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  “Did you miss me that much?” her voice interrupts my momentary state of bliss. I open my eyes and see Amy looking up at me.

  “Wow, Eric. That was intense,” Amy says as she begins to clean herself up. She adjusts her panties back in place, lowers and straightens out her black leather mini skirt, palms her hair so it falls down straight and then opens the restroom door halfway.

  “See you out there,” she winks at me slipping out through the door. I’m alone in the quiet of this public washroom. For the past nine months, whenever Amy and I go out to dinner and she asks whether we will be having dessert, my cue to meet her in the wheelchair accessible washroom, we meet in one of the stalls and fuck quickly and illicitly. It’s been our little hot secret. We each take turns scoping out small restaurants in the city that are equipped with individual washrooms and then we make reservations under the name of a French word that Amy cleverly came up with, Mr. and Mrs. Plancul. By pure luck, I happened to have found this little restaurant that met Mr. and Mrs. Booty Call’s criteria, right here in the heart of Bloor West Village. Here in body I am with Amy, but in mind and spirit, I’m in a completely different universe inhabited only by Caroline. I realize how royally fucked up I am.

  ____________________

  David is ready and waiting when I get to my sister’s house around noon on Saturday. As soon as my service appointment at the Porsche dealership is over, I begin to make my way over to my sister’s place in the Old Mill area of Toronto. Historic homes on tree-lined streets with expansive lots, I travel the winding streets finally pulling in to her long driveway. I park my Porsche beside my sister’s silver Mercedes SUV. Because my car is a two-seater, I end up taking my sister’s car for our Saturday afternoon outings with David where, for safety, he can sit in the back seat. David pulls open their big oak door as soon as I step foot on the porch.

  “Hi, Uncle Eric. Ready to go?” David is already out the door and heading to the car. Claudia and Ryan come outside to see the two of us go. Claudia and I exchange car keys and I promise to stay for dinner when I drop David off later.

  Our first stop, as always, is to the bank. From the time David was five, I set up a bank account in trust for him at the Scotiabank in the local Humbertown plaza. On our Saturdays together, I hand him some cash and his bankcard and we head to the bank machine. I take pleasure in teaching him about basic money skills: saving, spending, investing, and enjoying money. On our monthly trips to the bank, he watches as his money grows in his bank account. It won’t be long before we start investing it in GICs, stocks, bonds, and mutual funds. Before David makes his deposit into his savings account, he takes 10 percent of the cash I give him and uses it as spending money. I haven’t told my sister we do this and I’m not sure whether David has told his parents. Doesn’t make a difference to me, just another one of my secrets I keep tucked in hiding.

  “Dairy Queen is on you today,” I remind David as we pull out of the parking space. Just as Amy and I take turns making restaurant reservations, David and I take turns treating each other at Dairy Queen. To watch the joy on his face as he pulls out his little boy wallet and pull out some cash to pay for our ice cream melts my heart every time. Here’s this awesome-looking kid on the cusp between childhood and puberty acting so grown up in ordering our desserts and then paying for them. I cringe when I think our Saturday dates may one day come to an end as teenager David will likely have better things to do than hang out with his uncle: chase girls, skateboard with his friends or sleep in all day.

  “How does an afternoon in High Park sound?” I look over at David as we drive east along Bloor Street. High Park is Toronto’s largest urban park and a perfect place to go on a sunny early June afternoon, especially because it is only a fifteen minute walk east of Bloor West Village. I know, I’m obsessing!

  Once David and I stock ourselves up with water and snacks, we make our way through a few of the hiking trails in High Park, making like the Japanese today, bathing in the forest, once again. The sun is shining but the air is cool. When we emerge from one of the trails, we make our way to Grenadier Pond where we feed the ducks and then lounge on the park benches for a while.

  While David and I talk, I look around surreptitiously for sightings of Caroline. He tells me about school stuff and his swim meets. David is a competitive swimmer and part of a Toronto swim team. His practices and swim meets keep Claudia and Ryan pretty busy but I know they secretly love the fact that their son is performing at a competitive level. If you ask me, I’d say I just don’t get why all the fun has to be taken out of kids’ sports today by structured drills and skills and mandatory practices and participation at competitive events. Talk about zapping the fun out of something you start off loving to do and end up resenting and hating. When we were kids, we’d just meet up at the park and with whomever was there we’d organize our own baseball or soccer games, playing for fun. Drive by neighborhood parks today and you won’t see a soul in sight. Sad.

  “Uncle Eric, do you think can I drive your car one day when I’m old enough?” David asks out of the blue as we walk back to the car.

  “Of course you can. Why do you ask?” David has never shown interest in cars before. I wonder why he’s asking now.

  “Well . . . I don’t know,” he says while kicking a rock along the sidewalk.

  “You can tell me,” I reassure him, kicking back the rock so it volleys along the sidewalk between us.

  “I um . . . I uh . . . I just think that . . . maybe people will . . . um . . . might notice me more . . . if I drive a car like yours,” he says in an embarrassed tone of voice, not taking his eye off the stone.

  “What kind of people do you mean?” I’m trying to clarify but I think I already know where this conversation is going. David doesn’t answer me.

