WALDO

At least at one point in all of our lives, we've felt like strangers in a crowd; we don't quite know anyone around us, and none of anyone quite knows us either. It's a strange thing, being so close to others and yet so distant and unattached. Now, imagine you feel this way all the time, only people are coming up to you and saying things like "I found him!" "There he is!" and "Can I take a selfie with you?" No genuine connection. No one trying to get to know you. No escape from the constant barrage of attention. This is the life of Waldo.

Where is Waldo? Where is Waldo? No one ever bothers to ask "Who is Waldo?" or "How is Waldo?" Or, as he often hoped, "Would Waldo like to grab a burger?" or "Is Waldo single?" the answer to both always an unequivocal yes. He often felt like he was just a surface, a shallow drawing on the page of a book, that guy who army crawled along the edge of the shops lining the sidewalk trying to avoid people, prompting concerned looks between those who passed but never a question asking why. Because no one bothered to know.

No one would know that Waldo finds deep solace in writing poetry. No one would know that he is contractually obligated to wear stripes, and that a closet of polka-dotted clothing haunts him every morning when he gets dressed. No one would know that he was the only son of a Greek immigrant, who left Europe to start a modest haberdashery in America, painstakingly sewing buttons on the arms of suit jackets every day to put little Waldo through school. Or that his mom was from Cleveland. And, as he walked through the crowded streets of major cities and social gatherings across the country, he came to the conclusion that no one ever would.

Until that one day when someone did. 

She approached him in the usual way he was accustomed to being approached. "Hi, are you Waldo?" a voice said behind him. 

"Yep, I'm Waldo. You found me."

Annoyed, he turned around mid eye-roll and, surprisingly, found the most beautiful woman he had ever seen standing there—and Waldo had seen a lot of women. Maybe it was the way her nose crinkled when she smiled. Maybe it was the icy blue of her eyes somehow managing to melt his hardened heart. Maybe it was simply because she was blonde. Really, really blonde. That was probably it.

"I was just wondering, would you like to come over to this coffee shop with me? It won't take long." 

Almost forgetting how to move his mouth, Waldo eventually obliged with an eager nodding of the head that nearly knocked his hat off. The two walked across the street, and Waldo felt like he had just won the lottery, or found a $100 bill on the ground, or discovered some long forgotten relative had died and bequeathed everything to him, or some other metaphor about luck that isn't money-related, but much better than that. Someone, and not just any someone, had invited him to get coffee. He, Waldo, was getting coffee with a girl. Someone pinch him. 

"I've actually never gotten coffee here before. Or really...ever! Ha, I know that sounds stupid, because like, everyone knows me, but yeah." Talking was not a thing at which Waldo excelled. 

"Wow, really? That's crazy. I love this place."

"I'm sure I will too. Yeah. Did you know I write poetry? I, um, could share some with you if you want. It's about my feelings and stuff." 

"Sure, if you'd like!" she said. They were nearing the entrance to the shop and Waldo, clearing his throat, recited his most recent haiku.

"Oceans of people,

Surrounding me in my dreams,

I am so alone." 

She looked at him with a smile tinged with sympathy. Or was it pity? "Wow, that's really good, Waldo! You should definitely keep writing." Opening the door for her, he looked at his reflection in the window and, for once, saw someone different behind the glasses, stripes, and silly hat. He smiled. 

"Okay, so could you take a selfie with me and my friend? She didn't want to leave the shop because there's wifi in here."