December 18, 2010

It starts as a game. Just something silly to pass the time since I was alone on Christmas. I figured, who doesn't love a good mystery. I'd put it out there and see what happened.

If it made a connection, perhaps made someone feel a little better while making me less lonely, so much the better.

Who knows, maybe it'll even lead to love.

Love. How can one little four letter word be so big and scary? This one word carries enormous importance and emotion. To love is to risk loss. The last time I tried that path, it didn't end well. I don't want to be afraid anymore.

If nothing comes of this, well, it will give me something else to think about this year.

A little red leather notebook, nondescript, and shoved between two books, completely out of place.

It annoys me when people put the things they don't want anymore, wherever they might be. It's like grocery carts in the parking lot, how hard is it to walk twenty feet to return it to the cart return kiosk. People can be so lazy and rude.

I pull it out idly, wondering how it came to be there in the science fiction section. Pulling it out, I make the decision to drop it off at the information desk while I peruse the shelves. I continue my attempt to find a book or five, as evidenced by the stack already in my hands. Something to keep me company during this Christmas season.

This holiday holds nothing for me, and I want nothing to do with it or the people. I don't want to buy into the fake commercialism and pretend to be happy. I feel like I've been playing a role, pretending to be this socially outgoing person when all I want is to wallow in my misery.

It's impossible to not notice the couples on the streets, holding hands. There's a part of me that wants that, while a bigger part of me remembers that it's all a lie.

The holidays are hard. Too much forced cheer, too much family togetherness, too much. You spend months planning for this one day and in the end, isn't it a disappointment on some level? The glowing lights are supposed to make us feel warm while the days get longer, it's like a last hurrah before the cold and the dark really take hold and we're forced to remember why the holidays are hard, making us look at it with nostalgia and longing for something that never was. There's a reason more people suffer depression at the holidays.

I used to love Christmas; it used to be my favorite time of the year. It meant laughter, love, light and cheer. That changed when I was seventeen. No, I didn't find out that Santa Claus isn't real, I'm not that na?ve. That ship sailed years before then. No, that was the year I found out that the lights don't keep the darkness at bay.

All I want for Christmas this year is to be left alone. I don't want to go to parties and drink to numb myself to the loneliness. I don't want to hook up with some random person who's only interested in me for a fleeting minute or worse pretends to love me.

No, this year, my plans include me, my apartment, a good bottle of scotch and some mythical worlds to lose myself in. I've come to this out of the way independent bookstore with hopes that my reading choices won't make their way onto the cover of some shitty tabloid.

It's not the sort of place I would normally be seen, so I feel safe in my anonymity. The Strand is a dream for book lovers, and I could stay here for hours.

I continue my book search, picking up the latest Pratchett, may he rest in peace, and taking a chance on a new author whose work seems promising. I stumble over a loose piece of carpet, dropping my books on the floor as I try to keep myself from face planting on the floor. When I pick up the red journal, I notice that it's not a brand new journal simply misplaced.

On the cover, someone has written the words 'Do you dare?' in black sharpie.

My curiosity peaked, I undo the sash holding it closed and flip the cover open, looking for a name or something to identify who it belongs to. Maye someone was picking out books and accidentally put it back with some other volume. The first page has several blank lines and a small note written in precise handwriting.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _?

Are you ready to play? There are rules and criteria to weed out the unworthy. Be warned, this is not a game for the faint of heart. You will be tested, but the end may be worth your effort.

1. If you're under the age of 20, please put this book back where you found it. It is not for you.

2. If you're older than the age of 24, please put this book back where you found it. It is not for you.

3. While love is a spectrum, if you are not male and/or women are not on your spectrum, please put this book back where you found it. It is not for you.

Are you still with me? Turn the page.

I'm 20 and intrigued so I turn the page, wondering what awaits me.

So here's the game. You need to solve the phrase using the clues below. Answer the question.

Clue #1

The first word of a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson about making your way in the world.

Clue #2

The opposite of me

Clue #3

Maya Angelou always said that people will never forget what about you?

Clue #4

When your day night

Glancing around the shop to see if anyone is watching me, I pull a pen out of my back pocket.

I feel a strange connection with this person as I run through all the quotes I have stored in my head, trying to remember one by Ralph Waldo Emerson about paths. "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." It's one of my favorite quotes, one I consider when making choices in my life, like moving to New York.

The first word is "Do". Do what?

The second clue is a riddle, and I almost snort at how easy it is. The opposite of me is you.

"'Do you?"