  “Do you mean girls might like you more if you drove a fast car?” I brace myself for our first girl talk ever. Where do I begin to discuss girls with a nine year old? Girls are complicated, irresistible, overwhelming, and maddening at times and these are just a few of the adjectives that come to mind. I remember Danny and I at thirteen, trying to figure out the whole girl thing. Neither of our fathers discussed girls with us back then, nor did either of us have older brothers to show us the way. At thirteen, we were just horny teenagers aching to get laid.

  “No, not just girls but everyone. My dad says that when you drive your Porsche everyone always looks at you.”

  “David, those people aren’t looking at me. They are just looking at the fast car. There’s a difference between people noticing me and people noticing my car. Cars are just things,” I say guiltily, because I secretly know that I do get a lot of attention when I’m driving in my car. I love my black Porsche 911, the biggest gift I’ve ever given myself, next to buying my condo right at 100 Yorkville Avenue, that is. It may seem like I’m a materialistic guy but the truth is I work hard and make very good money so after saving it and investing it well, I’ve been able to comfortably and legitimately buy myself nice things. All by the age of thirty-two.

  “My dad says people look at you even when you’re not in your car, Uncle David. He said ladies go crazy for you because you’re . . . a handsome guy?” David shares shyly. Interesting observations coming from my brother-in-law but they don’t mean much to me seeing how the one lady I want to be crazy about me probably has forgotten my name and the fact that I even exist by now.

  David and I are back inside his mother’s SUV making our way to the closest Dairy Queen on The Queensway. David’s question about my car got me thinking all over again about Caroline and how after a week of scouring the area I last saw her in, I haven’t been able to find her.

  “David, can I ask you a question now?” I ask.

  “Sure,” he says with that little boy grin beaming across his face.

  “Let’s say you found something that you really, really liked one day. You were never looking for this one thing but when you actually found it, you realized right away that this one . . . thing . . . is w
hat you’ve always wanted and knew that you really needed . . . .” I trail off giving him time to imagine something he just found and really wanted.

  I pull into the parking space at the Dairy Queen and he still hasn’t said a word. We walk into the Dairy Queen and my big boy nephew steps up to the counter. David orders himself an Oreo Blizzard and for me, my regular, a plain vanilla cone.

  “Okay, Uncle Eric, continue with your question,” he seems very interested in where this is going. With our ice creams in hand, we take our seats across from each other in a booth. I look down at this fetching dark eyed and dark haired boy and know that he will be the one breaking the hearts of many girls in a few short years.

  “Where did I leave off?” I ask to see how much David understood so far.

  “You were saying something about finding something really special . . . something that you wanted.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember now . . . so what would you do if right after you found that something so amazing . . . you lost it?” I ask carefully.

  “I’d go look for it again,” David replies without even hesitating.

  “Okay, but what if you tried looking for it but still couldn’t find it, what would you do then?” I probe the nine-year-old sage in front of me.

  “I’d keep looking,” he says in between gulps of his Oreo Blizzard, not looking up at me. So, according to my young counselor, I should keep doing what I’ve been doing. Keep looking for her.

  “Oh . . . and Uncle Eric . . . I wouldn’t give up until I find it,” he adds as he sucks back the last of his treat. And then it hits me. It’s time that I step up my efforts at finding Caroline.

  The rest of the evening passed relatively enjoyably. I say relatively because after I dropped off David at home and stayed for dinner at my sister’s place, I was distracted by thoughts of finding Caroline. After dinner, Ryan, David and I watched the Los Angeles Kings and New Jersey Devils playoff game on television. Watching Saturday night NHL hockey with my nephew has a way of bringing me back to my childhood and all the times my dad and I used to watch our favorite team, the Toronto Maple Leafs. Growing up Canadian was synonymous with growing up a hockey fan; the two went hand in hand.

  My parents immigrated to Toronto from Spain in the mid 1970s. So, along with classic 1970s music, hockey became another rite of passage in my parents’ journey in embracing Canadian culture. My sister and I were both born in Toronto and grew up Canadian but, like many children of immigrants, we have many examples of ways our Spanish heritage was Anglo-sized. At school, our Spanish last name Martin (with an accent on the ‘i’) was quickly simplified to Martin and pronounced as such.

  Back at home now after the night at my sister’s place, I flick the button on my answering machine as I prepare to make myself an espresso on my Jura espresso machine. You have two new messages. First beep. A hang up. Second beep. Another hang up. I pick up my handset to check the call display and for both of those calls, the screen reads Private Caller, no number identified. The calls were about two hours apart. Without giving these calls another thought, I get down to work.

  As soon as my Mac boots up, the image of Caroline lights up my screen. The shot that I took of her at the airport on my iPad looking down and smiling that morning has made its way as my screen saver. The note we exchanged is still tucked inside the corner of my monitor. I stare at them both and think about David’s words. Time to step up my efforts.

  The Internet. How does a nostalgic, old school kind of guy like me embrace looking for the girl of his dreams in cyberspace? Not very easily. I mean, I obviously have no problem stalking someone’s neighborhood and taking pictures of someone without their knowledge so why does searching a name over the Internet make me feel like an obsessive pervert?

