-turned to the window, a glint in his eye and grin on his face. He'd seen Julie on the front fender. In Carytown I parked in front of the shops, instead of, as usual, around the corner and out of foot traffic. The front wheel tipped away from the street as I locked it to a tree, and I left it like that, the better to display Julie to passing shoppers. Before leaving the bike I thumbed off a speck of dirt from her cheek.

I'll leave the note overnight, let the words settle on the page, then edit in earnest tomorrow. I want it ready to slip in the bag before Thursday morning.

I'm Going to Need a Bigger Seed (11/11/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

The editing didn't take long--very little revising or excising, even on the new material. But it's been six hours since that was done, and I can't get down to transcribing a clean copy, the last preliminary draft. I'm looking at the end of something I don't want to see the end of; something that never actually started; something that's turrned out to be nothing more than a "project," an experiment, an exercise in futility. Twenty thousand words of neurotic tail-chasing--my own, that is. A failure. And will this even bring closure? Do I want closure? Do I really want the torture to end? This has been about so much more than Julie that the void of its absence could be more vast than it ever was before I laid eyes on her. Letting go of Julie is letting go of more than a hope or a dream. It's letting go of an inspiration, a meaning, a need. Where do I find those again?

But this is not a letting-go, is it? It's pulling-out-by-the-roots: I planted a seed, poked a hole in the soil, now I'm tearing a tree from the ground, leaving a crumbling maw.

Letter Go (11/12/08 Wednesday)*

2009-04-26T12:38:00.000-07:00

The letter (yes, "letter," with salutation, closing, even postscript) is written, in the envelope, in the bag. I'm not pleased with the handwriting, a print constrained and stiff and, ultimately, sloppy, inconsistent in size and alignment--human, in other words. I even had to caret in a word, but by then--the last paragraph--I prefferred the conservation of an expensive sheet of paper to the stress of perfection. I know that I will be judged by my handwriting as well as by my words--Julie's handwriting is almost mechanically calligraphic, even at its most casual--but I'm pretending not to care. Yet part of me wants to rewrite it in my natural script. It may yet happen, expensive paper or no.

Julie,

Here are you books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably said something like, "I thought I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back." The rest of the truth is that it allowed me to drop this on your doorstep, ring the bell, and walk away.

Don't be alarmed. This is no proclamation of undying love or anything even foggily resembling that--no greeting card singing "You Are My Sunshine." It's entirely self-serving. You don't even have to read it; I can pretend you did and be happy believing it. No need to respond, though I will ask questions, if a bit less intensely than at the coffee shop. I won't challenge your ideas or try to dissuade you from your feelings. Of course, I accept how you feel about me, but disengaging
myself from my attraction to you will take some doing. This was never an attraction of convenience, so it won't be conveniently put aside. Neither was it a creation of rationale, so it won't be reasoned away. Bottom line: You are as fascinating and as striking as ever.

I would like to apologize for embarrassing you--but I can't. I wanted to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) But nothing I have ever said to you, Julie, was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about the bin-packing). It's hard to not try, however awkwardly, to express what I feel. I would like to promise that I won't ever again blow on you embers, but what the head decrees is of little import to the heart.

Did my proclamation in the coffee shop really take you by surprise? When you wondered to yourself why I asked you to meet me there, what did you surmise? What were you expectant of that day? Have you since reflected? Have you, in retrospection, seen "signs" of my attraction? Because all this time I thought I'd been Tom Sawyer--walking on my hands and punching the other boys--to your Becky Thatcher.

I concede defeat in the pursuit of your heart, but it is always with the stingiest reluctance that I back down from any challenge, and hope is the sharpest prod (and not a rational one, either). But I accept what I'm given and never take what's not offered. I want to know more about you than I have any right to ask or you any obligation to disclose. So, I'll take what satisfaction I can rationalize from having told you all this and continue from your doorstep, with maybe a glance now and then over my shoulder until you are out of sight.

(Signed)

P.S., You wondered aloud what I could possibly find fascinating about you. Well, I'll tell you.... But I said I'd shut up.

