AUTOBIOGRAPHY

Spring 2012: Issue 91

Ross White

O bless the Internet,

where by dint of an @,

an unwitting British party girl

might send photos to Ross White,

an American stranger in a cheap apartment,

not altogether an unwilling recipient,

mistaking me for Ross White,

who, last time I looked,

was a peachfuzz-mustachioed

footy player living in a prep school dormitory;

who, from the captions provided,

seems to be the intended recipient

of photos sent to Ross White,

American stranger—

not the Kyoto-based Ross White,

who teaches English and reports

fascination with Japanese girls

in neon cub-ear caps . . . I’d like to marry one,

and certainly not to be confused

with world traveler Ross White,

who reports Penang is a hot stinking place

too far from Australia

and the mates I left behind,

who didn’t like wearing short white pants

with high white socks

on the estates of wealthy Malaysians—,

an American stranger who

(and I’d like to put this part in third person,

but this Ross White has an affection

for confessional)

is both me and fascinated

by Boxing Day,

which is when Ross White’s British friend

took her mates out dancing:

Emilie, who, according to the captions,

drank too many shots,

was weepy in the bathroom

about a bloke,

crept out to make calls on her mobile,

and Lauren was dressed

like a black-and-white bee,

and Lora, in every photo

but about whom the captions say little,

so perhaps Ross White knows Lora well,

and Liam from Leeds was there—

let us not forget handsome, thinly bearded Liam,

he was in only the one photo,

Lora and Liam from Leeds

and Ross White’s British friend,

arm in arm in arm, both girls

kissing Liam from Leeds on the cheek,

though he leans toward Lora!—

and if I were Ross White

(which I am, you know),

I might be red-faced over Liam,

because he’s only in the one shot

but too handsome to repeatedly omit,

so I wonder if he held the camera all night,

in which case he paid loving attention to Lora,

and I might pace or plot or

pound at the keyboard—

though perhaps that isn’t behavior

befitting Ross White,

the other Ross White,

maybe any of the other Ross Whites—

but if that Ross White would volunteer

his e-mail address to his British friend posthaste,

I would be ever so grateful,

for it appears that I’ve become a little flush,

placed in the awkward position

of unintentional and eager voyeur,

and thank heavens

the pictures were of a night of dancing,

no more—still, please,

Ross White,

send your address to her.