‘The Oedipus Myopus Mystery’

Wendy Wahman’s illustrations have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the NY Times, the Boston Globe, Harper’s Magazine, and more. She is best known for her children’s picture books, ”Don’t Lick the Dog,” which was a Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year, starred for Outstanding Merit & accepted to the Society of Illustrators Original Art Show, "Old Pearl," "Pony in the City," and others. Her new work, shown here, are meditative, improvisational drawings she calls, "Wenderings," as they begin with a line and go from there. www.wendywahman.com; Instagram: @wendywahman

This story requires some context. I wonder how far back I should go? In fourth grade I couldn’t read the board. Everything was blurry. I moved closer for the year and got glasses that
summer. This may be too far back.

Let’s fast forward to my sophomore year of college, when this story transpires. I was sitting in the campus café. Buckle in, because this is a bit of a mystery story. No murder, no sexiness, just an unsexy man and his terrible eyesight. But trust me, as poor as this premise sounds, it could be interesting... I was working on my laptop in the campus café. Writing an essay or doing a project or something. I sat alone at a table intended for 4 and capitalized on the space. Notebooks, pens, my water bottle, my glasses (note this) and other things were littering the table. I was honed in on my work. Instead of my prescription lenses, I wore blue-light glasses. For those who don’t know this obvious fact, blue light glasses do not rectify vision in the slightest.

Most of the time I worked in the library, but Tuesday was the day I always ran into her. A romantic interest? Maybe. Just keep following along.

He was- wait- I was feeling low because of the disappointments of the World Series. I mean, they weren’t even putting up a fight. 3-0, are you kidding me? I wasn’t even going to tune into game 4, but then again, you never knew...

So Tuesday in the campus café. I don’t know how many times I have to reiterate this point. Maybe until I reach the minimum word count. Okay, I trust you understand where I was now. I was sitting close to the screen so I could actually see what I was doing. I typically wore my prescription lenses and leaned back in my chair, but that day, for whatever reason, in the campus ca- okay, sorry. That day I wore my blue-light glasses for the first time in my college career.

For the past few weeks of the semester on Tuesdays, without fail, she’d come up to my table as I worked in the café. I understand we live in the information and cell-phone social media age, but she was terrible at using these things. She was a videographer for the TV club, writer for the school paper, a full time student with a part-time job and... I forget what else, But I think that’s enough to illustrate that she was a busy person.

She’d respond to my texts once a week or so. Now, I wasn’t a very busy person at this point. I had a chunk of savings that I drew sparingly on and spent my free time that wasn’t spent doing homework (which I usually finished quickly) reading. So texting someone was a nice change of pace from my very sexy and exciting schedule. (I think I’m undercutting myself here. I was, after all, chairman of the poetry club. I was the only member and I didn’t advertise it at all. In fact, when people asked if they could join I’d say I didn’t know of any poetry club. I wanted to put it on a resume, but didn’t want to put much
work into it). So I was sitting in- wait, you get it, I’m sorry.

I’d be hard at work (or sitting around bored, reading or writing poetry) and she’d come up and with the cutest and most innocent voice ask “can I sit here?” It was like hearing “Here Comes the Sun” for the first time every time those words blessed my ears. I’d laugh, close up my book or finish a sentence/stanza and say: “You don’t have to ask every time you know,” with a smile. She’d smile sheepishly and say in a quiet voice: “I feel rude not to,” as she settled down.

She’d open up more as we talked and caught up on events from the past week. She’d tell me about her clubs and urge me to join and I’d always say I’d “think about it” (my thoughts always came back ‘no’). Then we’d both have to go to our 1 o’clock class in the same building, so we’d walk together and part ways.

It was hard to tell if she liked me.

I’d like to think “yes,” but I couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt to the people of the jury. I wrote a note once of a thought that came to me that I intended to incorporate into a poem sometime: “It is in uncertainty that God tests our faith in Him” or something along those lines. So I bounced back and forth. Should I trust God, go with my gut and just tell her, knowing that anything that happens is His will? But then I’d think about the relationship broken like taking a firm step on an old wooden plank just for your foot to go straight through. Crack and now my leg was broken and splintered and she’d never want to talk to me again.