But I said what I wanted to say how I wanted to say it--three weeks and a couple dozen sheets of paper later. Sadly, some things don't even feel true any longer. How much does she really fascinate me now? How much hope do I really harbor? Do I honestly believe that her concealment has depths? That doubt could simply be bitterness, an artificial distancing. I am so tangle in my wants and needs that I don't know which is which anymore. The wants are emotional, the needs practical--or is it that easy? No, I can't find the separation there, either. Is it any wonder I'm confused? I've written a breakup letter to someone I never dated, for god's sake! Could that be a teensy bit more pathetic?

*****

I tried to rewrite the letter in cursive, but I couldn't write the first word without screwing it up--twice. More paper trashed. For what?

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
I understand some of how you feel in your letter. It's so hard not to tell her how you feel, and to bombard her with questions about herself. I felt the same way. Sounds like love to me, Dion, unrequited but not unreal.

Along with World Peace, Financial Independence, and Some of My Hair Back (11/12/08 Wednesday)*

2009-04-26T12:37:00.001-07:00

A couple hours of black anger followed the failure of the cursive draft. I feel aimless, cut adrift. I've begun to reclaim some of my former life, but it rings hollow, as hollow as, I guess, it really was before I thought I'd found something more meaningful. Now I go back to the reading; it's no longer fulfilling. So little seems necessary that boredom is preferable to most anything else I can think of. I seem to have missed all the seasons of the past half-year, and I'm rueing fall as it slides naked into winter, a match to my mood and outlook. I took a walk. I thought it made me feel better, then I step back inside, and the wet blanket smothers me.

I considered doing the online dating thing again. I wish I'd considered for longer before plunking down 120 bucks for eharmony. I was too flattered with the abundance of so-called matches and burdened with the desperation to find a woman who will talk to me and might actually show some interest in me to not make the three-month commitment. But there was only one match I felt at all interested in after all, so now not only do I feel poor, but stupid to boot. I thought about going back to Plenty of Fish, but I took a look at a page of matches there and saw too many of the same faces that were there when I quit from there. I thought, Well, at least the profile's something to write, but the motivation isn't there. I want Julie.

*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Again, I totally get this...

Hey, Brother, Can You Spare a Clue? (11/13/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:37:00.000-07:00

I read and read--The History of Aythan Waring--but as the story compels me to continue, I see the end of the book looming but not the next book beyond. Another ending to dread. As I force myself to stop reading, I force myself to write. Will this simply be a compulsion from now on, or a balance of compulsions, a bouncing from one to another to stave off the ultimate realization of their separate and collective meaninglessness?

The bag of books sits in front of the front door so I can't forget it. My mind, as usual, races with scenarios, but I pay them little heed. It's not important how this happens, just that it does. I did slip one notecard--"How does the sun reach your garden behind those walls?"--into the last Brother Cadfael.

If I can hope, I can continue this. But what Hell that would be. If I never saw Julie again, I could dream and play "What If?" endlessly. After I return her books I can speculate as fancifully as I like that I've influenced her to a positive turn, that there may be an answer slipped into my locker, written without her usual care in the heat of a fevered revelation. For how long will I hope that? For how long will I live in this denial, torturing myself? For as long as I must see her at work, probably.

*****

(I've brought both the book and the journal to work, but I don't feel like reading and am not sure I have anything to write. I'm not all that intent on eating, either. I'm at lunch, and the only other occupant of the breakroom is Julie. I've brought her books, but as it was pouring rain when I go here I left them in Stacey's car. I'll give them to her at her car at closing. We share a desk hour later; I'll tell Julie then about the books--to what end, I'm not sure, except to relieve some of my stress. Another five days off would be nice about now--right now.)

No Admittance (11/14/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

Julie has the books. I told her at the desk I had brought them back. "Oh," she said. She seemed surprised. "Did you finish them?" "Oh, no. Only five," I said, looking her in the eye. "I thought I'd had them long enough. I don't really like keeping other peoples' stuff too long." "Well, you"--and here a patron interposed. When it was quiet again I hoped that she would finish her thought, but I didn't ask her to , and she didn't offer. At the end of the night I handed her her books, still in the "pretty gift bag", which was now looking worn at the edges. She said, "Thank you," and I said, "Sure." By the time I'd gotten home I'd wished I'd told her the letter was there. Not that there was any danger of her not finding it, but because I felt I'd lied about why I was returning the books. I try to tell myself that I covered that in the letter, but I don't feel much better about it. Today being a day off, I wonder if she's taken the books in. It wasn't raining last night at closing, and today's rain has been weak and scattered. I've just created something else to torture myself over.

