Note: I apologize for the format the blog has forced this essay into. I hope that scrolling back and forth between the essay and footnotes isn't too much of a bother.
When Assuming Everything (Profile of a No-Name)
I am at the University of New Hampshire in the library on the second floor outside of a café. [1] The café is called ‘Zekes’, although I doubt that anyone with that name has ever even been inside this godforsaken architectural headache.[2] If he has, I am sure that the police were informed right away and he was promptly and rudely escorted off campus by two burly types named John and Ben.
Here is something important: The girl sitting directly in front of me.
I see her almost everywhere I go. And by that I mean I see her whenever I’m in the library, which, as of late, means “everywhere I go.” She’s a pretty thing, beautiful really, and not in a typical way. She’s beautiful like a tangled metal fence is. Complex and stunning to look at although you could never say why (at least out loud). She catches me staring at her sometimes and I find it hard to look away. It’s obviously unnerving for her, and I’m not surprised. When I find something to be beautiful, and I mean truly beautiful, I often sneer. It’s a subtle sneer though, as my lips don’t curl over my teeth and my nostrils don’t flare. It’s more of an attitude thing, really: A snaggle tooth and an evil eye hidden beneath a carefully constructed plaster of Paris mask.
She’s wearing the red hat that I’ve never seen her without (a knit wool hat I might add. And not really red. More rust than red. Never red.) I’ve never heard her voice, except on the very edges of my hearing as she talks to a passing acquaintance or mumbles something horribly significant to herself. From the safety of my world (which is an agonizing six feet away) it sounds exactly like a doorbell being rung, or a penny falling down a laundry chute.
I often wonder why she comes here. It isn’t as if she has a stack of textbooks in front of her, or any book for that matter. All she has is a beaten up Mac Book Laptop that is a far cry from the sterile, finely crafted, silvery metal ones of this modern age. Her Mac Book is the color of an old walrus tusk and is plastered with several pieces of red tape that are (probably) of enormous sentimental value.
Upon closer investigation (staring is the easiest, quickest, and laziest form of investigating there is) I have deduced that she is actually not doing any work what so ever. (And if she is working, it is minute, subtle work.) She is simply sitting, occasionally popping out from in front of her computer long enough to throw a quick gaze around the ‘room’ (In design, the ‘room’ is a landing. Unfortunately, its vibrations scream otherwise. I hate this place.)
She has the occasional bushy-tailed visitor, but for the most part she seems to be entirely alone. In wondering as to her purpose in library and life, I feel a sort of affinity with her. Neither of us seems to be able to do a damn thing with anyone at anytime with anything including ourselves. (The biggest bit of ‘evidence’ I have for this less than happy thought is an overpowering feeling of loss that seems to pour out of her skin. However, as any good college lawyer type will tell you, a vague feeling is not enough to send anyone to the clink. Loosely translated, an ‘overpowering feeling of loss’ is more often than not complete and utter bullshit masquerading as complete and utter truth, truth, truth.)
I’ve tried, at least three times in the past five minutes, to go over and introduce myself, but I never get any closer to doing so than cracking all the knuckles on my left hand and clearing my throat inappropriately.[3]
A Bumbling Idiot’s Guide to Not Making Friends
The question isn’t whether or not I should go over and talk to the Rust Hatted[4] Library Gal (RHLG from here on out), but how. After having already written five hundred some odd words about RHLG, it would be horribly anticlimactic not to talk to her, as I have made her into an awfully big deal. So, as I said, the question isn’t whether-or-not, but how. However, before we investigate the possibilities of how, I think it may be important to establish why this is so difficult. To begin with, walking over to an absolute stranger whom you just happen to see everywhere and all the time is (for me) one step below cliff diving on the Terror Scale[5]. (Fact: The Terror Scale is measured entirely in heartbeats per minute.)
The answer to the ‘why’ is horribly complex, but it can be summed up simply in one word: Rejection. This is the bare-bones, stripped down answer to the most important question of ‘why’. In the case of RHLG, I am not facing any actual rejection, at least not in the classic form. (i.e. job rejection, love rejection, friend rejection, sex rejection, family rejection. You get the picture.) It is the idea of rejection that freezes me like a stick in the mud, not rejection itself. In pondering my quick and brutal introduction to RHLG, I flip flop between realistic, societal pleasing responses (“Nice to meet you. My name is ____.”) and the fantastical, worst case, apocalypse-causing snafu’s (“Fuck off, strange man.[6]”). I know it’s ludicrous to assume that she will respond in any earth-shattering fashion, but the threat is enough to make my stomach attempt to do a perfect 360 degree spin with back flip. (It never sticks the landing, as organs are terrible gymnasts.)[7]
My fear of rejection is by no means unique; every single person has it, no matter how suave they may be in the moment. The fear of rejection can be traced back to the paralyzing fear of not being accepted by anyone and, as a result, being alone. No one ever wants to feel alone, even if it’s only for two goddamn seconds. Having someone who accepts you is something so universally sought after that it seeps into every aspect of human culture. (The institute of marriage is best example of this broad claim. Religion is also a good example. After all, a believer is never truly alone. God is always watching.[8]) It is no wonder then, that something as simple as introducing yourself to a stranger can be enough to induce a panic attack.
