Where Did Everybody Go

On my least favorite part of existing - losing touch with anyone.

I was on Facebook recently.

I don’t spend a lot of time there, so it’s hardly updated. An image of me and my son on a hike is my profile photo. He’s four now, but in the photo he’s a lumpy little baby in a carrier I paid like two hundred dollars for and used three times.

The scroll through my feed starts innocently enough. Many people have recently attended baby showers. A friend of a friend of a friend recently adopted a cat (I like) and another adopted a dog (I keep scrolling - SORRY). Someone I used to work with just took a balloon ride (I’M JEALOUS).

But it’s not long before things take a turn. My college roommate’s little sister has a new boyfriend with very sinister facial hair. Someone from my neighborhood wants to know if they can compost a baby bunny her dog killed (UMM). The mom group I joined when I was pregnant is the most reliable source of bleak concerns. A hundred variations of the same question are posted – what should they do about the fact that their husbands seem to actively hate them and contribute nearly nothing to the household??

The post that sends me absolutely reeling is a photo of a woman, a former coworker of mine, smiling in a red life vest from a canoe. The water behind her is calm, the sun shining. Her name is Kelly, and I haven’t thought about her in years. If I decided to post an update on Facebook, I wonder if she’d see it. And I wonder what she would remember about me. Would her mind jump to one particularly humiliating night of my life, for which she was a reluctant observer?

During the summer of 2012, I was living in Duluth and was publicly intoxicated following a bayside musical event where my even-more-drunk boyfriend spit on a security guard and was banned from the premises. He sprinted into the night, leaving me behind. Chasing after him and sobbing so hard I lost one of my flip flops, I ran into Kelly on the street. She greeted me and likely hoped to enjoy the rest of her evening, but I let it all out. Blubbering to her about my relationship woes and even holding her arm the whole time. Acting as a literal anchor.

When I saw her at work a few days later, I apologized for cornering her and she was very forgiving. But for witnessing my vulnerability and living to tell the tale, I resented her, and it ruined the friendly connection we’d shared.

To see a photo of her and become overwhelmed by this reminder had me thinking - who else have I forgotten??? I scrolled through Facebook and a photo of one person reminded me of another and on until I had a growing list of acquaintances and temporary nemeses in mind. And it really had me wondering – where are they now??

The Middle School “Bad Girl” Who Choked On A Fruit Roll Up

One thing that has remained constant in my life is my desire for constant communication. All day I send texts, emails, social media messages, quips to coworkers, and I LOVE to talk on the phone.

And when I was in middle school, I was an active member of the superhighway of note writing and passing amongst my peers. My best friend received several from me per day, a constant stream of who was doing or saying what in each class from the school day’s beginning to end. And I had a roster’s worth of pals I connected with in this way.

One of them was a friend, Amanda, who once wrote me a note so vulgar that, when confiscated by our math teacher, we BOTH got in trouble. It contained a “rap” she’d written about rough sex that I’m sure was legitimately alarming to the adults in our lives.

During the duration of our friendship, I visited her house only once. We watched David Bowie’s Labyrinth and, even at the time, I felt confident I wouldn’t endure it again (I have not!). We made a tent around the living room television with blankets that partially obscured the screen. The disorienting themes of the film plus the slow collapse of the tent around us made me feel like I was in hell. But then we enjoyed pizza in the adjacent dining room.

One Monday, Amanda and I chatted on our way to class about our weekends. Almost casually she mentioned that she’d had to perform a self-Heimlich Maneuver in order to dislodge a Fruit Roll Up from her throat after she’d swallowed too big a piece.

She felt lucky to be alive and it had changed her priorities. I marveled at her resourcefulness, picturing her in the dining room where we’d eaten pizza. Throwing herself over the chair I’d sat in. The fragility of life was arriving to me like this. In fragments.

I started replacing her face with mine in the mental imagine I held of her life-preserving actions. Would I have been able to stop myself from choking? And if not, I wondered how many people would come to my funeral. Probably a lot and probably my crushes. Those that were cruel to me in life would be turned away at the door.

Kind Of A Karen Before That Was A Thing

My first full time job was in the registration department at St Luke’s Hospital in Duluth. I bought exactly two pairs of business casual pants from a Maurice’s and a number of flowy blouses from Modcloth. And no Modern Day Career Woman Outfit in 2012 would be complete without a chunky statement necklace and shapeless ballet flats (worn without socks).

On my first day of work, I was paired with an older woman named Carol for training purposes. We started at 5AM and wrapped up by 2PM, an unsustainable schedule for me but Carol loved it. She told me the only unfavorable thing about this shift was how often she was pulled over by police on her commute for driving too slowly. She felt no need to drive the speed limit, since she was always so punctual. At the time, I didn’t even own a car and this infuriated me.

Mostly we checked in patients for their colonoscopy appointments, and they’d arrive looking hollow and exhausted. Carol patted herself on the back every time she asked someone for their insurance card, even if she’d confirmed prior to their arrival that they were recipients of Medical Assistance.

And when she casually asked me about my starting hourly rate, I told her because I’ve never been on the lookout for potential manipulation. When I gave her the number, she called a coworker of ours into the room to express her resentment right in front of me. For my starting pay rate, I could tell she never forgave me.

The Squatter With Le Creuset

I was 22 and had recently moved in with two women I’d found via a Craigslist ad when one of them asked if it would be okay if her friend stayed on our couch for a while.