My heart is racing in anticipation. It's been a long time since I felt something this strongly. For the past year I've been weighted down by ennui, tired of the life I've lived but unable to break free entirely. Now, it seems thanks to a chance encounter; I have something to look forward to, even if it is just some words on a page. Solving the mystery gives me a thrill I wouldn't have thought possible. I want to know more about this person. Who are they? Why did they do this?

Another quote, one my mother used to say to me when I worried too much I was making a fool of myself.

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou

The ever present pain of my mother's loss flares while I hear my mother's voice repeating the quote in my mind.

"Do you feel?"

We all feel. You're going to have to be more specific, Mystery Author.

I look at the last clue, expecting another riddle or quote.

When your day is night. I think for a minute before a song plays in my head. R.E.M.'s Everybody Hurts. It's a song that is both cliche and poignant. It's also one that I've found myself playing on repeat numerous times, trying to build myself up after yet another loss in my life.

I sing through the song, trying to find the line. "When your day is night alone, hold on."

Well, if nothing else, they have good taste in music. I stare at the full sentence I've written on the page.

Do you feel alone?

I'm normally surrounded by people, so how could I possibly feel alone? I shake my head at the lie even as my mind forms it. I always feel alone. It makes no sense that this sends a shiver through me, that some stranger sees this about me. I realize this book was left for anyone, but it feels like it was just waiting for me.

Did you figure it out?

If the answer is yes, then turn the page.

I turn the page, wondering what lies in store. I feel a little like Alice heading down the rabbit hole. And just like Alice, I'm ready for this adventure. If I get nothing else out of this, at least it will be a welcome distraction from the noise in my head.

So here's how we'll play. Write me a message, tell me one true thing about yourself, put the book back where you found it. If I like your answer, we'll continue to play.

One true thing? Obviously my Mystery Author doesn't mean something as mundane as my name. Normally I'm an extremely private person, refusing to share anything about myself beyond the basics. I'm like a POW reciting my name, rank, serial number. Nothing more, nothing less. Somehow I don't think that will cut it here.

The owner of this red notebook is a stranger, but I decide to take a chance.

Holding the pen cap in my teeth, I swallow down my hesitation, the fear that these words will become front page fodder, "Poor Movie Star's Son", and just let the words flow from me.

I have to admit, I'm intrigued. This is not what I was expecting when I walked into this store today.

But I'll play along.

You asked me to tell you one true thing, so here it is.

I stand in a room full of people and I feel utterly alone. I have no connection to the surrounding people. I don't understand what drives them, how they can be so happy all the time when there's so much pain in the world. I feel like they see only a shadow of who I am. But I'm afraid to show my true self because I doubt they would like me. Isn't it better to be with people alone than to be alone?

Maybe it's me, maybe I'm the problem. All my life I've looked for someone to see me and always, I'm disappointed. It leaves me wondering, can I be loved?

I put the book back before I can second guess myself. I've never been this open with anyone, not even the so-called love of my life. That was a whirlwind of hormones and physical satisfaction, mistaken for love that ultimately left me a shell of my former self. It served to reinforce what I already knew; I was not worthy of love.

If I was, then my father wouldn't have beaten me. My mother wouldn't have taken that swan dive off the Coronado bridge and left me to a sadistic bastard's whims. I wasn't enough for either of them.

Refusing to get lost in the memories threatening while I contemplate my feelings of self-worth, I snatch up my purchases and make my way to the cashier's desk.

A slim black man with close cropped hair and a name tag that proclaims 'Wallace' greets me with a bored smile. He glances at my selections and I can feel him silently judging my choices. A part of me hopes that they pass whatever test he has while another part of me wants to tell him to keep his judgements to himself. As if I care what he thinks of my pleasure reading habits.

"This is a fantastic series." I jump slightly at the sound of his voice. I glance at the volume he's holding. It's the book by an author I've never read, but seemed interesting. The cover has a young spunky girl, which is probably what drew me to it in the first place. "First Rider's Call" by Kristen Britain.

I shrug. "It sounded interesting." My mind is still on the notebook and my Mysterious Author. I consider Wallace, wondering if he might be able to shed some light on my mystery penpal.

"Hey man, I found a red notebook back in sci-fi that didn't seem to belong." He glances up sharply from the register.

"What did you do with it?" His voice is tight and I realize he knows all about that notebook.

"I put it back where I found it. I figured the owner would come back for it. Seemed kind of important." I try to keep my tone light, though I desperately want to interrogate him.

"I don't know anything about it." He looks down, obviously hiding something.

