In the fall of 2011, for reasons I will not expand on here (except maybe to say I needed to find out what I didn’t want), I, a lifelong Chicagoan, moved to Grand Rapids, Michigan. And though it lies a mere 200 miles northeast, the same Great Lake lapping at its shores, western Michigan might as well have been another country, for all it had in common with anything I had ever known.
We asked readers to submit their least romantic stories for our Valentine’s Day issue. To read the other tales of woe and regret, see the rest of our (almost) romance-free ode to Valentine’s Day.
“Come on, Don is really stylish and good looking. He loves underground music, and he’s really into art. Besides, I already gave him your number,” Janice insisted. “You know, a hipster. Exactly your type. ”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I’m not,” he said, before reaching into his jacket and pulling out a Bible, which he proceeded to read intently, occasionally mouthing the words as he read.
We got a table, and Don, with his long, unkempt hair sticking out from under a red knit skullcap sticking out from under a studded and cross-sporting trucker hat (both of which he elected to keep on), torn flannel shirt, earrings, tattoos, and longish beard, looked at me the way you look at an animal you’ve read about and seen pictures of but have never actually encountered in real life before.
” … ”
“So, what? Like the Ramones? Or, well, everyone likes the Sex Pistols, at least the idea of them, right?” I said, to a similar response. I tried one last-ditch effort with, “Well, maybe more of a Velvet Underground thing?”
