the possibility that Virginia’s message might not even be from this world, I can’t say for sure.
Against my wishes, I begin to imagine Naomi doing things, all kinds of things, with this hypothetical other man, a faceless combination of everything I’m not – emotionally stable, financially well-off, scientifically inclined, carefree, adventurous – the boyfriend I thought Naomi wished I was whenever we fought. I see them kissing, holding one another, having sex, eating dinner, dancing, smoking cigarettes in LA on the beach and in NYC on the steps of a brownstone.
Respite comes in the form of a list of songs in my Facebook news feed that Kirsten has been listening to on Spotify . I pick one – “Sky Might Fall” by Kid Cudi – and stream it.
Afterwards, I buy the song on iTunes probably just to keep myself occupied. The download is almost finished when a pair of “dings” chime from my phone, and a notification banner rotates in and then out at the top of the screen, indicating an incoming text message from a number with a 216 area code that is not in my address book:
216XXXXXXX
Jul 27 6:21 PM
You should come to bars
in Cleveland. This is my
new number. – Naomi
HOPE AND PARANOIA
I can’t stop staring at the text, as if I’m waiting for it to vanish.
Why would she suddenly reach out to me?
I envision one likelihood : because I left the Door open, and she was able to escape from the other world.
After saving Naomi’s new number, I notice a light crack in the dashboard of my car that I don’t remember seeing before. I wonder where it came from, if it’s always been there and I just never saw or it, or if it’s a creation of the other world. Since the Door was left open how can I know what is what? Maybe this isn’t even my actual car. I rub the dark blue cloth of the passenger seat cushion, analyzing it for discrepancies. If my car isn’t real then my phone might not be either. Everything I saw on Facebook could be fake . Even if I am holding my phone, just because I read something online does not mean it is true (although the act of digitally stamping something onto the Internet does make it seem more real). And the stream of information on the Web is so long and so easy to perpetuate that confirming what is fact and what is fiction becomes an unkind chore with little time to be accomplished. Furthermore, anyone could have hacked into my friends’ accounts and typed those words. The same line of thinking applies to the text message from the person claiming to be Naomi and to whatever shows up on my phone from now on. Worse, the people reading what I write have every reason to ask these same questions about me.
I begin to question the reality of everything.
I focus long enough to thumb out a reply to Naomi’s text.
I ask where she is.
The message sends.
I am alone with my paranoia.
I get a response:
Naomi
Jul 27 6:32 PM
On W6th downtown w
friends . I realy want to see
you .
Misspelling “really” is unlike her. And it’s 6:33 PM. She’s out early…
I start my car.
I text her back to say I’ll let her know when I get downtown.
I wish I felt better about this than I do.
EN ROUTE
I’m driving. What’s new? I have too much time to think until I get to Cleveland. The highway is empty, so I slide my phone out of my pocket and light it up in case I missed something.
I did.
I have a new @reply on Twitter from @ GeppettoW :
“@ onemikey That is a good assumption to make.”
My brain labors for a few seconds until I process that @ GeppettoW is obviously Geppetto . Not only is he on Facebook , he’s on Twitter, too, and he has responded to my suspicion that today will be a bad day.
I punch on the radio and scan through the stations. I want to listen to something that will calm my mind. But for some reason I can only pick up a total of four stations and each one is playing a separate album in its entirety without the aid of a DJ.
Against my wishes, I begin to imagine Naomi doing things, all kinds of things, with this hypothetical other man, a faceless combination of everything I’m not – emotionally stable, financially well-off, scientifically inclined, carefree, adventurous – the boyfriend I thought Naomi wished I was whenever we fought. I see them kissing, holding one another, having sex, eating dinner, dancing, smoking cigarettes in LA on the beach and in NYC on the steps of a brownstone.
Respite comes in the form of a list of songs in my Facebook news feed that Kirsten has been listening to on Spotify . I pick one – “Sky Might Fall” by Kid Cudi – and stream it.
Afterwards, I buy the song on iTunes probably just to keep myself occupied. The download is almost finished when a pair of “dings” chime from my phone, and a notification banner rotates in and then out at the top of the screen, indicating an incoming text message from a number with a 216 area code that is not in my address book:
216XXXXXXX
Jul 27 6:21 PM
You should come to bars
in Cleveland. This is my
new number. – Naomi
HOPE AND PARANOIA
I can’t stop staring at the text, as if I’m waiting for it to vanish.
Why would she suddenly reach out to me?
I envision one likelihood : because I left the Door open, and she was able to escape from the other world.
After saving Naomi’s new number, I notice a light crack in the dashboard of my car that I don’t remember seeing before. I wonder where it came from, if it’s always been there and I just never saw or it, or if it’s a creation of the other world. Since the Door was left open how can I know what is what? Maybe this isn’t even my actual car. I rub the dark blue cloth of the passenger seat cushion, analyzing it for discrepancies. If my car isn’t real then my phone might not be either. Everything I saw on Facebook could be fake . Even if I am holding my phone, just because I read something online does not mean it is true (although the act of digitally stamping something onto the Internet does make it seem more real). And the stream of information on the Web is so long and so easy to perpetuate that confirming what is fact and what is fiction becomes an unkind chore with little time to be accomplished. Furthermore, anyone could have hacked into my friends’ accounts and typed those words. The same line of thinking applies to the text message from the person claiming to be Naomi and to whatever shows up on my phone from now on. Worse, the people reading what I write have every reason to ask these same questions about me.
I begin to question the reality of everything.
I focus long enough to thumb out a reply to Naomi’s text.
I ask where she is.
The message sends.
I am alone with my paranoia.
I get a response:
Naomi
Jul 27 6:32 PM
On W6th downtown w
friends . I realy want to see
you .
Misspelling “really” is unlike her. And it’s 6:33 PM. She’s out early…
I start my car.
I text her back to say I’ll let her know when I get downtown.
I wish I felt better about this than I do.
EN ROUTE
I’m driving. What’s new? I have too much time to think until I get to Cleveland. The highway is empty, so I slide my phone out of my pocket and light it up in case I missed something.
I did.
I have a new @reply on Twitter from @ GeppettoW :
“@ onemikey That is a good assumption to make.”
My brain labors for a few seconds until I process that @ GeppettoW is obviously Geppetto . Not only is he on Facebook , he’s on Twitter, too, and he has responded to my suspicion that today will be a bad day.
I punch on the radio and scan through the stations. I want to listen to something that will calm my mind. But for some reason I can only pick up a total of four stations and each one is playing a separate album in its entirety without the aid of a DJ.
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