I Saw You....

If life is really about the little things, my littlest pleasure would have to be the “I Saw You” page in the Chicago Reader.

The “I Saw You” page is where Chicagoans write-in and post an advertisement of sorts to an almost-someone saying, “I saw you out and about somewhere, but we didn’t have the chance to connect....wish we had.” Their hopes are then pinned to the remote (!) chance that their near-miss will read the notice and contact them in return.

This public message board wreaks of both desperate optimism and irrepressible longing. It's tailor-made for secret crushes from the train, or the cute guy/girl who accidentally snagged your deodorant in the checkout line at Target.

Not surprisingly, I love every ounce of it.

In reality the Starbucks barrista with the artsy glasses that you’ve been eyeing for the last 18 months is a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler. But you don’t know that. You’re too busy envisioning a life of snuggle sessions and homemade ice cream.

In your mind's eye, your head is already in her lap after an exhausting six-hour day at the office. She grabs the Sports Illustrated off the coffee table and begins reading to you in her after-midnight voice. She's making insightful comments about Tiger’s short game. Then she nods approvingly as you rattle off the top ten reasons why hockey sucks. Finally, you laugh together and jokingly wonder if Rick Reilly and Mitch Albom will someday share a two-man straw in assisted living. You're still giggling in juvenile fashion as you frolic off to the bedroom suite.

Wedding bells are all but a foregone conclusion.

From my vantage point that’s the inherent beauty of newborn, romantic infatuations: total ignorance is total bliss. Our imagination outdoes reality every time -- by a country mile. In 0.2 seconds we can mentally leap from admiring a total stranger to envisioning a life with that person. Another 0.2 seconds and brainy, athletic kids are running around the house with shirts that say, “My Dad is Numero Uno.”

And that’s how it should be. Potential, in the form of a newfound attraction (even when masked by complete ignorance), is everything. Without potential and its full-blood brother, hope, there is nothing. And rarely, if ever, is boundless hope on more vivid display than in these pages of the Chicago Reader.

Plus, the “I Saw You” section has another thing going for it. The notices are not only frantic and desperate, but often times hilarious (to the nth degree).

For example, two of the three descriptions below are actually jumbled composites from recent weeks. Not wanting to single any one person out, I took bits and pieces of various write-ins (verbatim) and created a notice. The other one I made up. See if you can tell which is which.

Brown Line Morning Commute
You take the train downtown around 7:45 am from Belmont station. My alarm clock is set to yours. Last week I was jamming out on my iPod, and you smiled in my direction. I nearly fell into the next rider. You are short with long, black hair and have a luminous complexion. You wear sexy, unconventional outfits that tell me you’re in advertising. I wouldn’t be surprised if you paint in the nude. I am the tall guy who stands in the corner of the train and reads the Journal. I wear blue shirts from Nordstrom’s that my mom picks out. Want to help me choose some better clothes? When: Most days. Where: Brown Line, starting at Belmont. You: Woman. Me: Man. #92843

Where Did You Go?
You: Very inappropriate, borderline slutty outfit, blonde with obvious dark roots. Me: foul-mouthed gimp with the handle bar mustache, sitting in your section. You waited on me and didn’t charge me for the Jameson. Later I held your bag open so you could fish something out. I brushed against you: stimulating. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in like, infinity days. Upon leaving, I thought, a smarter man would have gotten her number. When: Friday, July 27. Where: White Star. You: Woman. Me: Man. #26578

Tattooed Boy on Crutches
You were on crutches looking for a taxi. I was carrying Popeye’s chicken and asked if you needed help. You had an accent, British? We started talking about eyes. I commented on how yours were colorless. I felt your energy the entire time melting me. You rode away. I wish you didn't. My hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I had on glasses and business attire. I swear I’m mysterious. Not in any film noir sort of way. And I’d love to see your tattoo again. I so pray you see this. When: Monday, July 30. Where: Clark and Fullerton. You: Man. Me: Woman. #56711

I’m not going to mention which one I wrote.

Admittedly, I find it difficult to part with these fractional odes each week. There’s a cinematic script budding with nearly every one. But unfortunately, we only get to see the preview.

Speaking of movies, regular readers of the Chowder know that I believe in the Sliding Doors metaphor. A belief which argues that life can, and will, change course at any ordinary moment, with something as simple as a sliding door.

But there's nothing ordinary about an I Saw You day. A collision occurs in the form of an unexpected attraction. Then the soul gets restless and decides to do something about it. A day like that can stop a sliding door in its tracks.

In actuality, life is hardly ever brimming to the top. Rarely, bone dry either. It normally resides somewhere in between. Which is fine and good and dandy, except there's a tendency to get stuck meandering through life's middle quartiles. And when that happens it's helpful to open the pages of the Chicago Reader.

Because I'm absolutely certain of one thing: the world needs more I Saw Yous.

We need more random attempts to connect with someone from afar. More dinner stories that begin with, “I didn’t give a rat’s ass if I seemed desperate." More Rick Vaughn heaters.

I don’t know what happens when we die. I don’t even want to know. At the same time, I’m relatively confident that when the final hour comes I'll be facing forward, without a need to glance back over my shoulder and wish I’d done things differently. Instead, I'm guessing I'll merely wish I had done more (of everything!).

In this realm, don’t be surprised if a future “I Saw You” page includes some familiar vernacular. Numerous Chicagoans have already thrown caution to the wind, writing to their secret someone post-Jimmy John’s or after roller-blading along the lake. Perhaps, sometime soon, it will be my turn to join their ranks.

You: Sneaky hot, lawyer-type with glasses walking out of Einstein’s. Me: Shirtless buffoon just finishing a run. I mumbled a quote from Spaceballs as I walked by ("Keep firing Assholes!"). Somehow, I made you smile. We should catch a Cubs game or pick a random night to paint the town red (tomfoolery & ballyhoo are mis amigos). Next time I promise to wear a shirt.