So, now that the ‘why’ is out of the way, we can focus solidly on the ‘how’, as in ‘How the hell do I go about this?’
The way I look at it, there are three distinct options. They are as follows:
Plan A
I lie (to her).
I walk up to RHLG and say: “Hello ma’am, I’m doing a random survey and was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” The only problem with this plan is that I have no questions to ask. After finishing my speech I would be as a fish out of water, gasping and floundering under the dim lights of Dimond[9].
Plan B
I lie (to you).
This is by far the easiest way of going about things. I can simply tell you that I introduced myself to RHLG, make up some funny anecdote and write us off into the sunset. Fortunately for you (and unfortunately for me) I cannot possibly do this. I have problems with guilt.[10]
Plan C
The final option. I introduce myself to her, chit that chat and then get the hell out of there.
Getting the Hell Out of There
I decided to approach RHLG as if she was a very active, very sensitive nuclear bomb oozing deadly radiation. I rehearsed what I was going to say to her[11], and with an air of nervous purpose, I bit my lip, tousled my hair and began to walk.
There is a saying that goes something like: “The best laid plans will always blow up in your face and leave you forever scarred and mutilated. Your friends will abandon you in disgust and you will live in your mother’s basement for the rest of your pathetic life.”[12] As I walked over to her, (Slowly, slowly. So very, very slowly) this ugly bromide kept rattling around in my head like a lazy simile and I soon lost the very carefully constructed speech that I had spent five minutes mumbling to myself in a very lumpy whisper. I was (as yet another bromide goes) “Up Shit Creek without a paddle, a life vest, or any other kind of government recommended anti-drowning device.”[13] RHLG was sure to kill me the minute I opened my stupid mouth.
She was sitting at a small round table by herself, writing on very small scraps of colored paper. It was a very intimidating sight to say the least. The closer I got to RHLG, the emptier my mind became, until the only coherent thing I could think was a long and drawn out ruuuuuuun.[14] When I finally made it to her table, I hovered about like a drunken wasp (imagine a creeping, slouching, ugly stance with half moon eyes and you’ll understand). I stood there for what was probably two full seconds (measured in accurate grade school Mississippi mean time), until the verbal (and mental) floodgates opened.
I told her everything. I told her about the essay I was writing (and how I hoped that she wasn’t creeped[15] out by what might be considered by some to be a mild (yet flattering?) form of stalking). I told her that in order for this essay to be put to bed I needed to talk to her and I told her that I was very sorry if I was creeping her out. I repeated this apology several times. Then I talked and talked about the most useless things concerning this essay (why I was doing it and why I wasn’t doing anything else and why rejection was such a very big deal to me and isn’t it a very big deal to her?) and I kept apologizing for having possibly given to her any feelings like fear or nervousness or indigestion or whatever (at least I think I did. I mean, I think I kept apologizing but in retrospect I’m not so sure that all of those apologies weren’t just in my head being played at full scream over and over and over again) and she told me that it was an interesting idea, that her name was Corrine (surname Lapiana) that it was nice to meet me (she smiled when she said this) and that she was definitely not creeped out by anything I was doing or had said or would be doing in the future (another smile). She then asked what was next. I told her I had no idea, said goodbye, and left.
