The thing about being in witness protection is that people never want to get close to you, because they are pretty sure you will be shot or get kidnapped sometime in the near future. And nobody wants a dead girlfriend. Actually, scratch that—vampires do (you know, after they suck all your blood). But here’s the thing of it, despite the fact that my obituary has shown up in the papers and my social security number is now defunct, I’m very much alive. I just have a new identity, that’s all.
And okay, I get it, why would you want to be with someone whose life is a lie? I have a fake name, fake hair color, and when I first entered, a fake tan as well. But everything in my heart is very real. The good part about being too quiet for people to notice is that when I go out in public, I’m in less danger. The bad part about being too quiet for people to notice is that I find myself sitting behind guys like Jude, wishing they’d turn around and actually see me. Or you know, realize I could be their soul mate (or at least, the me that fake died three years ago could be).
But here’s what happens. Well, actually it goes one of two ways. If the guy ever talks to me, and even shows a hint of liking me, he’s all “hey, are you on Facebook?” And I tell him no. Because why would I plaster my face and info all over the web when there is a group of very mad criminals looking for me? Sure, hey guys, here’s some photos of what I did last weekend, this is where I work, and oh yeah, here are all of my friends so you can kill them too. I think not.
But then let’s say I actually sort of know the guy. Maybe we are budding friends, and I trust him to know this important aspect of my dangerous life. After I’m all “Well, I don’t have Facebook because I’m in the Witness Protection Program, and my name is not really Elle, but I can’t tell you who I really am either. Oh, and if some guys wearing ugly Italian business suits and carrying large briefcases ever show up on your doorstep, tell them you don’t know me,” then the guy is like “Actually, I’m busy next Friday, let’s not do dinner.”
Though it hardly ever gets that far. Like I said, most of the time I just spend staring at the back of their heads. Similar to right now. I’ve known Jude for about eight months, but he hardly ever talks to me, so I guess “know” is a very generous term. Maybe I should instead say I’ve been in close proximity to Jude repeatedly for about eight months, but he probably doesn’t even notice me when I walk right past him. Which you know, is sort of depressing. Especially when you can’t really talk to any of your real friends because they all think you died in a boating accident.
Jude is really beautiful, only I’m certain he would prefer it if I said handsome. Although since he never talks to me and will never read this, I can describe him any way I want. He has dark chestnut hair, and sometimes it sort of curls a bit around his ears. He has a very attractive manly jaw and chin, which is adorable when he occasionally has a bit of stubble on it. Jude’s eyes are like the fourth planet's twin moons, Phobos and Deimos. But the thing that I like most about Jude is that he enjoys traveling to foreign countries, which is comforting to me. Pretend that on an off chance he did talk to me, and he did fall in love with me, and I did get found out by a bunch of fake business men wearing ugly Italian suits, Jude would have no problem leaving this comfortable country behind and hiding with me in some remote village in Malaysia or whatever.
So here I am, watching Jude from a distance, praying to the Lord in heaven that maybe today he will notice me, which is actually sort of the equivalent to praying that the Pacific Ocean will part when I step into it, or that the water pitcher sitting in my fridge at home will miraculously turn into wine or vodka or something. Because like I said, nobody ever notices me.
I observe as a small group of people crowd around Jude, asking him questions, conversing, and laughing. I watch with envy. Then I decide that I should probably just go home, because obviously today is not the day. Yesterday wasn’t either. I pop into the restroom real quick on my way out. As I’m washing my hands, I evaluate myself in the mirror. Is this really supposed to be my life? All of these charades? But I’ve been living this way for three years. I’ve gotten into the groove of things so much that sometimes I forget that this isn’t really me. That I’m not really some girl named Elle. It’s like maybe this is really a long dream I’m having and soon I will wake up in my own bed and see the people who know the true me. Though I think I’ve sort of forgotten who that is.
Sighing, I open the bathroom door and step out. My stomach jolts as I realize who’s standing two feet in front of me. Jude. Only, it’s his backside. It takes a second and then it is like the heavens breaking open and God himself shining a flashlight down onto Earth. Jude turns around and sees me. A smile spreads across his face as he recognizes me, or at least, I think he does.