  I’ve put off the whole technology piece in looking for Caroline for a reason. Invasiveness. The reason is that it just feels too invasive to go snooping around looking into other people’s business. I know you’re going to say that social media today takes the tactlessness out of the equation. Nowadays people post their business online for the purpose of having others read about and know their business and spread it around. In other words, we’re not snooping if others are advertising. But that’s why I’m one of the remaining few dinosaurs not on Facebook, or Twitter, nor am I posting my pictures on Tumblr or Instagram; my life is my own and I’ve no interest in sharing it with strangers. Besides, I’ve learned it’s best to keep my identity as secretive as possible. No one can find me who I don’t want to find me.

  Ironically, that brings me to finding Caroline. The minute I type her name in the search bar, I know I’ll be crossing a line. There might be something I could learn about her that I don’t want to know or to find out in this way. Can I do it? I weigh the pros and cons of going any further in my online search. Besides, with only her first name and a picture of her, how much could I possibly find, I wonder.

  So, I begin by typing in “Caroline Toronto Canada” in the search bar, I then click Images so that pages of images pop-up. I take a deep breath and scroll down page after page of images looking for Sweet Caroline. I work slowly and methodically through the images and even click on a few that look similar to her. I don’t see her. I keep scrolling down both hoping and not hoping that I’ll find her. After studying all of the photographs, I accept the fact that Caroline’s photo is not here and inwardly breathe a sigh of relief. Out of curiosity, I search my own name and feel nothing but the same wave of relief when I see that none of my images are posted anywhere online either.

  The next thing I try is the image recognition Google app on my iPad. First, I grab my iPad and snap a picture of the image of Caroline’s face on my screen saver. Then, I press the ‘Goggles’ button and Google does an image search to see if there’s a match. Little colored boxes would start floating across the screen with matched up images found on the web. Fortunately, not one matched image comes up. Sweet Caroline’s picture is nowhere online. You’d think that for a guy in such fervent search for a girl, the web would be the fastest and easiest way to find her. The relief I feel because I’m unable to find her is indescribable, even to me. I find it pretty remarkable that she has maintained some anonymity in today’s extroverted world. Could it be for professional reasons why she isn’t on Facebook or better yet, has chosen not be? Or, maybe like me, she too has secrets to hide and people to hide from so a Facebook account would be the last thing she’d need? Nevertheless, I know now that a search for Caroline in Toronto and an image recognition search have turned up nothing. Moving on.

  The next thing I do is go back on Google and type in “Chicago conferences May 25-27th 2012.” Caroline mentioned that she was at an annual conference in Chicago last weekend so if I can find a list of organizations that held their conferences there, then that might give me a clue as to what field of work she might be in here in Toronto.

  A few clicks of the mouse later, I find the 2012 Global Finance Conference. I scroll through the conference programs and schedules scanning for a Caroline as a presenter or keynote speaker and nothing comes up. When I reread the conference’s home page I realize this conference was held between held between May 23rd to the 25th, prior to the weekend. Dead end.

  I continue to hit the back arrow and click on other conferences that pop up for that weekend in Chicago, Illinois. The only other viable one that does appear to work would be the Association for Psychological Science. I click on the 2012 convention coverage and again, scan the pictures posted on the site from the conference. There’s a picture of the keynote speaker, another of the editor of the Psychological Science journal and even a shot of the smashing Saturday ballroom entertainment provided by some famous bass player and ‘musically gifted’ psychological science students. Caroline’s name isn’t anywhere to be found. I understand that she could have just been an attendee at the conference so her name wouldn’t necessarily be posted on the convention page. But before I pat myself on the back for making a very minute lead in finding her, it hits me that the c
onference I attended last weekend isn’t showing up either when I do the search. Simple reason for that; my conference was held just outside of Chicago in an area called St. Charles, Illinois. That said, there are dozens of places Caroline’s conference could have been held, the proverbial needle in the haystack, so I decide to close off this search.

  As I walk back to the kitchen to drop off my empty espresso cup, I get a flash of a story that I overheard Cate, my secretary, telling the receptionist about recently at work. The story goes that some guy met a girl in London while he was sitting at an outdoor piano in honor of the Queen’s Jubilee celebrations. The two of them hit it off but when it was time for the girl to leave, the guy didn’t get her number or email address. His friends who were with him at the time took a picture on one of their phones of the girl’s back while she was sitting at a piano beside their friend. To help their friend out, these guys posted her picture on Tumblr asking if anyone could help them locate the girl.

  I jump back on my computer and search for that story. The account was called “Ferry Girl Story” and in the Tumblr feed, there are a number of people who comment negatively and positively on the guy’s efforts at trying to find the girl. One person even posted a speculation that the girl would end up being a lesbian when or if he finally did find her. Caroline could possibly be gay.

  Alas, the “Ferry Girl” story has a happy ending. After setting up many social media accounts and an email address completely dedicated to locating “Ferry Girl,” the guy did end up finding her. To make a long story short, the power of social media made it happen. Knowing that, the question I have for myself, is why am I so freaking hesitant to use it?