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Untitled – July 16, 2005

July 16, 2005

I was in the Tri-Cities this morning visiting my good friend Justin. And we went to Starbucks to get a cup of coffee and breakfast. It was about 7:45 in the morning because I wanted to get a early start before heading back to Seattle. We had been sitting outside, enjoying the cool morning before the afternoon heat settled in – and out of nowhere, a girl who haunted my past walked by me to get into her car.

I met Jorgie in the fifth grade when she transferred to my elementary school. I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen – and I did everything in fifth-grade toolkit to get her to like me. I chased her around the playground, I would try throwing rocks in her general direction, I would talk to her friends, but she was always a step out of reach. Through the years, she became a myth, a story I would tell my friends, a person you seek but never find – this had made her a legend.

Jorgie always wanted to become an actor. During the summer after fifth-grade, she auditioned to become an extra in the movie “Sleepless and Seattle” and she got it. The local paper wrote about her and she had her fifteen minutes. After elementary school, we went to different high schools and then different colleges, and I never saw much more of her.

A photo of Erin (left) and Jorgie (right). Photo courtesy of Screen Actors Guild.

A photo of Erin (left) and Jorgie (right). Photo courtesy of Screen Actors Guild.

However, right before my high school graduation, our elementary school organized a reunion. I talked to her at the reunion – for the briefest of moments. She was going to attend Loyola Marymount to study acting. Her fifth-grade dream becoming an actor still held true. One curious day a few months ago, I googled her. Loyola Marymount listed her as graduating their film and television program.

I looked up from my mocha and coffee cake to see her walking away. It had been five years since I saw her last, but I knew it was Jorgie. I called out her name and she did not turn around. I called it out again even louder and she turned back at me and looked. I wanted to wave or run over there and strike up a conversation – but I didn’t. Instead of making any acknowledgment, I watched as she turned back around and left in her early 90’s Volvo and drove away. Even after all my successes in life, I still feel like that fifth-grader throwing rocks at her, trying to get her attention.

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