Mr. Unavailable #66: Hopelessly Devoted

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa 1990, Chicago.

Vital Stats: 6’ 2”. Tall, thin but muscle-y, boyishly handsome, dark hair, dark features, brown eyes, lightish skin; I remember really liking the way his facial features went together. It was my freshman year of college; he was a junior. Aesthetic: He was a baseball hat, jeans, T-shirt type of guy. Demeanor: He was a cool, easygoing English major who was, oxymoronically, in Navy ROTC.

First Impression: I somehow didn’t qualify for work-study (my parents, after years of claiming poverty to we three kids, actually made too much money???), so I got a job at my dorm’s food service. I was the fruit wench and he was the ice cream guy. For a few weeks, he was just an older co-worker who would tell me stories about his Friday nights reading poetry with a big plastic tumbler of red wine at his side until one day I was inexplicably crush-struck.

What Happened: On the fateful day the crush struck, I saw him for the handsome specimen he was. He was wry, witty and acted like he hadn’t a care in the world. I don’t know if he noticed how I gradually became more and more self-conscious around him, but I was horrified to discover one day that I’d been calling him by the wrong name. It turned out I was one letter off. He didn’t care. “Matt, Nat, it’s all the same,” he said.

Like I said, he hadn’t a care in the world.

Then one day, he just stopped showing up for work, which, for those like me who like their men unavailable, was terribly impressive. It was also distressing. He left no word of where he’d gone, gave no good-byes…Did he know I even existed? Anguished, I called a friend from high school who had gone to the same college and was living in a dorm uptown and said, “I want to get drunk.” I went to her dorm room and she borrowed someone’s bottle of vodka. I then got drunk-ish (on screwdrivers, bless) for the first time.

Sometime during the second quarter, he was quoted in a story in the daily college paper. It was a story about how students were quitting Navy ROTC because it was a terrible experience and not worth the free tuition. He was one of the dropouts and was quoted in the story, describing Navy ROTC as, “A hierarchy of fear.” What a rebel. I was so impressed. That, combined with the fact of his disappearance, made his existence terribly romantic to me.

In the spring of my sophomore year, my friend Olivia returned from a study date at a café in town and told me she had spotted #66 working behind the counter, presumably to work off all the money he owed Navy ROTC. Enough time had passed that I’d lost most of my freshman 15 and was looking pretty good. It was a week or so before I headed to hike the Grand Canyon for spring break. Olivia and I were breaking in our hiking boots, so we were looking pretty snazzy when we walked into the café and ordered our hot chocolates. I don’t remember the exchange I had with #66, but it was brief. I was a nervous wreck, which didn’t help. We maybe said five words to each other and he seemed pretty disinterested.

I don’t remember being entirely crushed that it hadn’t gone so well. Maybe I was just glad to see him. Or maybe I was just better at denial then. Last I heard, er, Googled, he was married and living in Chicago.

Signs of Hope: We got along well when we worked together at the food service.

Red Flags: Everything other than the fact that we got along well when we worked together at the food service.

Turning Point: I was so deeply in denial about his lack of interest that I don’t think there ever was a turning point; it was true he hadn’t a care in the world, and that world included me. I Google him every now and then to see if he’s still married; part of me still hopes that we might get together one day.

Diagnosis: For him: Completely, totally and absolutely unavailable to me.
For me: Hopelessly, sadly, pathetically devoted to him.