underneath flashy blouses, dazzled more often than not with fabric that sparkles. Males outnumber females at least three to one. This may sound strange, but it isn’t. This is the Warehouse District in Cleveland.
I pull into the first parking lot on my side of the road and give the attendant a five-dollar bill. Once the money leaves my hand, I wonder where it goes in a setting manufactured by the other world. It’s only five dollars, but I’m running out of cash .
I walk briskly through the lot and merge with the revelers. Even though it’s early they already smell like alcohol. My phone says 7:41 PM, which doesn’t track. It’s darker and busier than it should be. It looks like, and people are acting like, the night is approaching its crescendo. Everyone is here to drink, and some of them are here to dance. A lot of them are trying to find the love of their life like me, but different, while others just want to find someone to take home for the night.
My shoulder hits someone hard enough to make me spin in a half-circle. I look, and there he is. There’s Geppetto , dressed in the same clothes as always, holding a red piece of chalk. He points to the sidewalk, where “Geppetto WAS HERE” has been scrawled on the concrete.
“Hey,” he says. “Something to keep me occupied while I was waiting.”
Irritated, I ask if this is the other world.
“Not even going to say hello back. Okay…” As he leads me into an alleyway, presumably to get away from all the foot traffic, he continues.
“It’s more like the ‘other world,’ as you call it – my world – is in your world. Since you chose to leave the Door open it can take over parts of your life when it sees fit. The obvious tell is me being here. I can only go wherever my world is.”
“But you’re on the Internet.”
“The Internet isn’t a place. Where does it exist? Can you go there? No, it’s a network of information and misinformation that both of our worlds can access and manipulate. Sometimes it helps fill the gap between what’s real and what’s imagined. Sometimes it drives a wedge further between them. Other times it can be used to craft narratives, to shape reality through perception. It all depends. But what does any of this really matter? You’re here because of Naomi.”
“So she is here.”
“I didn’t say that. I said that’s why you’re here.”
His casualness infuriates me. He refuses to be definitive. I berate him. His demeanor doesn’t change. I blame him for being the man behind the curtain, a magician divining an elaborate stage show around and against me. I’m making a scene, but I don’t care and apparently no one else does either. Not a single person on the street stops or even looks my way.
Geppetto waits to make sure I’m finished and then he talks.
“This is not a magic show. I promise you that. If I knew exactly where Naomi was, I’d tell you. I’m providing all the help I can…”
I don’t believe him anymore.
“Did she really text me or not? Is she outside the Door ? If she is I can close it and be done with this.”
“You can do whatever you want.”
I scream. I honestly scream, and then I breathe and tell Geppetto, “I’m going. I’m going to find her.”
I turn my back on him, and he speaks.
“Finally. You’re angry. It’s good. You should be upset. You’ve been acting like this is all your fault. It isn’t.”
“It’s your fault, too,” I retort.
“No, not me. Naomi. She never called you. She ran. A conversation telling you she didn’t want to get on the plane that day would’ve been difficult, borderline harrowing.”
I reel towards him. “You’re saying she didn’t want to come to LA.”
He nods.
“How long have you known this for?”
“A little birdie told me.”
“What the hell does that mean? Why should I believe you?”
“It’s your choice to trust me or not. Personally, I’m not sure I’ve done anything to make you distrust me.”
“I think she
I pull into the first parking lot on my side of the road and give the attendant a five-dollar bill. Once the money leaves my hand, I wonder where it goes in a setting manufactured by the other world. It’s only five dollars, but I’m running out of cash .
I walk briskly through the lot and merge with the revelers. Even though it’s early they already smell like alcohol. My phone says 7:41 PM, which doesn’t track. It’s darker and busier than it should be. It looks like, and people are acting like, the night is approaching its crescendo. Everyone is here to drink, and some of them are here to dance. A lot of them are trying to find the love of their life like me, but different, while others just want to find someone to take home for the night.
My shoulder hits someone hard enough to make me spin in a half-circle. I look, and there he is. There’s Geppetto , dressed in the same clothes as always, holding a red piece of chalk. He points to the sidewalk, where “Geppetto WAS HERE” has been scrawled on the concrete.
“Hey,” he says. “Something to keep me occupied while I was waiting.”
Irritated, I ask if this is the other world.
“Not even going to say hello back. Okay…” As he leads me into an alleyway, presumably to get away from all the foot traffic, he continues.
“It’s more like the ‘other world,’ as you call it – my world – is in your world. Since you chose to leave the Door open it can take over parts of your life when it sees fit. The obvious tell is me being here. I can only go wherever my world is.”
“But you’re on the Internet.”
“The Internet isn’t a place. Where does it exist? Can you go there? No, it’s a network of information and misinformation that both of our worlds can access and manipulate. Sometimes it helps fill the gap between what’s real and what’s imagined. Sometimes it drives a wedge further between them. Other times it can be used to craft narratives, to shape reality through perception. It all depends. But what does any of this really matter? You’re here because of Naomi.”
“So she is here.”
“I didn’t say that. I said that’s why you’re here.”
His casualness infuriates me. He refuses to be definitive. I berate him. His demeanor doesn’t change. I blame him for being the man behind the curtain, a magician divining an elaborate stage show around and against me. I’m making a scene, but I don’t care and apparently no one else does either. Not a single person on the street stops or even looks my way.
Geppetto waits to make sure I’m finished and then he talks.
“This is not a magic show. I promise you that. If I knew exactly where Naomi was, I’d tell you. I’m providing all the help I can…”
I don’t believe him anymore.
“Did she really text me or not? Is she outside the Door ? If she is I can close it and be done with this.”
“You can do whatever you want.”
I scream. I honestly scream, and then I breathe and tell Geppetto, “I’m going. I’m going to find her.”
I turn my back on him, and he speaks.
“Finally. You’re angry. It’s good. You should be upset. You’ve been acting like this is all your fault. It isn’t.”
“It’s your fault, too,” I retort.
“No, not me. Naomi. She never called you. She ran. A conversation telling you she didn’t want to get on the plane that day would’ve been difficult, borderline harrowing.”
I reel towards him. “You’re saying she didn’t want to come to LA.”
He nods.
“How long have you known this for?”
“A little birdie told me.”
“What the hell does that mean? Why should I believe you?”
“It’s your choice to trust me or not. Personally, I’m not sure I’ve done anything to make you distrust me.”
“I think she
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