Zoomers

Zoomers

Still not a date, seven months late

Kaleidoscope. That’s what all those faces looked like on the gallery view of the Zoom call. All the different colors, all the faces moving, some people who rocked back and forth, some who looked up, some who looked down, some who looked all around, some who were still as mice, some who looked bored or drunk or zoned out. I pushed the button to see the next screen of the next twenty-six faces, and then one more screen after that. Seventy-three participants on this call to watch a magic show broadcast from Westwood.

I was there as the guest of my cousin, whose birthday it was. About thirty of the participants were wearing the (stupid) polka-dot hats he had sent us, waving the (stupid) “happy birthday Big T” three-inch flags he had sent, drinking the (not stupid quite good) bottles of Merlot he had sent with (stupid) special order labels reading “T-3-0.” “Big T” was my ever-jolly eldest cousin, trying to spread some covid-cheer for his big three-oh. He thought it was a riot that he was born on Labor Day – so his mom was in labor on Labor Day, get it?

Everyone had double checked that I was coming. There was my mom, looking relieved when she finally saw my freshly-shaven face in the merry-go-round of Zoom squares – why do people keep coming and going, so that the pictures are constantly rearranging? There were at least eight squares of frantically waving clusters of my family, all so happy that poor me was “coming out of his funk and being social,” or what now passes for social. The goofy host was “spotlighting” people to ask them embarrassing questions. My stomach tightened the way it had in school when the teacher would hunt around to call on students. I thought about ducking out of the picture frame, but I thought that might draw his attention, so I sipped some more Merlot and sat far back in my chair, so I’d be invisible to anyone who didn’t have a magnifying glass.

OK, I’ll admit it, I have been glum. Or you can call me “blue,” if you like jazz. Mood on permanent indigo since that night about seven months ago. She and I had had this great moment after that party – don’t panic, pre-covid, back when people hooked up. Was it a date? Well, it wasn’t nothing. We connected. Really. We put each other into each other’s contact lists, she using all lower case. Then like an ass, I mean really, such a cowardly doofus I am, I waited a day to call her. And then nothing. It just rang and rang, then it started cutting right to voice-mail. I tried and tried. Friends who were at the party. Friends of Facebook friends. Craig’s List. Google. I couldn’t find her. My gramma didn’t help when she pointed out that if people had civilized land lines and phone books, I might have had a chance. Now is now, Nana.

But, now! I thought I must have been dreaming! There she was! Her face. Her name below it, typed in all lower case. She wasn’t wearing a hat, she wasn’t part of our party. I jumped on the chat and sent her a private message, using lower case myself because I was in such a rush, “hey is it realy u madison pruitt we met after mats prty I can’t stop thimthing of u.” I saw her read it, squint, and start searching through the three pages of screens, and see me, and smile, and I don’t know what she and I must have looked like except no one ever really can see anyone on those Zooms any way, and she wrote “omg phone fell in river, i need u and want u” and when she saw me looking at her she stood up, revealing her very seven months pregnant silhouette.