“Hi,” he says. “I know I should know you, but I can’t remember your name. What is it again?”
My real name or the name I use now?
“Elle,” I say. “My name is Elle. You know, like the 12th letter of the alphabet.”
Jude’s eyes crinkle up a bit as he smiles. I try not to stare at his beautiful teeth. If Jude were a moron, I might be afraid that if he ever doodles my name on notebook paper, he’ll spell it El. Or worse yet, L, like that one time I ordered a pizza from Little Caesar’s. But Jude is quite intelligent. I mean, I’ve had a few conversations with him before, (or at least overheard him talk to other people), and he always sounds quite smart, like maybe he scored pretty well on the verbal part of the SATs his senior year of high school.
“So, Elle. How have you been?”
This is typically the part in an opening conversation where you have to lie. If you don’t know someone well, you really can’t delve into the deeper and more dangerous aspects of your life.
“I’ve been pretty well. How are things going for you?” I reply.
You can obviously see why this conversation never goes anywhere. Neither of us ever reveals anything really worth talking about. And because I don’t know that much about Jude’s actual life, I can’t think to ask about anything he might like to talk about.
“Ah, good. Busy. I’m in the process of moving.”
Oh shit, I think. Because now he’s going to move away and I’ll never see him again and that will be the end to the story that never began.
“Really? Where are you moving to?”
I know a lot about relocation. I mean, I moved about a thousand miles away from where I used to live, didn’t I? If anybody knows about starting over, I do.
“Just to the other side of town,” Jude replies. “By 15th Street.”
I suck in some air. Apparently I had been holding my breath.
I play the biggest card I have, which is low, because it’s like I’m holding a deck of threes and fours.
“There’s a really good little restaurant near 15th Street. Off of Maple? It’s called Komi. You should definitely go there after you move.”
If this were my dream, or a fictional story that I was writing, then Jude would say “Oh yeah? Maybe we could go sometime.” But this isn’t my dream.
“Yeah? Do you live over there?”
I wish.
“No, but I like to eat there. I live on Clayton Road.”
“You’re an artist, right?” Jude asks, rather randomly. But who am I to judge how the synapses in his brain fire?
“Um, I guess you could say that. I do graphic design work for websites. It’s nice because I get to work from home.”
You know, where I’m safe from the mob.
“That’s cool. Have you ever done CD stuff?” Jude’s eyes brighten. “I have these friends who are trying to release a demo, but they need some cover art.”
An entire three month scenario reels in my head instantly. I could become friends with his friends, do some work for them, get chummy, and then Jude would realize that he should probably spend some one-on-one time with me. You know, in the form of a date.
“Well, I haven’t before, but if your friends are interested, I could meet with them to discuss what kind of aesthetic appeal they’re going for. Do you want to give them my card?”
“Oh sure, that’d be great.”
I root around in my purse as I realize this is the longest individual conversation I’ve ever had with Jude. I open up my wallet and pull one of my cards out of a pocket. I hand it over to him. It has my name and phone number and website printed in a smooth font.
“Thanks so much, Elle,” Jude says.
“No problem,” I smile.
“I’ll see ya,” he says as he turns to leave.
Will he? Will he actually see me? Because I’m here. I’ve been here all along, but whether or not he’s seen me is debatable.
“Bye.” And then I walk away. He still doesn’t know that I like him. Still doesn’t know that we’d probably get along really well, if I could just be straight with him. And I’m still going home without plans for the weekend. But I’m a step closer. I mean, he’s got my number now, hasn’t he? If God hit him over the head with a metaphorical baseball bat while he was sleeping one night, and he woke up thinking “I’ve got to talk to Elle,” he could call me, right?
Once I’m home, I start to replay everything in my mind. Could I have said anything different? Winked maybe? After a bit of thinking, I pull out an album that I keep stashed under my bed. It’s full of pictures of my old life, of the real me, of the people I used to love. Looking at it is quite painful, so I eventually slam it shut and immerse myself in complicated day dreams. What I have to do is envelope myself into fiction. This whole life I’m living isn’t real. I mean, I just made up this whole story, didn’t I?
No comments:
Post a Comment