Chapter Two
I know I should tell him. He can help me think this through. Why am I so hesitant? We’re sitting across from each other in El Chaco’s, the Mexican restaurant on Plyer Street that we frequent. The restaurant’s not so empty, but the hubbub feels like white noise to me.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” Martin tells me matter-of-factly as he reaches for another chip and drags it through the bowl of salsa.
“Uh, yeah?” I ask more than answer.
“Yeah,” he says through the crunching.
Martin is the first person I ever met when I moved to town six years ago, and he’s the best friend I could ever hope for.
It’s odd because in some ways we are mostly opposites.
He’s an athlete, or used to be I guess, around six foot tall, and has broad, massive shoulders and arms. Not like me.
I only think I look athletic and I certainly don’t have any natural talent or skills or that built-in ability to do everything that Martin seems to have.
I’m okay with that if Martin’s okay with that.
So far, he hasn’t invited me to play football or anything.
I guess he’s smart that way, knowing how that would turn out.
We spend a lot of time hanging out and talking about mostly nothing of real importance.
He’s also one of those people who never cease to inspire you to be a better person.
Or at least me, I guess. Whenever I’m around him, I always feel like there’s great hope in the universe.
Not sure how he does it, and most of the time I’m not that cognitive of it, but then I’m always asking myself, “What would Martin say?” and I know it would be some resounding “go for it” or “you got this” but more eloquently, of course.
He also is gay. Or queer. Or whatever. I don’t actually know the term because he never uses it.
He has this personal philosophy that one’s identity shouldn’t be tied up in titles or tags; we must accept that humanity is so complex that nobody’s existence can possibly be reduced to a simple label.
Categories may feel unifying at first, but they mostly serve to polarize, he always says.
Like I said. A tiny bit inspiring all the time.
I’m not sure how to start my story, so I just dive in.
“I may have a secret admirer,” I say. I think I exhale and forget to breathe back in. Turns out my long story is actually short!
He’s got another chip sliding through the salsa, and he doesn’t even blink. “Ichi-go Ichi-e,” he says, then looks at me for longer than I think he should before crunching through it.
So you should know: Martin isn’t Japanese and he certainly doesn’t speak Japanese.
He, in fact, might be the most un-Japanese person I know.
He just has a crazy interest in things that are profound or thought provoking.
His phrase, which I hear him say on repeat, means something like “seize the day” but less Newsies and more eastern philosophy.
I actually Googled it one time, and it doesn’t translate well.
Something like “one time, one meeting” but basically represents something more poetic like “this moment will never come again” or “treasure the unrepeatable nature of this moment.” I choose to feel the sentiment rather than dissect the words.
“Are you hearing me? A secret admirer. Aren’t you shocked or surprised or worried?” I plead. “Or something?”
His chip stops moving as if what he’s about to say needs to be truly received. “You’re a great guy, Liam, and you should be with someone. I’m not at all surprised that someone out there thinks so, too.” The chip resumes its motion. “Do you have any idea who it is?”
I shake my head, looking at the bowl of chips. “I have no idea. I’ve just been following clues around town that she keeps sending me.”
Something flashes across his eyes I can’t decipher. “Sending you around town?”
After a breath, I begin with some details. I tell him all about the first envelope, the cryptic message, about the sloppy handwriting, which he especially can’t believe, and my trips to various locations around town. I do leave out the theft part. I’ll get to that eventually.
He seems to want to hear it again and itemizes each stop on my itinerary with more questions.
“The message was just at your apartment?”
“Yeah. On the doormat.”
“Did you think for a minute it might be a scam or a murderer or something?”
“I did. For a minute.”
“But...?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t not know what this could be, so I just went.”
He sits back in his chair and exhales. I know what he’s thinking.
“The first place was a coffee shop, so I figured it would be a severely public place to murder me, so I went. I lived through it. So I just kept going.”
“And the coffee shop message led to…?”
“A locker at the train depot. Don’t worry, I went at rush hour.”
“And what was in the locker?”
“A note and a gift card, leading me to The Maple Leaf.”
“The bookstore. And you were supposed to buy a book?”
“Well.” I suddenly can’t breathe fully. “That was the idea, but it didn’t turn out that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“The book wasn’t there. Well, it was there, but it wasn’t on the shelf.”
