#and immediately found a secondhand copy and sent it to me within days ;-;

[always-andromeda]

Going through my desk means finding old letters from old tumblr friends and having a little mini crisis wondering how they’re doing and hoping that they’re okay. 🥲

#˚ʚ meda rants ɞ˚ #like the friend who heard how sad i was when october sky left streaming services #and immediately found a secondhand copy and sent it to me within days ;-; #all the little holiday letters and cards from my first year on tumblr ;-; #all the stickers and prints i bought from the etsy shops of friends #all of that love exists within me and i feel it so clearly even though it’s been so long

[joestories]

Facsimile (2010–2012)

"Is that a book you're carrying?"

I nervously shift the heavy volume to my side, out of sight.

"Well," says Arnen, "I think it's good that you're reading. It will keep your mind on other things, healthy things."

"But I don't think of her that often," I say.

I sit down at my workstation, which is located to the right of Arnen. The office is sparse and gray. In fact, the room I occupy is completely devoid of any noteworthy features besides our two workstations. We had a window, but it was moved to another part of the building months ago.

"I've been seeing someone new," I say. A moment had passed, and Arnen is startled.

He composes himself. "Tell me more," he says.

I'm embarrassed. I shouldn't have said that. So I explain to Arnen that I will tell him more when the time is right. There is someone, but he wouldn't understand. I change the subject, showing him the book.

I discovered the book while walking to work earlier that morning. It was sitting in a cardboard box full of junk down the street from my apartment. It was a Hemingway novel. An obscure one.

Hemingway, I have been told, was famous for a writing style that made the reader feel as if the story were being recounted to them by a close friend. This explains why, in many secondhand Hemingway books, one will often find at the end, written gently with a pencil, the words thank you.

But this isn't a story about Hemingway. This is a story about a girl. I would see her almost everyday.

She's not a real person. She's a cardboard cutout.

She stands alongside cardboard cutouts of several identically-dressed workers. They are part of the window display at a popular fruit-themed computer store that I pass every day on my walk to work.

I know this sounds strange. But there is something comforting about her. She was a model, I'm sure, selected carefully by this brand to represent the type of non-threatening, non-judgmental service that one may find within the walls of their store. But that doesn't matter. She has become part of my daily routine. She is comforting. Disarming.

I feel like she expects me to be my best self. So I am reading. But Hemingway is not at all what I expected.

The novel is called My Gross Hands. The evening after I discover it, I begin to read.

It tells the story of a man whose identity has seemingly escaped him. He wanders from town to town, always unwittingly in the wake of a stranger, a man who looks just like him, and this stranger has started fights with the local thugs and impregnated the local teenage girls in every town he passes through. The protagonist follows in his shadow, facing the consequences of his doppelganger's actions, but never quite catching up with him.

After a particularly vicious beating in a dreary hotel room, he stares at the ground, where his face is reflected in a pool of his own blood. He carefully examines his features. Is he himself? Is he the impostor?

My own reflection stares blankly at me from my workstation's screen. The pleasant hum emitted by the screen is interrupted as Arnen rolls his chair over to me.

It's been a week, and Arnen wants to know how things are going with the girl. I answer noncommittally, and he is not satisfied. He asks her name. I can't produce one.

This doesn't bother him. It seems like this may have been what he expected to hear. He tells me about a website he uses to meet women. I tell him I'm not interested.

He slides back to his workstation and types furiously. I try to pretend he's gone back to his work.

Minutes later, he announces that I he has made me a profile on AccuDate. I tell him no thanks, but he says it's too late. He jots something on a scrap of paper and thrusts it into my limp hand.

"Your account information," he tells me. "You are going to thank me someday. Or perhaps you won't be able to."

"Won't be able to?"

He motions to the floor. Arnen's area is demarcated with a line of tape that extends to each wall.

"They're going to build a wall here."

With a degree of uncertainty, I pocket the note.

At home, I continue with the book. The story is engaging, yet somewhat confusing. I am surprised by the frequent spelling and grammatical errors I encounter. Hemingway, it would seem, was not quite the master of the English language that his reputation suggests.

I am able to dismiss these concerns for a while.

But a few days later I am squinting at the cover with a dismayed expression on my face. The author, I discover, is not Hemingway, but actually someone with the deceptively similar name of Hemingwade. I am dejected. I have invested a lot of time in this book.

What would the girl in the window think? I know that if I could see her face right now, she'd be wearing the same lopsided grin as always. There was knowledge behind that smile. She has been in the world and she has known its ways, and she had not let it damage her.

This is an unhealthy thought.

Arnen was right. Time to move on. Tomorrow, I will put this book back on the curb where I found it and I will walk a new route to work. Tonight, my gross hands find the scrap of paper. I will use my computer to seek the approval of female strangers.

This is where the things take an interesting turn.

AccuDate features lots of pleasing, neutral colors, and the people who populate the site seem to have adapted their personalities to match. I take to populating my vacant profile. I spend 3,000 credits to begin browsing local single girls.