But perhaps there are distractions. I finished the book this morning. I can only hope an inter-library loan came in for me today, though, if not, I might be just lame enough to pick up that Reginald Hill book. (I said this letting-go wouldn't be easy. You don't think I've peeled her picture from my fender, do you?) But I have a little something going on on eharmony, too--a "guided conversation" with the only match that has, so far, interested me. We're just at the first stage, answering five multipl-choice questions chosen from twenty or so. I started by sending her mine Monday; she responded today and asked hers. We'll see. Her profile made her seem genuine and open and capable of original expression. For me, that's a good start. Now, if she were only named Julie and were three inches shorter.... I know--pathetic.

Yet there is a small sense of closure. It is not well-defined--I can't even pin a feeling on it. I still feel an attachment, but it is maybe more to my feelings than to Julie--as it probably ever was. I feel foolish, and admitting that I put way too many eggs in such a frail emotional basket will help me come to terms with the shame I feel of myself. I can't deny I expected more than I had any right to or that for all the "signs" I might accuse Julie of missing I saw just as many that didn't exist. I suppose getting over this, like many another thing, is a matter of making peace with one's pride. Not easy, with a pride like this one's. What else keeps me clinging is the uncertainty of the road ahead. I have to admit my desperation, but maybe that begs another admittance: that I'm just not emotionally ready for a relationship. But, if that's so, I'll never be ready. How much closer to letting go of Julie will I be once I've embraced that admittance? Looks to me as if that admittance lets go of hope altogether, for anything. If only I could just not care, I could cope.

The Same Empty (11/16/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T12:35:00.000-07:00

A little after four a.m. Woke about an hour ago. The tension in my neck is working down my spine. Who the hell am I kidding? Closure? When we walked into work, Hinckley said he thought it should be interesting to see how Julie behaves, assuming she'd read the letter. I told him, "I don't expect a thing." I have no satisfaction in being right. No more satisfaction than I got in declaring my feelings to her. No more satisfaction than any of this writing has given me. Of course, there was no overt indication that she'd read the letter. But she has. I could tell. She was very stiff around me, even seemed to avoid me--the same way I was around her. She finally said, "Hello, Dion," around the third or fourth time she'd passed me. Of course, I hadn't talked to her, either, till then. I got no desk time with her, and though there were a couple hours in the workroom with her, she had headphones on the entire time. What had I to say, anyway?

I'm sick. I'm sick of myself. I wish I were as mentally retarded as I am emotionally. I just can't cope. I can write, I can talk to people about it, but it's not what I want. I want Julie to talk to me. We've been over this, and I know it: Julie owes me nothing. I know the problem is mine to work out. I know a lot of goddamned things, but where has it gotten me? I'm not just boring my friends, I'm boring myself. The maze I'm in is just a circle--no entrance, no exit. Do I have any right to talk to Julie her about it? Nonononono! How many times do I have to say it? I can't move on. What is to move on to? The same empty....

Throw In One of Those Sturdy Hemp Neckties, and You Got Yourself a Deal (11/16/08)

2009-04-26T12:34:00.001-07:00

Kevyn called last night. She'd been worried about me because I'd been so far away when we'd all met at Colin's a few weeks ago. (She thought I'd "just been depressed.") So I finally told family about the crush. I'm glad it was Kevyn, only a year older and also single. She's recently been on the Julie-side of my problem, though to a more extreme extent, when a first date brought long-stemmed red roses with him. I told her what I'd said to Julie right away at the coffee shop. She applauded my boldness. I asked her what she thought would be the intentions of someone who told her she was fascinating, and she said that word was a dead-cinch indication of romantic intent. Well, at least Julie was not naive there. I had no delusion that it was an innocuous word--of course, I knew it would have an impact--but I didn't have a clue that it was so specifically fraught. She also felt that I was far from the ordinary guy in wanting the truth behind a rejection.

