Hipsters Du Jour

Working downtown, as opposed to the suburbs where I live, is a real give and take.

I have to give A LOT of extra energy ignoring/avoiding the unreasonably high ratio of crazy people on public transportation and walking the streets of downtown Cleveland.

On the other hand, I get to take A LOT of looks at the unreasonably high ratio of attractive bike messengers that swarm around the downtown area.

One such attractive bike messenger, who I have eyed on more than one occasion, came into my office today to deliver sushi to one of the attorneys. He immediately smiled and mumbled and looked awkward, and I smiled and mumbled and looked awkward in return. He gave me my change and lingered around for bit, looking busy. Rather than taking this opportunity to chat him up, I immediately bolted away with the food, towards the attorney's office.

As soon as I got back, I saw the ominous swinging shut of the door. He had JUST walked out. Dammit. Missed my opportunity. I could have said ANYTHING at all, but instead I said a whole lot of "blaroguhhhh hrmm blah" and nothingness.

Not that I've completely lost my ability to talk to boys. I can almost always secure an initial chat and some digits. It's usually after that that everything falls apart for me. I make a good first impression. Second impressions usually show off my lameness/awkwardness/nerdiness/sickliness.

I had an encounter on Wednesday with a fellow named Steve, an encounter that was entirely of my own making. (I guess this makes the bike messenger the Hipster Du Jour and Steve the Hipster Du Wednesday).

I was out in my hometown with my closest friends in the world. They're aware that I'm slightly boy crazy at the moment and weren't surprised when I honed in on my target while he was still approaching the bar. My best friend, TJ, said, "Oh look, it's an A. Special!" By this he means the boy possesses all, or almost all of the following characteristics:

-Extremely thin

-Tight black jeans

-Shaggy dark hair

-One or more exposed tattoos

Steve and his buddy got beer and immediately went outside to smoke. This seemed like my cue. I followed them to the patio and lingered awkwardly near them until I was noticed. Unfortunately, it was Steve's less attractive and more annoying friend that noticed me and started talking (he would come to be known as Carl. Awful). Slowly but surely, after directing most of my questions and comments toward Steve, I managed to break away from Annoying Carl.

Annoying Carl looked annoyed.

No skin off my back. Steve introduced himself as Steve. I won't divulge his last name here, but I WILL say that he shares the last name of an American President. When I pointed that out, Steve casually said "Yeah, he's my great great grandfather."

*Cue drool and goggling eyes on my part, even though it's a President no one really remembers, but that they occasionally name schools after*

REALLY? I squealed.

No, he said, but isn't that a lame way to impress girls?

I wanted to ask him if he noticed my drooling and goggling eyes but refrained.

Eventually, after some Wes Anderson quoting and music bitching, we exchanged phone numbers. He warned me that if I text him he won't respond. He's had the texting feature turned off.

Whaaa? No texting?

My next tactic: Oh are you on Facebook?

....Whaaaa? You try and avoid using computers?

So...if I want to contact you...I have to do it the old-fashioned way? I have to actually CALL YOU AND TALK TO YOU ON THE PHONE?!?

Panic.

I can't recall the last time I had to work up the courage to telephone a potential love interest. Technology has made that fear obsolete. Texting makes everything seem casual, friendly, breezy. Like Monica Gellar: "III'm breezy!" Except she wasn't.

Over the course of this pursuit all my friends left. And I had to drive back to the west side. As Steve and I were saying our goodbyes, he asked me over to his place (he lives right across the street) to listen to some records.

Yes, records. Amazing.

So I went. We listened to some music that I didn't know, but what I DID learn was that Steve owns a leg lamp. Turns out, Steve knows every line from A Christmas Story. And that's A-OK by me. Because so do I.

Will anything come of this? Will I muster the courage to call him on the phone? Will he beat me to the punch? Stay tuned...