Twenty minutes later, I spot her. The girl from the window.

Here she is, online. Living in my city. She's not an actress. She actually works in the very store that I walk by everyday. I pore over her profile. I devour it.

The information, while scant, is subjected to much scrutiny. Her favorite movies are unchallenging, but beloved by most. I am less familiar with her favorites bands, but they are likely of a similar stock. For the first time I am able to see what she looks like from other angles. It's intoxicating.

This is a living human, with all the problems that come with living humans. I don't know what to do.

I completely forget my plan to discard the book and find a new route to the office.

I arrive at work the next morning and observe that a wall is indeed going up around Arnen's desk, though its purpose is unclear. A wooden skeleton has been erected during the weekend. Arnen sits at his workstation within, as if caged.

Standing on the outside of the wooden frame, I explain my situation with the girl. Initially I try to present it in a way that makes me seem normal, but Arnen is not grasping the gravity of the situation. So I explain about the cardboard cutout. My face reddens.

"I'll help you write that message," he says. "What do you have so far?" I tell him the only line I'm certain about is this: "I've already written your biography in my head dozens of times."

"We have our work cut out for us," he says.

But we get there.

Seven hours elapse between when I sent of my message and when I received a response.

Antonia was her name, and her message was simple. Perhaps too simple. "Wanna hang out tomorrow? Would you mind if I take some time to go home and change out of my work clothes?"

Yes and yes.

I meet her the next day. She's dressed exactly like the cardboard version of her that resides in the window. It's uncanny. The cardboard version has come to life. And it has a life, and an identity, and it knows my name.

We walk to a nearby hamburger place.

As soon as we're seated, I start to feel disappointment creeping in. Our conversation is awkward. Gone is the playful stoicism that had become a daily staple. She does not see my soul.

I ask her what kind of music she likes.

"I like those old time crooners," she says.

"I don't like them. I feel like those songs are insulting towards women."I regret saying this immediately.

"I guess I never thought about it like that," she says with a shrug. "What about you?"

I tell her I like music where the tempo changes, but it only gets faster. Never slower. This is an attempt at being lighthearted, but she just slowly nods in response.

By the end of our date, I get the impression she doesn't really want to see me again. So I'm somewhat surprised when she suggests we meet again in a few days. I agree.

I go home confused. I couldn't quite connect with her. But there's something there, something I can't quite explain.

I decide to do some snooping. I google her and discover a blog, and notice that an entry has just been posted.

It describes the date. She says that I was a gentleman, and she compliments my looks repeatedly. She describes me as hilarious, even though I don't recall making her laugh during our date.

As I finish reading, I find myself even more confused.

At the office, the wall surrounding Arnen is now waist-high. There appear to be no provisions for a way into or out of the space it's enclosing. Arnen seems unconcerned. I describe my date to him.

He's not surprised. "Women are complicated," he says. "Do something physical. You'll need to be the aggressive one. Look for an opening. How's the book?"

I realize I'm still carrying around the copy of My Gross Hands. I tell him it's good.

That evening, I'm hunched in front of my tiny computer when I learn that Hemingwade was a con man. He discovered his name was an asset when Hemingway began gaining prominence. With the help of a crooked publisher, he was able to create knock-offs of Hemingway's novels that were released mere days before their genuine counterparts, where they were accidentally purchased by people who did not scrutinize their covers very carefully.

The books had to look authentic, both inside and out. Hemingwade, while a con man, believed in the craftsmanship of his work. The pages, he reasoned, could not be blank. And they could not be something that may be easily recognized as a fraud. And so each time, he took it upon himself to write a novel that was as close as possible to the genuine article.

Because he was often working with limited information about the story he was meant to be mimicking, he would fill in the missing pieces with his own interpretations. The endings were always fabricated by Hemingwade. His endings were fantastical, differing greatly from the original text. Spontaneous combustion. An enormous wave of molasses killing everyone in its path. The protagonist revealing himself to be a highly intelligent android from the future. Spider-like creatures emerging from a crack in the earth in reclaim the planet as their own. Inanimate objects coming to life and speaking. That last one was sort of the Hemingwade's signature move. It seemed to turn up near the end of many of his fabrications.

His protagonists also have the bad habit of saying loud the exact theme of the novel in the final pages. But still, for a con man, this is pretty good.

This is all on Wikipedia, by the way.

My second date with Antonia takes place at a carnival that has recently sprouted up near the waterfront. I'm immediately put off by her attire. Even though the weather is mild, she has a scarf wrapped tightly around her face.

I remember Arnen telling me to be aggressive. I imagine tearing the scarf away. Would she be wowed? Probably not. I might break her neck. So instead I ask if she'd like to loosen her scarf, and she says no thanks. Her voice is muffled by the scarf.

