Page 104 of The Girl with No Name
She frowns. “You think? Why are you trying to find her anyway? Are you some kind of stalker? Why didn’t you just ask her name?”
“We spent the weekend together at a music festival,” I explain. “But I failed to get her information.”
“You didn’t like her enough to get her number?”
“It’s a long story. Thanks anyway.”
That night,I comb through social media for any tagged photos from places she might have been.
I create a dating profile that explicitly says I’m looking for her and swipe through hundreds—maybe thousands—of photos.
Nothing.
I hit Castaways every evening for a week, in case she decides to show up.
I consider paying a crime sketch artist and putting up fliers in town like you would for a lost cat, but that seems a little ridiculous, so I stop myself. I do have some restraint. I post on Craigslist Missed Connections though. Does anyone use that anymore?
I even go to two different Catholic masses on Sunday—just because of the whole Catholic thread we’d talked about.
But after a while, unfortunately I have to admit that what I’m doing is futile. She could have moved to another state—even country—by now. She strikes me as a free spirit who wouldn’t hesitate to move where the wind takes her. I consider that maybe Luna was meant to be temporary, and like Samantha said,maybe I should just let those memories be what they are, not try to make this into anything else.
It’s true that Luna could have just been a weekend indulgence, but it didn’t feel like some casual encounter. It felt like much, much more than that. I think about the woman I met on the plane, and how she characterized her brief romance with the surfer boy as true love.
Mostly, though, I do my best to let thoughts of Luna go—even if it seems like we have unfinished business—while my daily routine begins to morph into something new. I still work every day—I haven’t been fired for my email, or for not coming into the office, yet—but I lean more into music.
With no girlfriend to call at night now, energy starts to flow back into me in a new way. Instead of treating my songs like a hobby, I take them more seriously. Every morning before (and sometimes during) work I go out on the deck, strum my guitar, and work on writing songs.
I keep thinking about what Luna said to me—that I was as good as any of the musicians at Railfest. The only difference is that they believed they could do it, and then they did. I need to believe in myself, go after what I want. Even if I never get there, at least I’ll have a good time along the way.
Sam comes up in my thoughts from time to time, too, and I wish her well—without reaching out. When I’m feeling low, I listen to Zach Bryan. By the time I’ve made it through his entire discography, I’ve become an official convert.
Now it’s Wednesday again, and I’m on the rooftop deck of Castaways drinking a gin and tonic. I’m sketching out a song in my notebook and talking to my favorite bartender, since I’ve become a regular here. Her name is Amy, and I did eventually tell her my long story. She is only somewhat satisfied with my explanation for not being a stalker.
Anyway, tonight, as I’m sitting at the bar, I get a message from someone I’m very much not expecting: Henry Cooney.
Henry: Hey, man, can you call me? Have some potential business to discuss.
He leaves me his number, and I stare in shock at the message as I process what is happening.Henry Cooney, the king of the Chicago punk folk movement, has business to discuss…with me?
“Holy shit,” I remark to Amy. “Henry Cooney just messaged me.”
“Bullshit, stalker. Now I know you’re full of lies.”
“Look.” I show her my phone.
She gives me a funny look. “Oh my God. Do you know him or something?”
“Kinda, yeah.”
“Let me guess. Long story?”
“Right.” I grin.
“So you gonna call?”
“Yeah. Hold my drink?”
I head downstairs to the beach where it’s quieter and ring him.