The ask felt more like a formality than the beginning of a conversation, and seeking to demonstrate my flexibility, I definitely said yes. So, a few days later, a relatively nondescript man moved in and started spending almost every hour of the day sprawled out in our living room.

This cramped my style. I was working evenings. Trudging back from the hospital to eat potato chips and Top the Tater while lounging pants-less on the couch with little to no worry of being interrupted had become a treat upon which I relied.

And this guy loved to cook. Days turned to weeks, and our refrigerator struggled to cool ingredients for three paying occupants of the house, plus one’s ever-present boyfriend and now one drifter. Dirty dishes were stacked on every available kitchen surface. I vented to my friends on the daily, nearing my breaking point. Growing certain he wouldn’t leave without confrontation, I readied for a battle that would never arrive.

Abruptly, he announced he was leaving. And he prepared us this grand meal – roasted chicken with fresh herbs, a salad with apples and soft cheese atop, and absolutely the best baked macaroni and cheese I’ve enjoyed to this DAY.

Over this unexpected family meal, and after so few interactions with him in the weeks he’d stayed with us, he shared with me a retail “secret” that led him to ownership of some of the nicest kitchen staples I’d seen. He told me he’d bring his desired item to the youngest looking cashier at a department store. Armed with a search result on his phone of the item sold for cheaper at another location, legitimate or not, he’d insist on a price match. It had worked enough times that he had a collection of the newest and most beautiful Le Creuset pieces stacked in the corner of our living room.

As I touched the cookware in awe, he insisted his system was foolproof and I should try. But I lack the audacity and confidence to haggle, so I never did.

The Guy That Never Paid For Parking

When my eight-year-long relationship with my college boyfriend ended, I moved into a studio apartment with one of our cats.

I oscillated between spinning around my apartment, elated by my independence, and hunched over my phone beyond midnight, desperately swiping for a suitor on Tinder. And it was through the dating app that I met Ryan, a father (I used to have this suspicion I was well-suited to be a stepmom but it hasn’t happened yet and now probably won’t) who aspired to be a professional writer and/or standup comedian.

During our first text conversation, he mentioned he was trying out some “race work” in his standup routine, including a joke about how the color of his penis implied that it had been on a beach vacation without him. Instead of returning to my hunch to search for my next suitor, I argued with him that he should tread lightly as a white man in comedy. It was a disastrous scenario, but somehow toed a line between disagreement and banter, so I agreed to a first date with him.

We walked a loop around Minnehaha Park before settling onto a picnic table to share ice cream. He told me he never paid for street parking and just paid the parking tickets he received as they arrived. Unfortunately, I adopted this bad behavior and only pay for parking when I’m parked in a tow zone or somewhere I would be too embarrassed to pluck a ticket off my windshield. I’ve only gotten two tickets in ten years.

I didn’t think the date had gone well. We mostly bonded over our shared love of The Office. But everyone liked The Office. When he texted me that we seemed really well matched, I believed him.

When I wound up visiting his apartment, I searched every corner for hints about his son, surely my future stepchild. He told me I couldn’t meet him for a long time, but I wanted to be ready to charm. While there, he let me read a manuscript he’d been working on. It was about two secret agents that fall in love while trying to solve a crime. It was so simple and embarrassing, but I frantically racked my brain for a compliment. I told him it was a classic tale and people love those.

The Guy Who Reached Out To Touch The Ribs

Before my husband and I started dating, we rode the Twin Cities’ light rail together to and from work.

We’d breeze by the capital building, St. Paul’s Frogtown, and the Target off University that Justin Timberlake would visit when he was in town to perform for the Super Bowl – all while mostly gossiping about our coworkers. And we weren’t alone. Our friends from work, Ayan or sometimes Dean, would join us.

Dean was tall with graying hair and a goofy smile, definitely a decade older than us, and often seemed to be struggling to maintain his status as our coworker. But he was genuinely funny and good company.

And I guess we weren’t always only talking about work, because one day my now-husband, Jarred, was talking about his ribs. Using his hands to demonstrate, he explained to me and Dean that they were more angular than the average rib cage. More rectangle than oval. By this time, I had acknowledged I might be attracted to him. So, my heart rate spiked when he reached for my hand to feel the edge of his ribs over his shirt.

As I palmed the mostly normal curvature of his ribs, I nodded dumbly and tried to control my breathing. I remember deciding to shut my mouth, worried it was hanging open like an overheated cartoon dog. Chemistry was certainly the right word, as my insides all but audibly fizzed.

“Let me see,” Dean requested, popping the bubble of the moment.

I had completely forgotten he was there.

Jarred smirked and led his hand to the ribs.

Around the time of the rib touching.

I think if I tried HARD, I would be able to find neglected social media pages or employment threads on LinkedIn belonging to these people and others. But would that answer my questions?? Is Carol still driving 34 in a 55 zone?? Did that guy get heckled on stage for his “race work”? How often has Dean found himself cluelessly on the edge of someone else’s moment of intimacy? In this year 2025, I’m used to the internet offering answers to most questions. But probably not these.

And it occurs to me that I am probably a shadow in other people’s minds. What do people remember about me? Specific memories come to mind right away that I hope no one has retained. If your name is Lydia and you drove me to a business meeting at the Mayo Clinic and I wore wet ballet flats that smelled up the car, I hope you’ve forgotten it until I mentioned it right now.

I have lost touch with people. I've forgotten everything but maybe their name or face. I know this is Part Of Existing, and it is unrealistic to expect otherwise. But if I had my way, I'd keep literally everyone.

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