We walk around for a while, and our conversation is even more labored than usual, as I have trouble understanding her through the scarf. We arrive at the ferris wheel, and she gets excited. "I'm afraid of heights," I say.

"I'm not!"

So we ride the ferris wheel. I attempt to sit next to her, but she demands I sit across from her, reasoning that distributing our weight will put less strain on the ancient ferris wheel. The ride begins and I feel nauseous.

She asks if I'm reading anything. I have to think about that question for a long time.

"No," I say. "But I want to."

When the ride is over, I feel dizzy. She wants to play the carnival games. I take a few steps in her direction, then vomit down the front of my shirt. She's speechless.

I know there's no chance of wooing her now, so I tell her I think I should go home.

"Okay, but can I see you again? How about Friday night?"

I agree and run away.

There's a new entry on Antonia's blog that evening. She talks about our magical evening at the carnival. She says I was a gentleman, and was willing to take her on any ride she wanted, no matter the cost.

Thankfully there is no mention of the vomiting. It ends with the sentence: Is this what falling in love feels like?

I stare, incredulous.

At work, the wall around Arnen almost reaches the ceiling. I can't see him any more, I can only hear him.

"Did you kiss her?"

"No," I say. "There wasn't a chance."

"That's unfortunate."

"She asked if I was reading. Should I tell her about the book?"

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I thought I was reading something intelligent, but it was actually the work of a con man. I got conned. I don't want to seem like someone who gets conned easily."

"Do you like her?"

"I think she might be too into me."

On Friday I'm supposed to be meeting Antonia, but I find myself wandering a circuitous route to get to her, which takes me past the store that features her cutout in the window, our point of origin. I realize something is wrong. Her cardboard cutout is gone.

The window display has been changed. I immediately think this must somehow be my fault.

I run around, to the alley behind the store. That's where I find them. All the people from the old window display, stacked up in a dumpster. Without thinking, I run to it. I dig. But she is not present.

There must be others like me out there. Others who harbor strange, pleasant feelings towards this nameless girl. It's not hard to imagine. Perhaps there are many of them, and as soon as the window displays were being changed, their men were ready to retrieve their queen from the trash.

And then I find her. I just didn't dig deep enough. I carefully remove her from the dumpster and slink back to my apartment like a thief or a pervert. I suppose I am both, technically.

I can hear my phone making noises over and over as texts come in, clearly Antonia wondering where I am. I do not touch my phone. I have made my choice. I chose the cardboard cutout. I fall asleep next to it.

In the morning, I visit her blog. I know she will be heartbroken. So I am shocked to read her latest entry. She describes me arriving early to our date the previous night. She says I brought her flowers. She describes the date that was planned. We went to the movie we were supposed to see. I made fun of all the trailers in clever ways. She says I could make seeing a snuff movie fun.

She says she thinks I'm going to propose soon.

I don't know what to do.

Even though it's the weekend, I run to work. I enter my office. The wall is completed. There is no longer any way into Arnen's area.

I yell. I pound on the wall. There's no response.

I leave the office.

There's only one thing left to do. I resume reading My Gross Hands, intent on finishing the book under the watchful eye of my cardboard idol. I decide to read it aloud, so she can enjoy it too. I feel like she deserves to hear it just as much as I do.

I need to know what will become of the impostor.

The last several dozen pages are blank, except for the second to last, which reads, BURN THIS BOOK.

I am out of reading material, and I haven't found anything resembling an answer. I gather my courage, and navigate back to Antonia's blog. She hasn't posted any new entries. I click on her profile.

I stare at her picture. Up close, she seems different. I stare closely at her name. Her last name specifically. Because it's slightly different from what I thought it was.

Under musical interests, she says she doesn't listen to any music that's more than a decade old.

This isn't the girl. It's just someone else, with a similar name and face.

I look at the cardboard cutout of Antonia.

I look at Hemingwade's book.

"I think I get it," I say aloud. "Hemingwade discovered he had a passion for writing. But he had tarnished his reputation by being a con man. This story is his story, the man perpetually living in a shadow, and it's his own fault. He made his choice, and he can't take it back. I did too." The cutout speaks: "Yes, you did. And you'll never see her again."

And with that, both cutout and book burst into flames. They are instantly engulfed, burn to ashes in seconds, and then the fire is extinguished. I would never see Antonia again.

Perhaps she had burst into flames as well.

Addendum: I wrote this when I was living in San Francisco and trying to use online dating for pretty much the first time. I was bad at it. I actually did stumble upon a girl on OkCupid that I had seen as a cardboard cutout in the window of the Apple Store in San Francisco. I felt mildly star-struck by this, and I felt like it was really important to connect with this person. I messaged her to tell her this, that I had seen her in cardboard and that I was writing a short story based on this premise. Of course I never heard back. I hadn't actually intended to write a story with this premise when I messaged her, but then spite got the better of me and I churned one out in the months to follow. I don't think this previously made it out of my drafts, but here it is, an artifact of a certain time period.