A Brief Ending
I found her again the next day (in the library, of course), and we had a small conversation. It started out a bit stiff (my fault), but things quickly became relaxed once she got talking. And while the point of this essay isn’t what we talked about, I won’t leave you wondering. We talked about a number of things, from her lack of animal skills[16], to our mutual love of the painter Hieronymus Bosch (Corrine had a faint grin on her face when she talked about Bosch. But unlike her other smiles (which are common and polite), this one seemed to be genuine and without a trace of discomfort.) Also covered were the topics of the library[17], her time abroad in England, what it takes to be a scholar[18], a cat with a liver disorder, this essay, her thoughts on asking strangers ‘how ya doin’[19], teaching Sunday School to fifth graders, her public/private high school wonderland (Talking about high school yields another Bosch Smile. The presence of this smirk indicates that she may very well belong to an almost unknown American minority; that is, people who actually enjoyed high school and didn’t find the entire thing to be a horrible slog through awkward social bullshit and less-than-helpful classroom doldrums.) and her resemblance to the deceased German actress Romy Schneider. (Almost everyone (I should say ‘everyone’, but that is much too bold a statement to make and I am sure that someone will vehemently say: “I don’t think this! I don’t care about such things!” They are lying) thinks that they look like someone famous. For instance, I think (hope) that I look like a cross between Paul Newman and Daniel Day-Lewis with just a humbling pinch of Johnny Depp (Pre 2000). Unlike most people who claim to look like anyone famous though, Corrine actually does look a lot like Romy Schneider.)
We parted ways quietly, and I began to write this ending with the intention of keeping it as short as possible. I’ve been searching for some line to tie everything nicely together and to leave you with a good opinion of me, but I don’t think that’s appropriate. I suppose that sometimes, when faced with something alien (e.g. a stranger in a red hat), it’s best just to jump up and down, rant and rave, hoot and holler and end mid
[1] A brief description is required: The Dimond library (I pronounce this strange word as ‘Dih-mond’ not ‘Die-mond’. I am probably wrong.) is a large, imposing structure located in the academic hub of campus. It is quite tall and boxy and is flanked on both sides by massive, pseudo-medieval ‘quiet rooms’ in which one can almost always find at least three students zonked out on some god awful piece of faux-comfy furniture. The rest of the building is a combination of bizarrely shaped, stack riddled, heat trapping book ovens and poorly lit, computer filled catacombs.
[2] When I say ‘architectural headache’, I refer primarily to the metal, glass and stone staircase that looms stupidly over the entrance to the library. My hatred for this staircase stems from an ill timed step which sent me reaching and stumbling for the surprisingly slick aluminumesque railing. As a result of this near catastrophic fall, every single beam, wall, balcony, and bathroom has a hellish quality to it.
[3] I have yet to find a time when the boisterous clearing of a throat isn’t grating and excruciating. The scalding fury that overcomes me with every sounding of a phlegmy heerrrrraccck is unbearable. I see red. I lust for violence. I spit at passing strangers. I imagine this to be a common and completely acceptable reaction.
[4] Surprisingly, ‘Hatted’ isn’t a word.
[5] Needles and eye drops are a close third and fourth, respectively.
[6] I hope that this has never happened to anyone in any sort of casual scenario. The prospect alone is enough to drive a mentally stable man into some sort of subterranean existence. This fresh pariah would live amongst the rats and other rodential creepy crawlies. He would never again see the light of day, let alone introduce himself to anything human ever again. (Note: Much like hatted, rodential is not a word.)
[7] A good example of the physical repercussions of a nerve shot shy boy is this short fact: As I write this, it is approaching eight pm. I was going to eat dinner, but, after deciding to talk to RHLG, my stomach immediately filled with a heavy, Styrofoam substance. Shockingly, this Styrofoam stuff is not nutritionally viable because it is not real. I anticipate losing at least twelve pounds by the time this essay is finished and dead.
[8] I was raised as a Catholic (I have since washed my hands of such things), and as a small doe eyed lad, the idea of an omniscient deity was comforting. But when puberty rolled around, the ‘omniscient deity’ quickly became the pervy Big Brother in the sky. The sentence ‘God is always watching’ sends a very long chill down my spine.
[9] In addition to Nightmarish Architecture, Dimond possess the worst lighting out of any building ever. The designers of this pit of despair obviously hate happiness, cheer, academia and the idea of functionality.
[10] Catholic Guilt. Even as an Ex-Catholic, it still hangs over me like some sort of poorly designed staircase in some poorly designed library.
[11] “Hello, I see you around quite a bit. My name is… Goodbye.”
[12] I’m par aphrasing of course. I believe the actual phrase to be much more melodramatic.
[13] Once again, paraphrasing.
[14] I almost did run, too. And, being a former endurance athlete of average skill, I could have put at least fifty feet between us before she had even noticed me lurching toward her.
[15] Place the non-word ‘creeped’ in the Antidictionary alongside the words ‘hatted’ and ‘rodential’.
[16] Her treatment of goldfish is sadistically slapstick.
[17] I don’t think she shares my architectural hatred for that eyesore.
[18] Not sleeping is apparently a major requirement for being scholarly.
[19] A New England passing conversation staple. She doesn’t ask strangers this question as she actually wants to know how they are doing and they almost always have no intention of telling her.