Kevyn asked me, "What's so attractive about her?" I assumed she meant besides her obvious external beauty. I said, after a long, blank pause, "No one's ever asked me that." I didn't know. A flickering light briefly illuminated an ugly thought: that despite my protestation, this may really have been an "attraction of convenience," that only Julie's proximity and availability were attractive to me. This afternoon, as I stared uncaringly at a football game, I felt so far from any new thought on this problem that I, not very flippantly, decided I'd have to leave the resolution up to a breakthrough on the scale of epiphany. Is that what happens when we finally give up on ourselves: we start grasping at Fate's lapels and plead to be bailed out of the nightmare? That would be my plan if I could give up the reins. For me, it equates to giving myself over to religion--not while I still have a thought--however idiotic and unhelpful--in my head. Though an awful feeling tells me I must succumb sometime. It's just like sleep, right? I don't stand a chance. Sleep is certainly an attractive offer. Along with a lobotomy.

I was nodding on the sofa, thinking how nice an early night's bed would be after today's early arisal, when I thought about how I'd awaken. Could I possibly feel any better, face Julie any more naturally, be any less envious of the people she chose to talk to? One long stupid question. My neck, which had just gotten stiffer with the growing (now waning) day somehow found a new standard of ossification. Maybe writing would help, though. What?! Can it possibly be measured how stupid I am? How impenetrable my brain is to its own thoughts? Words are all I have, and yet they're all I have. No meaning. No context to my heart whatsoever.

And If the Answer Is "Yes"? (11/17/08 Monday)

2009-04-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

If I'm to get a grip on my bitterness, I have to address my "accusations." Accusations and fault-finding are often projections. Julie is no different than myself in seeking extroverts to talk with. Who do I seek out? Stacey, Hinckley, Tammy--extroverts. I've known all along that I had to understand Julie compassionately, but that was a projection, as well: I'm looking for the compassion for myself. If I can't hate someone else, how can I hate myself? I'm judging people by standards by which I judge myself. How can I know those standards apply to anyone else? What makes me think my standards are universal? or even valid? What do I know of myself that I haven't judged to be stupid, worthless, or invalid, already? And how valid could the judgements possibly have been? But I don't know where this is leading--not that that in itself is reason for doubt; I just haven't been down this road and don't want to double back from a dead end. This has always been about me. Julie has just been the catalyst. It's certainly not easy to admit, if it's true. What would that mean? What other horrible and necessary revelations await me? I'm not ready to admit that, if only because I can't yet reason it to be true. But, so what? What validation am I obligated to give to an utterance such as that? It came from a place of natural knowledge, a chance but inevitable and eventual bonding of formerly disparate and contextless ideas. Isn't it time I let that happen all the time? Have I just defined "revelation"? Have I just put a lie to what I thought were my feelings for Julie?

On a Scale of One-to-Ten? or Can I Just Shove a Finger Down My Throat? (11/18/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

About Julie not asking me questions: neither do I ask after someone who doesn't interest me. I've known this all along, but denied the obvious parallel. If I'm finally dropping the scales from my eyes, it's because it's the only way to make sense of myself and this whole affair. How could logic have helped when I was denying entry to the true components of the equation? (But do I have to answer that question of yesterday?) Now I really do want answers to the questions in the letter. If she wasn't interested in me, why meet me at the coffee shop?--But I'm going to a bad place, aren't I? She's shy, too; can I not believe that? Can I not see that in myself? That seems to be something else about myself I'm holding against her. How could I not empathize with that? Do I really dislike myself that much?

Get a Guy's What Up? (11/19/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:32:00.000-07:00