He leans forward. “Where was it?”
“Turns out there were no copies of the book on the shelves. But before I gave up and left, I happened to notice that a guy at the register was buying that exact book for himself, so I got it.”
“What do you mean you ‘got it?’” He’s leaning into the table rather harshly.
“Look,” I start, realizing I can’t make eye contact. “I sort of grabbed it from him and ran. And drove away. And I didn’t get arrested. And I feel really stupid because I’m not a criminal but I couldn’t not have that book.”
“You stole it? You took it?” He’s touching his face with his fingertips. “I’m not understanding.”
“He was buying the book, the cashier opened the cover to put the receipt inside, I saw the sloppy handwriting and I…”
“Why do you keep calling it sloppy?”
“It’s the worst handwriting, that’s how I know it’s for me!
Anyway,” I continue, knowing that embarrassment is detectable in my voice, “I took it and ran. I got the book. It’s right here.
” I reach into my bag and pull out the book, which I’m surprised is looking rather dog-eared.
I guess I’ve been carrying it around with me everywhere I go.
He takes the book from my hands and opens the cover, looking at that sloppy handwriting. It’s written in blue pen.
“You stole it?” he repeats. “From that guy? From the store? And just ran?”
Feeling both shame and resolve, I bravely decide to adopt resolve in my tone, “There was no way I wasn’t going to not have that book! I couldn’t let it slip away.”
He closes the book slowly and stares at the cover image for longer than I think it should take to respond.
He finally speaks: “Why didn’t you just ask the guy to sell it to you?
” He pauses. “Or, ask him to read the note and give it back?” Another pause.
“Or just let it go and wait for your secret admirer to communicate again?”
These are all great questions which I also had while driving away from the bookstore trying to avoid the cops.
But, you know what they say about hindsight.
I actually don’t know how to answer the real question he’s asking, but I feel strongly that I should make an attempt. This time, I choose shame.
“I think I’ve lost my mind,” I start. “It’s crazy I know, but I couldn’t let this slip away.
I don’t even know this person, and I’m normally perfectly comfortable walking away from things in disappointment, but for some reason, I just couldn’t.
I had to have that book. I had to have that note.
I felt like it was fate or something and I stopped thinking and just, well, took action. ”
I look up to see him staring at me unblinking. What is the look on his face? Confusion? Shock? Is he proud of me? Does he think I’m mental? I look away, wondering, my cheeks burning.
He says nothing.
“It’s like totally out of character for me, I know. I would never do something like this, but I couldn’t not have that book. I didn’t not see my life without that book. I don’t know how to explain it any better.” I stare at the bowl of chips. They don’t move. Neither does Martin.
After a torturously long pause, he mumbles softly, “You keep using double negatives.”
Analyzing my grammar! Are you serious? He is such a dork.
Actually, I get it. When you don’t know what to say, your mind clings precariously to anything it can find that’s solid and grounding.
Of course, in Martin’s case that’s the immutable rules of grammar.
I don’t respond, because, well, I don’t care about grammar and I suddenly understand that I’ve dumped a truckload of awkward in his lap.
I grab for a chip mindlessly. So does he. We both aim for the bowl of salsa in an awkward you-go-first, no-you-go stare down. We just hang there salsa-less.
“I’ve never seen you this way,” he finally says. He switches his chip into a pointing device, waving it over my body like a scanner. I seize the opportunity for a salsa dip which the resulting bite, happily, prevents me from having to know what to say next.
“You’re really driven by this,” he declares.
His words just hang there while I crunch.
“I can’t explain it,” I finally say. It’s the truest thing that’s been said all day, which helps swing my tone back to resolve: “But I’m not going to let this, whatever this is, slip away.” I stop blinking and we lock eyes.
“I didn’t…” he starts and turns away. “This wasn’t…”
We know each other well enough to understand that some things are too complex for words.
He tries again, “What if your secret person didn’t intend for you to be this intense? What if this mystery person was just set on you having, like, I don’t know, a fun adventure?”
“That’s stupid,” I blurt. “Then they would just... There’s something more. I just know it. I don’t know what it is I know, but I…”
Like I said, better without words.