It's one thing to feel rejected—it's quite another thing to reject yourself.
You have no idea what I’m talking about? Well, I do—in fact it’s the story of my life.
I’m flooded with a deluge of images and fantasies that aren’t real and overwhelm me. At first, I tried putting up a wall. I immersed myself in doing things—anything that would distract me from my inner life.
I could stave off daydreams and fancies during the day, but lying in bed at night, was another matter.
How many eleven-year old children do you imagine spend their childhood creating an alter ego with a complete identity? I don’t mean fantasizing about being Superman—I mean constructing an avatar of somebody else inside your head.
He’s somebody different from you—somebody better than you. His teacher doesn’t abuse him and he doesn’t make mistakes.
He’s a winner, not a loser. He’s not bullied and chased home from school by a pack of boys. When he walks home from school, he carries Linda Arrigo’s books—he doesn’t just dream about it.
Fast forward twenty years and Linda and I are lawyers working for the same firm.
She’s too nice to be Sandra Bullock and too beautiful to be the girl next door. She’s a colleague and I think a friend, but I wouldn’t presume—she’s my fantasy and you never marry your fantasy—those are the rules.
I’m not one of those cool TV lawyers—the ones Linda probably dates and should marry. I’m more like Bill Gates with an LL.D.
My real name is Bill too—Bill Barnum. I prefer my avatar’s name, James Darke.
I wear big glasses and have bad hair like Bill Gates. James Darke is tall, dark and handsome and looks like a younger version of George Clooney.
Needless to say, James Darke doesn’t wear glasses and he’s not a lawyer—he’s an undercover agent for the CIA.
My avatar's identity has evolved over the years and right now, he embodies everything I wish I were at this stage of my life.
I only let him out of the bottle for a few hours every night—usually just as I’m falling to sleep—and I watch him inevitably romance Linda on my inner screen.
Then I get up, go to work and spend eight to ten hours going through the motions of my so-called life.
Subject to change—some fine day.
“How was your weekend, Bill?”
“Oh about the same as last—Spain’s tiresome this time of year.”
I hate it when Linda’s nice to me—I prefer it when she ignores me.
“Why are you always so frigging flippant—or, are you really an international man of mystery?”
She furrows her brow and pouts just a little—enough to send me into overdrive, but I deliberately avoid showing how I really feel.
Yo soy un hombre de misterio.
I try to give her my best Clint Eastwood squint, but it might help if I had a five o’clock shadow and maybe a cigarillo clamped in my teeth. Do I need a poncho? —Naw—that’d be way over the top.
She shakes her head and storms out.
When I say ‘storms out’ I really mean that. She’s as lovely as dark rain and her beauty hurts my eyes—mostly though, it hurts my soul because I want her and can’t have her.
The office seems so empty when she’s gone—but it’s better than the weekends I spend moping and thinking about her.
I’m not a creeper—I don’t try to follow her on social media or find her Facebook page. I don’t even have a picture of her. I paint her lovely face every night on my ceiling.
I give her gifts—not candies and jewelry or stuff like that—but I freely give of my time and help her on cases. Law comes easy for me—not so much for her—so, I help her out now and then.
Maybe I have an ulterior motive—maybe I’m afraid if she fails at law and packs it in, I’ll never see her again. I couldn’t take that, because I really do love her.
I think everything she does is adorable. I only wish…well, what does it matter what I wish? Sorry Candide, mais ce n'est pas le meilleur des mondes possible —it’s just my so-called life… and it’s killing me.
The next few days are miserable. Linda’s away and my life is empty. Actually, that’s not really the case—it’s flooded—flooded with images of her.
I can’t get any work done. When I go to the bistro where we sometimes meet and discuss clients, I feel like throwing up. I’m totally miserable. I hate myself for living like this, but the truth is, I don’t know any other way to be.
What would James Darke do? Well, first of all, he wouldn’t be in this position—but assuming he was, he’d probably do something cool like show up at her apartment with flowers, sweep her off her feet and spend the night.
Me? I don’t even know where she lives or what kind of flowers she’d like. As for sweeping her off her feet et al—as Hamlet said, that’s a consummation devoutly to be wished.
But when she’s not in the next day, I’m beside myself.
I decide to do something, I thought I’d never do—I sneak into her office, rummage through her correspondence and find an envelope with her address on it.
I’m trembling as I copy out her address and by the time I make it back to my desk, I’m so ashamed; I have to run to the washroom and puke. James Darke never puked once in his life.
Of course, unlike me, he never had to because he's perfect.
It’s past seven and I’m standing in the rain looking up at her apartment windows—or what I figure are her windows. I blink against the golden droplets slanting downwards into my eyes.
Despite myself, I feel a thrill of romance surging through me. The darkness of night—a rainstorm—and her lighted window in the dark.
I look at the coloured mosaic of lights against the sky. Apartment windows glow like coloured canvases of other people’s lives.
They’re not perfect—but they’re up there in the darkness—most married or partnered with significant others.
I’m outside looking in. Maybe, I should go home.
No. You have to do this!
Whose voice is shouting in my head? I know that voice—It’s James Darke.
Enough, already, pal. You’ve lived my life—Go live yours. What’s the worst that can happen?
"She’ll crush me like a bug, " I whimper. Or worst, she’ll feel pity. I’ll look pathetic.
*You are pathetic, bud. Just, do it and damn the consequences. Take a chance for once in your life.
I go inside, ride up the elevator to the seventh floor and force myself to knock on her door.
She cracks it open and stares at me in horror.
“Bill? What are you doing here?”
I had a line in Spanish—a part from Lorca that I love—it completely goes out of my head.
I stand there, rain dripping from my bad hair, my glasses fogged and a limp bouquet of red roses in my hand.
“I don’t know what to say, Linda. I missed you.”
I feel like big red blotches have broken out on my face and neck.
She’s speechless—staring at me like I’m some homeless person who’s just exposed himself to her. Come to think of it, that might be preferable to how I’m feeling.
“Who is it, Lin?” A guy’s voice calls out from inside.
My heart plummets the seven floors I ascended to get here.
“I’m sorry, Linda—I should have phoned. You’ve got company.”
The guy pokes his head around the door—he’s sipping wine.
“Hey guy! You delivering flowers?”
He looks like a young George Clooney. I want to hand him the flowers and wait for a tip. Instead, before I can do or say anything, Linda shuts the door on the guy and throws her arms around me.
I’m so stunned, I drop the bouquet. My hands are sticking out behind her, but I’m afraid to close the embrace. I don’t want to presume.
“How did you find out where I live?” she asks.
“I went through your correspondence,” I say stupidly.
This time her eyes are shining and she kisses me—I mean, really kisses me with a lingering, Hollywood kiss.
“I thought you didn’t care.”
“I don’t—just care, I mean—I love you. I know it sounds stupid…”
I never get to finish my sentence. Her lips taste like fresh strawberries.
Turns out it was Valentine’s Day. The guy with her was her brother—commiserating with her, feeling sorry because she was alone.
Seems the guy she works with doesn’t know she exists.
He’s a real jerk—his sister’s so beautiful—this loser must be blind.
She wants to quit her job because she can’t take spending every weekend alone waiting for this guy to discover she exists.
I agree—the guy needs his lights punched out.
Linda’s eyes are shining and lustrous—like the golden droplets slanting downwards from her window and blessing the streets beneath.
My heart swells so much, I think it might burst.
I’m proud of you, bud, James Darke whispers.
Life is good...finally.