Sigh. What to do?

To make this story dramatic and interesting, I could say that that day was the one I resolved to tell her. Yes, with certainty I was going to tell her that day. I was sure I’d see her because I saw her every Tuesday without fail. I could hardly focus on my work that day because I was so eager to tell her. Not anxious or nervous or even confident. I just calmly was. But I wasn‘t resolved to tell her that day. I didn’t carpe that diem because I was just cruising along waiting for the moment to be right. Whenever it felt right, I was going to say: “You like reading, right?”

And she’d say something like: “Duh” or “are you stupid, I’m an english major and a writer for the school paper, you know this” (this, of course, after she settled in and opened up). So I’d say:

“You wanna go to this local used bookstore?” (probably some other details about it, I’m not too sure).

And she’d say:

“Just you and I?”

I must interject for fantasy clarification here. We had hung out outside of school only once. It was with two other people. It was the worst double date ever because the girl she brought along had a boyfriend and the guy I brought along had a girlfriend. I wasn’t too sure about her relationship status and I don’t think she was certain about mine. I’m assuming the reader can guess mine and no, that’s not the mystery of this story. It would be a quick one if it was.

The four of us had gone to a movie. At one of our Tuesday meetings I absentmindedly brought up my desire to see a certain new movie and she expressed eagerness. It wasn’t my intention to suggest plans at all, but she was quickly telling me how we should go, how she was free this weekend and her friend wanted to go too and if I had anyone who might want to go to feel free to invite them- if I and they were free of course.

I had no qualms with this. I suggested matinee for the sake of my savings. I knew my friend would be free because we had talked about doing something that weekend and so it was. Her friend and mine sat on one end, she sat next to her friend and I sat on the other end next to her. I hope this isn't hard to keep up with.

She was focused on the screen and I snuck glances at her in the flashing blue light of the screen. Our arms brushed once and I felt electricity (not static, but metaphysical) between us. I quickly moved my arm because I am constantly self-conscious about women not liking me. I had been rejected and abandoned many times. (A clue? No, this isn’t the mystery).

The rest of the day was platonic and ordinary. I dropped them off at campus and went home.

The Tuesday after that hang out, she came into the café as usual and we had an ordinary chat. We talked a bit about the movie and she told me what had happened between Saturday and the day we were talking. It wasn’t much. Oh! She remembered. She wrote a review of the movie to debut in the next issue of the paper later that week. I told her I was excited to read it.

Needless to say, she didn’t mention me or the spark between us even once in her review. It stuck strictly to the subject matter. I knew I was delusional to expect anything, but I was disappointed slightly nonetheless.

And then our fateful day on which this story begins...

Wait- not that day in fourth grade with my poor eyesight. No, the day in the campus- sorry, sorry.

As I said, I was leaning close to the screen, only 15 feet from the pick-up counter of the café. This seems close enough, but anything more than two feet away looked like it was underwater to my eyes.

Something caught my eye as I sat there working (and here comes the mystery, get your magnifying glass and Sherlock hats). A tall guy was approaching the counter with a short girl next to him. A short girl with light brown wavy hair and black spectacles. She wore a brown sweater and knee-length skirt. It looked like it could’ve been her, but I couldn’t be certain. He grabbed a drink from the shelf, they turned around, she looked at me for a few moments then away, and they walked out.

Now she wasn’t the only short brunette with glasses who dressed that way on campus. But she was one of few. Then again, I couldn’t tell for certain because of my blurred eyesight. I recall a time where I thought I was flirting with a girl across the room in a restaurant, making periodic eye contact and smiling and thought she was smiling back only to put my glasses on to find out it’s a metal-head and he’s not even looking at me, but somewhere over my head. Turns out Seinfeld reruns were playing on the TV above me.

So I didn’t know beyond a reasonable doubt.

But it was the time she usually came in and it did look like her. But there shouldn't be any reason for her not to acknowledge me. Unless she didn’t want the guy she was with to know she knew me.

And my heart and stomach dropped and my appetite ran.