Before he was taking his time ringing up my books, but now he seems like he's in a hurry as he rushes through the rest of the transaction. I hand over my credit card to pay and I notice him glancing at it to check out my name before staring at me in wide eye wonder. Yeah, that's me. A heavy sigh escapes me. He runs the card and hands me my receipt to sign.

I sign and grab the carrier bag full of books, feeling slightly disappointed. Wallace seems more agitated as I take my time, stopping to look at a bookmark by the register before heading to the door. I turn back to look through the glass doors after I exit and Wallace is in his cell, talking animatedly to someone. Could it be my Mystery Author?

Debating on hanging around and maybe catching my Mystery Author. My phone rings, reminding me I have places to be. As I pull out my cell, I realize that I'm actually late, my brief trip to Strand taking longer than I expected.

"Dude." The voice on the other end of the phone slurs. Shit, he started early tonight.

"Dick, sorry I got held up. I'm on my way now." Walking as I speak, a small person, bundled up against the cold, bumps into me as they hurry down the sidewalk. I hear a soft 'sorry' but the person is gone before I can say anything. I focus again on my friend on the phone.

"Wait, you got held up?" I roll my eyes even though he can't see me. Dick Casablancas is like a brother to me, but sometimes I mourn the brain cells he's obviously sacrificed over the years in the name of partying.

"Not literally. I just had something come up that I needed to take care of." I hail a cab, throwing my bag of books on the seat before getting in. While I'm giving the cab driver the address, I miss what Dick says. "What was that? I'm just getting in the car now. I'll be there soon."

"You'd better, Dude. There's a ton of hot hotties here tonight and you don't want to miss out on the festivities." I groan inwardly at the thought of having bimbos crawling all over me tonight. I don't know why I agreed to attend Dick's party at the Four Seasons, when all I really wanted was my solitude. That was supposed to be the point of the party being held somewhere other than our apartment. Instead, I got roped into agreeing to attend.

"I'm sure you can handle them." In the background, I hear laughter and music. Suddenly it's quiet and I check my phone to see if the call disconnected.

Dick's voice comes on the line in a harsh whisper. "Dude, she's here."

I grit my teeth, rage washing through me as I realize he can only mean one person. The so-called love of my life, the bitch who ripped out my heart when she fucked my father. Lilly fucking Kane. What the hell is she doing in town? I thought I moved three thousand miles away, so I never had to deal with her again.

"Dude?" Dicks voice is concerned, and I remind myself that it's not his fault.

"It's fine, Dick. I'm sure there's lots of people there. I won't even need to talk to her." Leave it to Lilly to show up when I was finally starting to feel better about myself.

"She's already asked for you." I guess it was too much to ask that she get the message when I moved, that I wanted nothing more to do with her. Of course, that would have shown some emotional intelligence on her part and Lilly is as selfish as they come. There's no way she is going to let a little thing like my anger get in the way of what she wanted.

I debate just heading back to my apartment, but Dick is drunk and I promised to be his wingman tonight. Holidays are just as hard for him, having lost his brother at Christmas in our senior year of high school. I know he blames himself for Cassidy's problems and his way of dealing is getting shit faced and making stupid decisions. After everything he's helped me through I can't just abandon him because my ex blows into town like the wicked witch of the west.

"It'll be fine, Dick. It was a long time ago. I'm sure we can pass each other at a party and go our separate ways." If you tell yourself something long enough, you'll start to believe it. At least that's what my therapist always tells me.

Dick hangs up the phone while I give the driver our new destination. Fuck, this had been such a good night before now. A little mystery distracting me from my normally gloomy thoughts. Now all that's shot to hell as I steel myself to face my past again.

Wallace calls while I am studying.

"V, someone asked about the notebook." His words come out rushed like he's been running.

My heart starts to beat faster. I put the notebook on the shelves of Strand, the bookstore where Wallace works as a lark. It was just something to pass the time since I am stuck in New York for the holiday, thousands of miles away from my dad.

It's also my way of putting a message out into the world. You're not alone, I'm not alone. I want to believe that. I need to believe that. I'm just having a hard time right now.

I moved to New York two years ago after a disastrous first semester at UC-San Diego. I told myself that I was moving to give myself a fresh start, become a new person. The fear that took up residence those months before still had hold of me, keeping me from making the most of what should have been one of the best experiences of my life.

When I told my friends, Mac and Wallace my plan, they were equal parts horrified and enthralled. Mac worried that I was setting myself up for disappointment. She didn't understand how a silly mystery game with a stranger could make me overcome my own fears. If anything, the opposite should be true.

