When I was 16, I had a crush on the coolest guy in the city. He played in at least five bands. He was always at Wavelength–I am writing about him because Wavelength just celebrated its 12th anniversary–and when he wasn’t, he was silkscreening little sleeves for his bands’ minidiscs and distributing concert flyers.

 He was lean and handsome and wore those giant glasses that only good-looking people can pull off. These days I find it kind of obnoxious when good-looking people wear those glasses, because if you’re lucky enough to be good-looking you shouldn’t cover it up. He walked with a wide, jaunty gait that made his very appearance seem like an adorable surprise. Normally his skin was as smooth as a CGI character’s, but he once had a blemish, and that was kind of satisfying.

 When he performed, he stomped his foot and clapped. This dance was known, to me at least, as the “Indie Rock Cotton-Eye Joe,” and when he played, people would rush the stage to do it, too. Not to copy him, but because it was the house dance. He co-ran a record label whose slogan was “Don’t try, Do!” and the phrase seemed to suffuse his entire character. Even his walk seemed to say, “Don’t try, do!” One foot said, “Don’t try, do!” and the other foot responded, “Don’t try, do!”

 I tried hard to get him to like me, but I didn’t do it. I brought him to my high school library to give a talk about DIY art. I thought my classmates would think I was awesome for knowing him, but only a few people came. I thought he would think I was awesome for being such a doer, but he was probably just irritated about having to come out to Etobicoke. When I found out he was part Ukrainian, I said, “Hey, I’m a quarter Ukrainian.” He said, “Who cares about that stuff?” When I found out he liked the band Can, I started listening to Can. I told him, “Hey, I’ve been listening to Can,” and he talked about Can for so long that I had to leave to go to the bathroom, and when I got back he was still talking about Can to someone else.

 I never seriously thought I had a chance with him. I knew I had absolutely zero chance. Not just because I was 16 and he was 23, but because I had absolutely zero chance. It wasn’t just him. He was the mascot for a scene that I wanted more than anything to be a part of. My whole life was arranged around becoming a part of that scene. I snuck into shows and did the house dance. I planned projects in keeping with the general sensibility, like a “hundred-person conga line,” which I never executed, but talked a lot about. I made a zine hoping to interview my way to friendship. When someone I interviewed let me sell my zine at his show, I thought I had made it. I thought I’d never have to try again.

 My friends all had their own versions of the guy I liked. My friend “Linda” had a crush on a guy who dated models, which is common for Toronto musicians now, but wasn’t back then. She made him a mixtape, which he reportedly listened to with his friends while making fun of her. My friend “Janine” had a crush on a guy who made out with her one night and then got married to someone else. She made up a parody version of one of his songs that went, “I don’t give a fuh-huh-huh-huh-huck.”  My friend “Annie” had a crush on a guy who never noticed her then, but hit on her recently at some party; he’s bald now.

 The guy never liked me back. I don’t think he even learned my name. After a while he started dating a really beautiful girl from another local band. I found out on Friendster, where he wondered publicly whether an awesome gland was what made her so awesome. 

 I wish I could tell you he had six kids and became bloated and unhappy. Not because I actually wish any of those things upon him, but because it would make a nice ending. None of it is true, however, and even if it were, saying so would be mean and immature. I’m pretty sure he has moved on to other things. I have, too, as have many other members of that scene. Some became professional musicians. Others took work at NGOs, alternative weeklies, and bars.

 Sometimes when you’re young, you get a crush on someone unattainable, and you feel like you don’t fit in–but in in the long run it doesn’t matter one bit. It doesn’t necessarily build character or anything. Sometimes you want to make glorious poetry out of your awkward memories, but all you come up with is a lousy anecdote. 

____

Alexandra Molotkow writes about life and stuff for Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter at @alexmolotkow.

For more, follow us on Twitter @TorontoStandard and subscribe to our newsletter.