Coming to grips is letting go of denial. My anger comes from reminders of thing I've been pretending aren't there. When I dress I still consider what Julie will see. When I look in the mirror, I'm Julie looking at me. If I'm to accept my vanity, I want it to have an audience. I want Julie to see me, and I want to feel attractive when she does. Monday, when she was on the desk and I was at lunch, I sat at a computer in Planet Teen that put me in her view. I opened up the journal and began transcribing onto the blog. Why she came to the DVD shelf nearest me, I don't know--returning a disc she'd just cleaned, maybe--but my fingers began flying across the keyboard to the tune of "Ever Fallen In Love" bouncing in my head. I've taped a label with the blog title onto the spine of the journal, and at work I leave my bag open near my locker, exposing the spine-up book conspicuously. I would normally think this pathetic, but I chose now to accept it for what it is--whatever it is--just as I grin at the picture taped to my fender. No, I'm not over her, but I don't need to pine for her or expend tense energy hoping for some acknowledgement from her. It's no way to live, because it's not my life to live. Hope's importance must be minimized; the moreso, the better I can appreciate the moment, the less I need look for results. Yesterday, my lunch coincided with a shelving hour for Julie. She'd taken the DVD cart. After I ate I took my journal to Planet Teen. I'd barely written, but I'd write some more and then post it. Of course, what was important was the proximity to Julie. As she had gotten to work at twelve-thirty, while I was on the desk, we had not crossed paths, though I'd seen her drag the cart out. I returned to the workroom from lunch a few minutes before Julie with the cart. I was standing at my desk when she entered. I watched her approach. She stalled beside my desk, a clot of people barring her way. Perhaps it was my stare that pulled her eyes to mine. I smiled widely, naturally, and said, "Hi!" as brightly as I've ever said anything. Her smile answered mine, and she said, "Hello, there!" in a voice I'd never heard and suddenly knew I'd always wanted to hear: demure, but open and coy. (I'd add "sexy" if I didn't think it was pure inference.) Honest. Her smile lingered as she passed. Enough to get a guy's hopes up.

When Has That Ever Stopped Me? (11/20/08 Thursday)

2009-04-26T12:31:00.001-07:00

I engaged Julie in short conversation a couple times yesterday, about Robert Carlyle being on 24; and if she had A Fine Romance and, if so, could I borrow it (yes and yes). Though these topics were designed as a chance to talk to her, they were not implemented as a hopeful lover to a hoped-for one, but as a coworker engaging another in subjects of mutual interest. Sounds clinical, I know, but once I remove the emotional component, the pretense of hope for romance, I can talk to her as she would prefer to be spoken to at work. Yes, if this were a game--and I won't admit that--then I'm playing by Julie's rules. A compromise--usually a dirty word in my vocabulary, but a component of compassion. Do I want to know Julie? Do I want to understand her "theory"? Then I have to try it on for size, walk the proverbial mile in the proverbial shoes. I get an hour on the desk with Julie tonight, and I'm already lining up topics of conversation. But I'm not worrying (too much) about what she might think I'm trying to accomplish with them. I want to do only two things besides keep her talking to me: look at her when speaking to her, and use her statements to fuel the conversation. Both of these tasks I consider difficult and crucial; if my voice is not directed at her, she may not be willing to follow; and I musn't be so intent on my own shopping list of questions to probe her responses and take them to the next depth--she will be willing to talk if I am able to listen. Am I ready?

*****

Tomorrow, Angie and I are going to Whole Foods for lunch. I invited myself, on the pretense of riding in her car, a Bimmer. Ulteriorly, I wanted to talk about Julie. A risky move, as I'm not of sure of her trustworthiness as a secret-keeper. But I know I have her sympathy, and--better yet--she often lunches with Julie, so I may shamelessly pump her for information. Or not. Julie wants to come along, according to Angie, and will try to have her lunch hour moved to noon to accommodate it. Julie, who always goes to lunch at one on day shifts in order to shorten her day, wants to give that up for a ride to Whole Foods, which, of course, she can do on her own at one. She didn't do that last week. Am I the draw? I don't don't don't want to flatter myself with that, but I had to ask Angie, "Does Julie know I'm coming?" "Oh, yeah,", she said. It's irony time once again, folks: Here I am, getting a handle, finally, on scaling back my hopes, and here Julie goes winding me up again--sorry, catalysing my self-windup. I can't let it happen. (The windup, that is; you think I don't want her to come with us?)

*****

The hour was not what I'd hoped. I engaged Julie as often as patrons allowed, but that wasn't for any good block of time, and I probably came close to barking at a few of them. I was entirely unsuccessful at making eye contact as I spoke, but she listened and responded. I also missed a opportunities to probe for elaboration on some things she said. I'm glad to be aware enough to critique my performance without self-flagellation. I may have made little progress, but having made even the little I did is cause for encouragement, not scolding.