Wallace was supportive, letting me leave the notebook at Strand. He promised to tell me if anyone found it and did as I asked. If he thought I was crazy, he kept it to himself.

It had been sitting there for a little less than four hours when he called. I didn't expect anything this soon and had been trying to avoid thinking about it by studying. My classes were on break, but I figured it's never too soon to get a jump on the next semester.

"Did this person actually write in it, or did they mention it?" I'm not going to rush down there in the cold if it was just a good samaritan pointing out a mis-shelved book. My heart is still beating rapidly and the same voice that told me to do this in the first place is whispering, 'You're not alone. He found it.'

Wallace didn't say it was a guy, and I have no reason to believe this, but I have come to trust this voice I hear.

"I saw him pull it out and then he spent twenty minutes in the aisle looking at it. I don't think he saw me watching him."

I try to keep my tone casual as I move around the apartment I share with Mac, pulling on my shoes and coat. "Him?"

"Yeah, it was a guy. He looked about our age." I'm dying to ask Wallace for more details, but I made him promise on his mother's life that he would let me solve this mystery all on my own.

What's the fun if you can get the answers without the work?

I close and lock the door to my apartment, letting Wallace know I'm on my way. Mac is out for the evening and probably won't be back tonight. She's normally as much a homebody as I am, but she recently started dating this guy Max and has been spending all her time with him.

It's probably easier that she isn't home to see me racing to see what some mystery guy has written me. She was skeptical enough about this whole thing.

I practically run the four blocks to Strand, accidentally bumping into a tall, dark-haired man talking on a cell phone. I utter a quick sorry as I continue down the sidewalk, the bookstore already in my sights.

The door chimes as I push it open, glad to be out of the cold. Even after living here for two years, my southern California bred body still can't handle east coast winters. Thank god for North Face parkas even if they make me look like the stay puff marshmallow woman.

Wallace is with a customer but sends a smile my way as I head back to the science fiction section. I debated for a long time on which section to put the book in. I briefly considered placing it next to Salinger's Franny and Zooey, but that seemed too cheesy for my tastes. Finally, I had placed the book next to First Rider's Call, the first in the Green Rider's series by Kristen Britain.

It was a series about a young girl caught up in things she doesn't understand, fighting for her life, saving a king. Basically, being a badass. A person I could admire and aspire to be like, but not who I currently am. And of course she gets to do all of this with her trusty horse.

I'm still holding out for that pony someday.

As far as sci-fi and fantasy novels go, it's more geared towards the female portion of the population, so it's a risky choice. However, any guy who is willing to look past the lack of scantily clad female on the cover to see the worth of the story unfolding is one I am willing to take a risk on.

My hand trembles as I pull the notebook from the shelf.

I open the cover, staring at the loopy handwriting answering the riddle I spent hours devising. It had to be hard enough to weed out the idiots, but not so hard no one would ever get it.

I turn the page and read what he's written. Tears spring to my eyes as the hope and sadness of his words pierce my heart.

It's him.

Never in my wildest dreams did I expect such open honesty from a stranger. I trace a fingertip over the words, trying to imagine the man who wrote them.

Of course it's possible that it's all a lie, someone playing with me, but somehow I believe what he's written.

Glancing up at the registers, and see that Wallace is still helping the customer. Helping might be a generous term considering how she's gazing up at him with adoring eyes. I bookmark that for later, turning my attention back to the notebook. I pull a pen out of my messenger bag, chewing on the cap searching for the right words.

Everyone deserves love and everyone is capable of being loved. It's a matter of finding the right person who sees you for who you are.

I can say that, but like you, I wonder. I thought I was loved, but it was a delusion. I still believe it's possible, but how do you know it's real?

We'll keep playing.

'Tis the season to be merry and bright, but it's far too cold here. If you want to know more, find my accidental discovery and warm up. Ask me anything you want. Leave the book with the hostess.

If you can handle this dare, I'll answer your question. Until then…

I put the notebook back, letting my fingers trail over the spine. Let's see if he's as smart as he seems.

I wave goodbye to Wallace, who barely glances up from his continued conversation. He must really like her to not even notice me leaving. Normally, he'd remind me to text him when I get back to the apartment, ensuring I made it there safely.

I don't know how to feel about that. I count on Wallace to help me face my fears while still giving me my independence.

A text comes through on my phone and I smile as I read it.

Don't forget to let me know you made it home safe and sound.