Chapter 2
It’s crazy, the way life goes. I kinda wanna get out the phone book and see if Miss Frascatore is still alive.
She was my guidance counselor in second grade.
She was like one of those happy adults on Sesame Fucking Street.
This one time, my mom sent me to school with a black eye.
My teacher Mrs. Prince—big breasts, the kind that scream over-the-shoulder boulder holder—sent me to Miss Frascatore.
A tiny person in a sweater with fucking candy canes and lights, the kind of thing a kid wears.
Anyway, I was sent to her a lot back in the day.
She always acted happy to see me. Sitting on the floor, smiling at me like I was some go-lucky kid with a belly full of homemade apple pie.
“Wanna know a secret, Joe? A really good secret…”
I gave her nothing. Most adults hate that shit. They want the kid from the Life cereal commercial. But Miss Frascatore took off her big glasses and clamped her hands over her eyes, and she smiled like she was watching a movie in her head, something funny, something like Porky’s.
“Try it,” she said. “See, Joey, there’s a dirty little secret that most grown-ups don’t want to tell you. Trusting someone feels good. I am choosing to set you free, to believe that you won’t hurt me, and again…it’s fun, Joe. It makes you feel good to be—”
I slammed the door on the way out. I was a fucked-up little dude, and she was the original Little Red Corvette. Too much, too fast. I wasn’t a monster. I felt bad. The next day, I asked my teacher if I could go see her, and my teacher said no.
“Miss Frascatore is at another school now.”
I never saw her again, and she’s on my mind because of you.
You! You really were writing to me, thinking of me and the best part is my part.
I remember you too, Bookstore Babe.
You came into the shop on an icy rainy Tuesday in the dregs of post-9/11 December.
You reminded me of Miss Frascatore the day we met.
You with your little bright blue cape. Combat boots and a messenger bag that was almost bigger than you.
Plaid tights that revealed something about your insecurity, like your legs weren’t enough.
This smile that screamed inexperienced guidance counselor.
I watched you rummage through your too-big bag in Earth Sciences.
You were more of a large child than an adult, playing dress-up.
“Can I help you, miss?”
“Do people really buy this stuff?”
I was good with you. Cool with just a touch of cold. “This is New York,” I said. “Yesterday, a woman came in here and bought three books about Beanie Babies.”
You looked away as you smiled. Swayed. That ridiculous cape like a hula skirt hanging on your torso. Girls are silly. Clothes are silly. “I’m not gonna lie,” you said. “I’m not here to buy a book.”
“Oh, no?”
You were closer now, and when did that happen?
“Look,” you said. “I know the drill. Restroom is for customers only. Yada, yada, yada. But you seem cool. You know how it is. I’m a hardworking assistant in the middle of my day, and if I don’t finish my stuff, I’m gonna get fired and wind up living in my parents’ basement back in Beverly Hills, and I know… ”
I looked at you the way anyone would. Beverly Fucking Hills.
“No,” you said. “Beverly Hills, Michigan. I’m not, like, I mean, I’m not a princess. I can’t actually afford this Miu Miu cape, okay? I got it at work. Shit. My quarter-life crisis isn’t even here yet and already I’m a nervous babbling wreck.”
“You’re not babbling. You’re talking.”
You undid a brassy button on that stupid fucking cape. “Okay,” you went on. “All I mean is I know I can’t just waltz in here and use the loo, but at the same time…”
“You want to waltz in here and use the loo.”
“Need,” you said. “I need to waltz in here and use the loo.”
That was it. The first spark. The click. I offered to show you the way to the loo, and you laughed a little. “Oh God,” you said. “I’m really getting my British on today. I might have a little too much Dido on my mixtape.”
I didn’t know who that is and I didn’t ask you who that is. I knew enough to be quiet.
“Anyway,” you said. “I’m a total Anglophile. I adore all things British.”
“Me too,” I said. It wasn’t a lie or some intentional fucking deception.
It was instinct. It felt right to agree with you, same way it felt right to let you break the rules.
And then it was on. You told me you just rewatched Sliding Doors, and I told you I love it too.
You asked what I would be doing with my life if I missed the train.
“Well,” I said. “I think I’d be right here, honestly. I think I’d be me.”
You said that was either really deep or really shallow, and I liked the way it felt, being on the move with you.
I was at my best. Casually picking up some Clancy and reshelving it while you looked around the shop.
You said it reminded you of the one from You’ve Got Mail.
I pictured you naked. I imagined your body on top of mine.
It felt different with you. Clear. I was nervous because I was gonna do the thing I never fucking do.
I was gonna ask for your number. We made it to the back of the shop, and I opened the bathroom door.
It was on the tip of my tongue. Maybe we could grab a coffee or something.
But then Mooney barged in. “This is not a paying customer.”
You were tied to the railroad tracks, and I was there with pliers. “Actually, Mr. Mooney, this young lady was in earlier today. She bought a book.”
I saw your lips turn up a little. This young lady. You liked that.
Mooney didn’t budge. “What book?”
I was fast. Good. “Portnoy’s Complaint.”
