Me: All of fifteen years old, sitting on a broad flat rock on the bank of the local waterway, trying my damnedest to force my face into an ill-considered mask of sex appeal in preparation for our first and only kiss.
You: Sitting a foot or so away, your amazing red brown hair in a bun secured by chopsticks, paint-splattered jeans and a floral print dress, laughing uncontrollably at the cheesy seduction in my adolescent features.
There are times when we are overtaken by the sense that someone in close proximity is “the one.” Something about the way they look, or the way they look at us, infuses us with this overwhelming conviction, suddenly we've granted them personalities, likes and dislikes, future plans, sexual kinks, without having said a word. Is this chemistry? Some phenomenon caused by the iron content in our blood and a nearby microwave or a passing el train or sunspots?
And when this happens, what is the etiquette? Supposedly you're having a shared moment, so where does the responsibility lie? Who speaks first? Who does it fall on to build up the courage to confirm that because of a glance and a smile something has been exchanged? And what if it doesn't work out? He or she might be a Republican, a Jimmy Buffett fan, an aspiring macramé artist, or even if you can work past all of this they might have no interest in bondage. You've found your one-and-only and it's probably for the best if you never speak to them.
Picking up section four of the Chicago Reader or perusing the latest listings on Craigslist.com only verifies the local prevalence of this phenomenon we call Missed Connections. Under its proper name, any sideways glance or fidgeting of hands through the hair signifies a mutual attraction, a.k.a. cosmic understanding. Under any other name, similar actions might signify an itch, or that a piece of dirt has flown into your eye on the bus. Acknowledging the connection risks trivializing the moment, which is why it is crucial not to call out a missed connection when you see it, but rather go home, lie in your bed with a bottle of something and ponder the profundity of chance. Only then are you ready to compose something. Post your composition somewhere. It is not of prime importance that you, the writer, are recognized by the person with whom you shared the connection; far more important is the execution, as exercise in willful desperation.
You: In Filter on a Tuesday afternoon furiously smoking cigarettes and reading a Russian novel.
Me: Sitting with a group of friends being as loud and offensive as possible because I can't think of a better way to get your attention.
The North Side seems like the best place to start looking for a missed connection, people always seem more attractive there in the mornings, freshly coiffed and less hung over. Perhaps I'm shallow but it doesn't seem possible to find a connection with that sad portion of or society that is slightly less than gorgeous. If someone's nose is too big, or they have a badly placed mole or a glass eye, that feature will dominate your fantasy of them. In the fantasy they obsess over their flaws, not understanding how you could still love them when they have leprosy. In your fantasy life you become as shallow as the guy who picks the cover photo for Details , as do the characters you create.
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