Free Blink by Rick R. Reed

picture must be about the same age as my son, Tate, a student at Northwestern University.
    I go back to Google, clicking on LinkedIn profiles, perusing sites that give me lists of Carlos Castillos and offer me more information if I would only kick in a few bucks via my credit card. Some of these do look promising, because they reveal age and general location. There’s one with a Chicago address, and the age is right, and I’m tempted to grab my wallet off the entryway secretary and just go ahead and cough up the cash to see if this is my Carlos.
    But I restrain myself. For one, he’s not my Carlos at all. He never was, and, I must sadly concede, most likely never will be. For another, there are other avenues I’ve yet to explore, and those won’t cost me a penny.
    I click over to Facebook and sign in. My home page comes up, and I tarry briefly over pictures of people’s new puppies, their happy and sad news, and a rash of “cards” with clever sayings like, “If I had $100 for every time I read something interesting on Facebook, I’d be poor as shit.”
    I go to the box at the top of the page, where Facebook kindly invites me to “search for people, places, and things.” “People, person,” I whisper to myself and type in Carlos Castillo, mentally crossing my fingers. There are a lot more Carlos Castillos on Facebook than Google realizes. The first that comes up is a hairdresser in San Antonio. Cute and—I’m ashamed of my prejudice—probably gay, but not the Carlos I’m looking for. Although I do peer closely at the picture and wonder if this handsome dark-haired man might do in place of the one I’m searching for.
    Down, boy .
    There’s a musician. A Carlos Castillo who studied at Ohio State University. There’s a veterinarian. There’s one in Cuba and several others in Latin- or Central-American countries. There’s one whose profile picture is of two hands holding a glowing green globe.
    And then I see one that could be him. Probably gay—he’s posed with another man, their arms around each other, and the only information on this results page is that this Carlos is male and in a relationship, presumably with the salt-and-pepper-haired dude he’s embracing.
    I peer more closely at the just-bigger-than-thumbnail picture of the two men. The one on the right could be my Carlos. He has the same dark hair, the same smile, the same dark eyes that leap out of the photo. He’s heavier now, maybe twenty or so extra pounds sitting around his middle. But who among us of a certain age couldn’t say the same? The extra weight is almost, but not quite, concealed by the simple white button-down shirt he’s wearing.
    But how do I even know that Carlos Castillo is the guy on the right? He could be the salt-and-pepper man in the dark shirt on the left. I sigh. I fear this venture, only at its start, will do nothing but frustrate me.
    I consider just shutting down the computer and settling into bed with Ezra and my current bedtime read, Dr. Sleep by Stephen King. I’ve been a fan since I first read Carrie back in junior high. I usually have two books going at once, one for my work commute and the other for bed. Some have found it curious that I like King for bedtime, but the man has been with me through thick and thin, by my side for longer than most. He’s a comfort in his own oddball, horrific way.
    I know the advice is sensible, but I click on the picture to bring up this particular Carlos Castillo, hoping his actual page will tell me more, give me a clue to know for sure if this is the man I had a brief encounter with so many years ago.
    The page is frustrating, doubly so because I feel more strongly than I did this morning when I saw the man on the train that this time I could be right. This could be Carlos. No, I don’t have the certainty I described, but neither am I seeing the Carlos Castillo in the flesh, but only in a black and white photograph. And when I click on the picture to make it larger,