Missed Connections

I call it net sleuthery, whereby I can utilize the various free resources of the internet, be it state and city online records, white pages, social networking sites and the propensity of individuals to use the same user name across multiple forums and blog sites in order to track down old friends. Or get the skinny on new ones, as is the case with my current partner who I so cunningly located and politely freaked out. My Sherlockian netsurfing held me in good stead from temp job to temp job, allowing for purposeful distraction at my internet-enabled workstations without my on-the-clock actions appearing personal in nature.

I found old crushes, former friends, and even a few bullies from grade school. The delight in net voyeurism never fades and merely fuels the search for the next subject. I find I'm running low on notable persons to go digging around the internet to locate.

Stephanie Melrose. I can't find her.

I met Stephanie at a roller skating party held for the library "volunteens" by crashing into her whilst flailing about wearing skates. We spent the evening talking about comic book heroines and for the next year or so a day couldn't go by without logging at least an hour on the phone together. Neither of us could drive, (I wasn't even old enough for a learner's permit,) so a lot of conversations revolved around scheming transportation arrangements. We had our own lexicon of in-jokes. We crafted gifts for each other and wrote awful stories together. We both adored the long-legged beauties of comic book lore. Stephanie wasn't the sucker for romance that I was, and our relationship strained when I finally started dating.

When her living situation with her mother imploded, she crashed on our couch while arranging a safer home. In hindsight, I believe this is why her mother hates me and blocks any attempt I make to find her. You see, Stephanie doesn't have a net identity at all. She isn't on facebook, mylife, livejournal or deviantArt, where I imaged she we be given her pursuit of art school when last we spoke. There are no online portfolios or resumes on LinkedIn or Monster.com. She has never had a utility in her name, or rented an apartment. Any listing of her has her as part of her mother's household, still in the same city in Ohio where we met nearly sixteen years ago. I called the phone listed under her mother's name, recognized the smoky voice on the voice mail and left a message. I never heard back.

The one and only blip of net individuality is Stephanie's entry into a caption contest held by the Columbus Dispatch for a comic panel. Her joke was bland. She made it to the third round of entrants, which says a lot about the humor level of our local newspaper.

I realized the very fact I couldn't track Stephanie down for the golden calf of net sleuthery, the first online contact of “There you are!”, spurred me onward. I wrote a letter on my Wonder Woman stationary and carefully penned her (mother's) most recent address. That letter never made it to the mailbox.

I am 31 years old. I have a BA in Theatre and I work at a book store. I've lived in terrible neighborhoods, temped all over the city, wracked up debts and broken hearts, got married and divorced, taken big risks to chase life and love all the way to Las Vegas to start over. I have a studio in my basement and sex toys in my bedroom. My art hangs on the wall in our living room. I'm still creating stories and even writing a few of them down.

What the hell do I have in common with Stephanie Melrose any more?

My net sleuthery stops here for this one. I've learned what I needed to know.