The lie played—Mooney let you into the can—but the shop got busy. You slipped out the door with a shy wave, like you’d lost your nerve in the bathroom. But who am I to judge? I fucked up too. I didn’t leave the register and run into the rain.
Later that night, I tried to write a Missed Connection. Usually, it comes naturally to me, but I couldn’t do it with you. I couldn’t clap my hands over my eyes and trust the world. I couldn’t reduce what we had and pack it up into a little post.
You couldn’t either, not at first.
I pushed you out of my mind, and I’m sure you tried to forget about me too.
But this is where I love girls, girls, girls, girls, girls I do adore. You cling. You don’t let go. You don’t give up.
And as it turns out, we are lucky to be alive and young in late December of 2001. Yes, the world is fucked. Yes, we might all die at any moment. But there’s one thing we do have going for us….
The internet.
I pull up the World’s Best Missed Connection Ever Written, and I do what a good reader does. I read it again.
MISSED CONNECTION: NYC Bookstore Babe, touchable brown hair, brown eyes, twinkling
This is a long shot because it’s all probably in my head.
And this is so not me. It’s my first time here and all of it…
Craigslist…Missed Connections…I am not that girl, okay?
And yes, this is embarrassing, maybe even pathetic, but maybe also (gulp) romantic?
I know. People who say they never do something or tell you it’s the first time for them are usually lying, but I swear I’m telling the truth.
A couple of weeks ago, I walked into a random bookstore because it was raining, and I had to pee.
Your boss barked at me that it’s for paying customers only.
I was in a mood so I kinda bit the old man’s head off about how we’re all supposed to be nice to one another right now because hello…
Who DOESN’T have PTSD from 9/11? My voice was shaking, and he just kinda set me off, and I thought I was gonna burst into tears, but then you ran up to him—so sweet, the way you touched his shoulder—and you told him that I was a paying customer.
Him: “Are you telling the truth?”
You: “Swear to God.”
Him: “What did she buy?”
You: “INSERT NAME OF THE BOOK IN YOUR REPLY SO I KNOW IT’S YOU.”
Anyway. You saved me. Total hero move. A whiter, sweeter lie there could not be.
And yes…You were cute. Felt like you thought I was cute, but again, I totally get that you might be a good guy who does good things, and if you see this and you DO remember me and you were NOT into me…
I wish you nothing but the best, and I promise I won’t come back to your place of work and hunt you down.
You totally have the right to see this, cringe, and move on.
If, on the other hand, it WAS personal…if you do remember me, if you think about me, if you think about me a lot, if you don’t think it’s creepy and weird and pathetic and gross of me to put this out there and you wanna see that new John Cusack movie with me, this is what you do.
Write back to this post with the name of the book and the name of the shop.
I know your name. I saw your name tag. The question is, do you wanna know mine?
I want to write back to you, but I have to be smart about this. I have to put myself in your shoes. After all, you’re the reason we get a second chance. You’re the one who put yourself out there for me.
And I know it wasn’t easy. You probably had a few sips of something strong.
You typed. You tweaked. You hemmed and you hawed and paced around your little apartment—it has to be little; they’re all fucking little—and the liquid courage wasn’t cutting it, so you called a friend. She thought you were nuts.
Nobody actually does Missed Connections. I mean, what if he’s crazy?
But that’s not you. You’re not cynical. You’re a dreamer, a romantic, a doer.
So, fuck yes, you cut open your chest and you shared your deepest, newest, most embarrassing dream with the world.
Lucky for you and for me, I too am a hopeless fucking romantic.
Sure, you got some of the dialogue wrong, but that’s girls.
You make everything bigger in the rearview mirror.
You threw out a line. You let hope win, and one day, we’ll frame this beautiful letter and hang it in our very, very, very fine house.
We won’t have two cats. We’ll have a dog.
And it won’t be a house, technically. We’ll live on the Upper West Side and—
Gently, Joseph.
You don’t want to marry me, not yet. But you do want me.
I am NYC Bookstore Babe. I deserve this.
How many times have I heeded the call of Miss Frascatore, closed my eyes, and trusted that some girl out there would read my letter, that I would read the letter from some girl?
This is my first win, and I gotta relax.
I can’t come on too strong. And I earned a win.
I should have seen it coming. At some point, someone had to walk into this shop and see me.
If your life is one clusterfuck after another, if the first seventeen years are too bad to be true, it makes sense that you get a shot of too good to be true in the form of a comely caped crusader.
Gently, Joseph.
I scan the shop to make sure Mr. Mooney is still in his office—yep—and I put the pedal to the metal, my fingers on the keypad.
Portnoy’s Complaint. Mooney Books. The Angelika has a Serendipity screening at 11:45 tomorrow. If that works for you, I’ll be out front. No name tag, though.
My fingers hem and haw, they hover. You were in this moment. You freaked out. Hesitated. Worried that I might think you’re nuts. It feels good to be in your shoes, wondering if I have the guts to go through with it, to answer your shot in the dark. And then I bite the bullet.
Click.