Hinckley believes Julie has thawed considerably this week around me. I believe so, too. Maybe it's because I have, as well--at least it's a likely contributing factor. I feel I have to keep at her to keep her open to my presence, yet, of course, I don't want to push her. But I have to keep any strategy simple and general: talk to her without expectation, and with no more pretense than getting to know her, which is hardly a pretense of conversation with someone that interests one. Getting to know her is what I want to do.

I don't think Julie will be coming to Whole Foods with Angie and me. I think Julie made an idle jest about changing her lunch hour tomorrow, because a peek at the schedule showed no change. Well, I guess I"ll tell Angie about Julie, after all. I hope I know what I'm doing.

Zeneurotica (11/21/08 Friday)

2009-04-26T12:31:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here grinning. I didn't even taste the canary on the way down. Julie made no idle jest. First thing this morning she began soliciting other noon-lunchers for a switch. Maddox obliged her--and me.

(Now I'm staring. My hand cups a snifter of Ardbeg, which I bought before I got home. I couldn't order my thoughts if they were my own children. I haven't a clue what I'm feeling about today.)

I couldn't tell you about the next three hours, or much about the one after that. I had an hour on the desk with Hinckley just before lunch. He may have may have been as elated as I was, but cautioned both of us against reading too much into the development. At noon I felt like a balloon untethered and floated to the back door. I could hear the rythmic susurrus of Julie's jeans cuffs close behind. Angie was waiting, but Julie forgot her bag and had to return to her desk for it. Angie went out to start the car; I waited for Julie. "You can have shotgun, I told her as we approached the car. "Why, thank you, "she said, and I added, to temper my gallantry (to my regret then but no longer), "It's safer in the back." She laughed and countered, "But I have the airbag." On the way there, being in the back, I felt cut off from the conversation, but when we got there we were three abreast walking in, Julie in the middle. I had planned to say something like, "This is my first time here. I may need someone to hold my hand," but balled up the script and back-kicked it into the trash. Julie all but took me in hand, anyway, as Angie beelined for the seafood buffet. "Let's go this way," Julie said to me, "unless you want seafood." "I don't," I said, meaning, "not if it means losing you." She pointed down each aisle we passed and with a word or two described their contents. My eyes were huge, overwhelmed like a hick staring up at skyscrapers. I looked at Julie when we reached our destination, the main lunch area, and she was smiling in amusement. I felt as open as a child; I let her introduce me to the buffet stations. I panicked slightly each time I lost sight of her; I was still a bit intimidated by the place and didn't want to be left too much to my own devices, lest I should violate some unwritten point of Whole Foods etiquette and make a naive fool of myself. After eating we left as we came and drove back to work as we'd driven there, and with four minutes to spare.

When I got a chance, I tried to explain to Hinckley about the trip, but I couldn't find meaning enough in the details to warrant telling. All I had was feelings. "I am so in!" was about all I could say, wich only puzzled him. My attempt on the way home was no better. Then, I was trying to analyse Julie's motives in switching her lunch hour, but even now I can't untangle it and line it up in words. (And I get the suspicion all of a sudden that I should leave the tangle--call it a weave and wear it as a sweater.) Eventually, all I could say was, "She's more fascinating than ever. Just when I thought I'd made it up out of whole cloth, this happens."

What happened I'm not sure, and only the compulsion to break it down into logical pieces keeps me from simply accepting the excitement I feel over this challenge. Hinckley thinks Julie is testing me, and though I sense it, believing it builds an artifice of logic that I just don't want any part of. All I want to believe or know is that Julie is a complex creature. I don't want to know if she's playing a game; I just want to follow her lead.

This is such an ironic complication, though. How can I not get my hopes up now? By accepting what I'm given and taking no more. (Didn't I claim in the letter to do just that?) Be happy with it. I know, also, that I must avoid picking apart an event to find faults and regrets. I was not a sparkling wit at lunch. I did not make good eye contact. But I was accepted. As yet, that's good enough. My goals are small and simple now, easy to focus on. I don't need analysis (perhaps I should phrase that differently)--analyses. I don't even need to make sense of things. I only need to be aware. Just aware--not of anything--just aware.