What if that was her boyfriend? Her new or old, I didn’t know. But she never mentioned him. Was she juggling the two of us? Living a double life? Or did she just start dating him and had no need of me anymore. Did she never like me in the first place?

Was it even her?

I returned to the ebook I was reading, The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. Ishiguro is a master of world building, of deliberately leaving gaps in order to fill them in and make the story complete later. Of the slightly surreal. Of the-

“‘Sup Calvin,” I heard a blurry face say and they sat down and I realized it was Henry from Philosophy class.

This was my class acquaintance and, incidentally, the other contender for her heart. I liked him to an extent. He was another unsexy individual like myself (and when I use “sexy” and “unsexy” here, I mean in the Wallacean sense and not the corporate consumer sense. Or maybe those two are linked? This is not the place for such a thesis) and, as I said, contender for her heart (contender may be too strong here. I feel like that indicates that we have a fighting chance when the opposite is likely the case. I should probably say something else, but “contender” is convenient).

It’s important to note here (since no dialogue of significance is about to transpire between Henry and myself. Actually, the mystery may deepen if I ask something. Let me ask and then I’ll get to the important note).

“You seen Daisy today?” I asked.

Now, Henry was always keeping tabs on Daisy. He’d joined her clubs and tried to get classes in the same buildings as hers. Daisy had mentioned these things about Henry to me before with a laugh.

“Doesn’t he know he can’t do that?” she said lightheartedly.

“I guess not,” I responded with a laugh, hoping she was telling me this as a potential lover and not as she would “one of the pals.”

He, of course, perked up at the mention of her name. Henry was notorious for doomscrolling instead of having conversations, laughing to himself and seeming to forget he’s immersed in society. He’ll look around with slight perplexion after looking up from his phone.

But at the mention of Daisy’s name, he immediately looked up, then around us.

“Daisy? Where?”

“I asked if you saw her today”

“Oh, not yet”

Another dead end. I was hoping he’d be able to tell me “yes” and if she was walking with somebody. I considered the timing between her departure and his arrival. As the din of sound became a blanket of white noise around me, I puzzled over the entrances and exits to the building. The most popular ones and least used ones. I was just about to ask which entrance

Henry had come through when I realized that was creepy.

“I gotta go to class, I’ll see ya,” he said, standing and still looking at his phone.

“See ya,” I said quietly. I was so sad to see him go.

The mystery thickened.

If we fast forward or rather jump cut, I can finish this story. Some context: I wanted to die.

I walked around with my glasses on. Actually, I was walking my friend to class. In the distance, in the direction we were heading, I saw her. She was talking to someone. A guy. This guy, in fact, was in my Philosophy class (not Henry) and from my ideas, seemed to be a bit of a womanizer. I didn’t direct much hate at him nor much attention. There was just this fact. It didn’t help that he was “handsome” or, rather, “sexy” and, as we’ve established, I’m “unsexy.”

This is who she was chatting with as we drew near. And wouldn’t you believe it, he was tall just like the guy from the café. She looked up at him, smiling and laughing at everything he said with his cool Bond-like gaze.

“Hey Daisy,” I said as my friend and I walked past.

She turned slightly and gave back an unenthusiastic:

“Hey”

And turned back to him.

It was overcast that day. I didn’t bring a raincoat. The forecast said sunny. It wasn’t the first or last time I’d been lied to. The Yanks lost the series. I gave a halfhearted “goodbye” to my friend as he entered his class. As I reached the front doors of the building to leave it began to rain hard.

I felt like Henry at the end of A Farewell to Arms after Catherine dies (and to hell with your spoiler alert):
“But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-bye to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain”

I never wore my glasses again after that. Not even to drive.

I may have overreacted.

I don’t think it’s any use at this point to return to the café with Henry. We’re beyond that.

You know what happened next. It’s similar to seeing the man behind the curtain and being expected to go back to how it was before seeing him. I’m at an impasse as a narrator. My character got a little ahead of me...

Let’s just strike that from the record, if you will. We can pretend I never revealed what happened next. The mystery continues... But the mystery is gone. It can’t be stricken from the record. Well, it can be stricken from the record, but not your mind. So I guess we’ll proceed to what happened after that.

Consider the tall man. Was he the one from the café? Was she the one with him? Survey says “yes,” but again, not beyond a reasonable doubt. As the narrator I’ll play the judge. For fun, we’ll let the mystery continue. I hope you didn’t throw away your magnifying glasses or Sherlock hats. The mystery thickens.
For the next week, I saw her everywhere. I’d be walking behind her on my way back to the commuter lot. I’d walk faster to catch up with her only to realize it wasn’t her.

She’d drive past me as I walked to the convenience store down the road. I wanted to jokingly stick my thumb out and ask her to drop me off there only to remember she didn’t have a car.

I’d walk past a classroom and- I think you get the point. I’d see her, but not her.

I started to go to the library on Tuesdays. I had watched The Notebook over that weekend and was feeling like romanticizing my life, so I wrote her a long poem. It started with the night I first saw her. She was taking pictures for the school paper (yet another activity of hers) at a nighttime carnival on campus. I prayed I’d be able to talk to her, but left it up to the Lord. The Lord answered my prayer.

“Can I take your picture?” her sweet voice asked from beside me.

I was next in line for the food truck. She apparently needed pictures of smiling students receiving their fried dough, but so far nobody had looked happy enough. I put on a huge phony smile, making her giggle as she took my picture.

“How was that?” I asked her after getting my food and moving to the side. Still laughing, she answered:
“Perfect,” and showed me the picture. I started to laugh too.

I took note of her deep brown eyes- eyes so deep brown they almost appeared velvet- and tiny beauty mark on her cheek near the nose. I asked if she minded if I followed her the rest of the night. Not solely because I wanted to soak in her presence, but because I had an interest in photography. In high-school I had taken a few classes and only ever really photographed nature stills. I wanted to see how moving subjects worked, especially at nighttime. She talked me through the settings and difficulties and how to overcome them. I held on to every word. It was good advice.

There were things in between that I touched upon, but the next big thing I wrote about was the “date” (I say that feather-lightly) and my disappointments about her paper article. Then, of course, I ended with the heartbreak on the rainy day.

“I pray every day that I see you anyway because seeing you is like finding money on the ground when you’re dead broke and about to be evicted”

This is what flowed out of me as I wrote longhand in my notebook. I tore out the multiple pages of the poem (cross-outs and all) and put them into an envelope that I had asked for at the front desk. I fully intended to give it to her the next time I saw her.

By the time I saw her again the romantic feeling had faded. That’s not to say I didn’t like her anymore. I most certainly did. But the burning passion that had produced those words had smoldered into coals of comfort and I knew to give it to her would be delusional. I happened to be in the campus café. It was Friday.

“Can I sit here?” she asked.

[ins. “Here Comes the Sun” lyrics].

My heart nearly exploded and my hands were shaking. I tried to keep myself calm and cooly smiled, acted like I was finishing my sentence and said the same line I always said:

“You don’t have to ask every time you know”

She briefed me on all that had happened in between.

“Geez, I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said bewildered as she finished

You’re telling me, I thought.

Apparently the boy she had been talking to was her assigned partner for a class project. He was pretty cool and sometimes funny, she said (and I cringed) but mostly serious. He was either too serious or too funny. She was glad to finish the project and move on from him (music to my ears).

She was going home for a week coming soon, so she had to catch up on a lot of work for her classes and clubs so as not to fall behind. The paper liked her articles and was asking her to write more than she was accustomed to.

She was in love with me and had been longing to see me to finally tell me. She didn’t want to be apart from me even for a moment. There was a piece of technology she devised so that she could shrink me down and open the tiny cage of her heart and put me there forever.

There were too many “sexy” men around and she wanted someone genuine and “unsexy” and
nearsighted who read and didn’t do much else. The mystery was solved three paragraphs ago and now I’m writing nonsense. I wish she said this, but I have to take what I can get (the envelope sat eager in my bag. I ignored it). If it’s a conversation then so be it.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short stories can be found on both Half and One’s and Wordsfaire’s websites. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.