Having Thoughts and Not Thinking.... (11/23/08 Sunday)

2009-04-26T12:29:00.000-07:00

Hope. How has that become a frightening word? Just leave it to me. Oh, what I can do with the happiest of words! Give me hope, but don't give me expectations. Don't give me an object of hope, just a feeling of it. Hope for what? I don't want to know. Hope is dangerous. I have to be careful what I hope. I have to hope small, local, and general. I can hope to stay in the moment, be myself. ("Didn't I say I don't want this?" suddenly rings as loudly in my head as if I'd just spoken it aloud. Its unbidden presence and ambiguous relevance is discomfitting.) I can't hope for Julie to initiate a conversation, or for anything else I can't control. I can't afford to infer or imbue. I can't think that I have an advantage or have made progress. Hope is on its own.

The more I write the more I want to explain and illustrate with specifics--events and scenarios real, imagined and hope-for--but I can't allow it. My mind wants to deconstruct and analyze, and I strain against the inclination. Writing is a dangerous compromise to that urge but an important challenge: I have to write--though in trying to justify that claim I can't untangle the rationalization--plainly and simply, I have to write. If I should ever question that need again, shoot me. The writing is not the challenge. The writing is about the challenge. No more about writing; the challenge is personal, not artistic.

What is the challenge, then? Having hope and not hoping.

Game, Set.... (11/25/08 Tuesday)

2009-04-26T12:28:00.000-07:00

A weekend of talk is no match for a Monday of reality. I see Julie, and all that zennish crap is a trampled sand garden. I hope, therefore I am. I think I can manage to not analyze and second-guess too much, but I can't stop hoping. What else do I have?

I pedalled in today--I do that on Tuesday and Wednesdays now--and instead of parking at the rack out front, I left the bike at the back door where we all come in. I don't care who sees Julie's picture on the fender, including Julie. I bought a tin of Newman's Own ginger altoids and put them on her desk this morning. I have to do these things. I want everyone to know and Julie not to forget. I'll never say anything to her about how I feel. That ball's in her court to volley back.

(She's just left the breakroom. She's just gotten here, has passed my bike and been to her desk. Not a word. I can make myself believe it's because I'm writing that she didn't "disturb" me, but it's an uneasy rationalization. Here come the doubts.)

I guess giving those little gifts was okay when she didn't know how I felt about her. What do they mean now? (Something else to add to the category of Don't Think About.)

*****

The altoids remained where I'd left them on her desk, and Julie never said anything about them, even during the hour on the desk together. I think I screwed up. Now a Christmas token seems out of the question. Oh, well, now I feel I'm back to square one, only with Julie knowing how I feel. This is much worse. Now everything I do or say around or to her is overfraught with ulterior menaning. I'm beginning to feel sick. What have I done? I'm watching Friday swirl down the drain. Oh, Dion, did nothing get through to you? How can I recover?

Don't Press Which Red Button? (11/26/08 Wednesday)

2009-04-26T12:02:00.000-07:00

But it's likely only me that's fallen back to square one. What happened to following Julie's lead? What happened to not imbuing and inferring? What happened to accepting Julie's complexity as immune to my speculation? Impatience happened to all of it. As always, I want to see some signs of progress (another term I thought I'd renounced). Yet I'm the one that needs to progress. How far have I come? Maybe a long way intelligently, but seemingly nowhere emotionally. My thinking becomes clearer and deeper, the answers sprout like weeds, but I haven't grown an inch. In the light of that, I've become tired of bothering with answers. To say that I should stop bothering seeking answers altogether is itself an answer--a bright ironic answer--that I know to be both right and impossible. Right and impossible.

*****

At work today I started to fall back into avoidance mode, not greeting Julie when I first saw her, passing my desk with a cart. I was counting on eye contact (forgetting last Wednesday's effort in proactivity, apparently), but she didn't look my way. I didn't miss my second chance, thought, when I made her look up from a cart after I said, "Hi, Julie!" She smiled and said, "Hi, Dion. How are you?" and turned away after my answer. I relieved her at the window an hour later, asked her how it had gone there, simply to talk to her. I'm trying to file yesterday's non-reaction under "Julie's Rules" and let it go. I would be helpful, too, if I could follow some of my own rules. If I just summarily refused to speculate, imbue, infer and analyze I know I'd have an easier time writing, but what would it to to my thinking and my attitude? (I can speculate on that, right? Let's remove that action from the blacklist.) How about I don't speculate on that and just give it a try and see what happens?