The plan was to spend all day at Backspace, the coolest coffee shop in Portland, with the best coffee and the comfiest couches, then meet Ken and his wife for dinner and a movie. It would be a late night, and I had to be up early Sunday for the Pints to Pasta 10K, but whatever. I’ll sleep when I’m dead. Or at work. One of those.
But the plan ran into complication after complication, which tires me just thinking about. I didn’t get to Backspace until late, just an hour or three before our reservation. And there weren’t any good couches available when I arrived, so I spent the first half-hour on an uncomfortable futon, waiting and watching like a hawk for a couch to open up. Eventually, one did, and I settled in, started surfing and texting Tracy and drinking my enormous cup of coffee.
Coffee good.
I was comfortable and happy and zoning out when the original iPhone girl walked in. I couldn’t miss her; six foot tall, black cap, tattoos on her arms over tanned skin, statuesque and callipygous. I was sitting away from the door, out of the main pathway for customers entering the space. I don’t think she saw me. I had to do, or say, something, anything.
First, I texted Tracy. Several explanatory texts later, having gotten Tracy back up to speed, I had a plan. The original iPhone girl had walked to the back of the space, out of my line of sight. I would get up to get more water or coffee (better get water, I told myself) and I would ask her, “What are you going to spend your $100 iPhone credit on?”
I didn’t have anything to lock my laptop on or to.
There was a nervous guy nearby. He was jittery, jumpy. Worth it? “Hey, can I ask you a favor?” I said. He nodded quickly. “Can you watch my laptop for a second?”
“Sure!”
Back by the water, I saw her. She was already deep in conversation with another, older, woman, and they were sharing a well-worn O’Reilly book (I didn’t notice which one). I felt that odd resistance again. Damn. I should’ve got coffee. More… motivating than water.
I went back to sit down. Continued to text Tracy. We discussed options. I decided that I would wave iPhone girl over if I saw her leave.
That was when the thin brunette, in a red and white gingham plaid shirt and worn jeans, her hair tied back with a scarf, came over to the couch I had to myself. She cradled a tiny cappuccino in both hands.
“Excuse me,” she said, enunciating clearly. “Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Not at all! Of course! Please, sit.”
I started to text Tracy about this new development, but the brunette had a clear line of sight to my screen (I pair my phone with my laptop so I can text from the keyboard. It totally feels like cheating. It rocks) and could see anything I typed.
This girl looked much more trustworthy than jittery guy. Not to mention far cuter. I took her to be in her early 20s, though everyone knows how bad I am at guessing age. I would ask her to watch my laptop. I would make another approach to iPhone girl. I turned to the new girl. “Excuse me, could I ask you to watch my laptop?”
She said, “Oh, but what if I stole it away?” An accent made a subtle appearance in her voice; a twinkle made a blatant appearance in her eye.
…I paused to reconsider.
“Oh, no,” I said breezily. “I trust you.”
“Ohhhh…” she said. “I am very dangerous.”
“Are you? Well, if you took my laptop I would have to come find you.”
“You would hunt me down?” She shook her head. “I do not think you could find me…”
I stood up, set my new sexy thing down on the seat I vacated, and said to her over my shoulder, “I don’t think so. I’m very good at finding things that do not want to be found.”
I walked to the back. I saw the iPhone girl, still deep in conversation. I made use of the bathroom, and I realized that dangerous girl suddenly appeared much more fun than the potential that iPhone girl represented.
I returned to the couch. She was still there, on her end of the couch, sipping her cappuccino. My MacBook Pro was still on the couch. I picked it up, sat down, opened up the screen…
“Excuse me?” I said to the girl. She turned to me. Looked at me with bright green eyes set in an elfin face. “I could not help but notice… your accent?”
She rolled her green eyes and groaned. “Oh, my accent! I try, I try to get rid of it!”
Another unexpected response. I laughed, cautiously. We fell into easy, comfortable, conversation.
She challenged me to guess what kind of accent she had; I guessed Hispanic. She countered by claiming to be from Toronto, but eventually confessed to only studying in Toronto, being originally from Veracruz. It took a bit to straighten out what she was doing in Portland; she said she was in a Master’s program, learning about urban planning and design, and had been spending the week here with others from her program, as Portland is apparently well-known for its planning and design. We talked about corruption in Portland because of the PDC. We talked of Toronto, and Canada. She kept coming back to her accent, treating it as a fault, a failure to communicate, as opposed to a sexy, exotic trait.
She kept scooting closer to me on the couch. I closed and set down my laptop. I turned towards her as we talked, but leaned on a pillow that sat between us. I introduced myself. She returned the favor, saying her name was M________. Well, she gave me the shorter, more Anglicized version first, still hiding her Spanish. At some point, she pulled the pillow onto her lap, then set it aside.
I remarked that the music had stopped playing. She grabbed my arm and asked me if I’d known the song that had been playing just before. I showed her Backspace’s MySpace page, with its listing of recently-played music. The band had been Iron & Wine, a band I’m not familiar with.
“Shall I email that to you?” I asked. Her green eyes lit up, again. I enjoyed it when they did that.
“Oh, yes, please!” I sent her a brief email.
Somewhere in there, I spotted iPhone girl, leaving. I did not get up or wave at her.
M________ and I spoke for an hour and a half, maybe two hours. She was tired from having worked at Dignity Village all day. I mentioned meeting my friends, flirted with the idea of inviting her, didn’t. She was leaving tomorrow. She was leaving tomorrow. Back to Toronto.
I told her of writing, and wanting to publish. She naturally encouraged me to submit my novel, and she delighted in the idea of getting to read it because it was set in Portland. “I would love to read more about this city,” she confided in me.
Eventually, we parted. Standing on the sidewalk, she held her hand out to shake. I shook it, then leaned in for a hug, which she accepted and whispered a thank you into my ear.
“You will email me? Just say, ‘I did it.'”
I paused, smirked. “You want me to do it?”
She jumped a bit, laughed, blushed. “Oh, I did not… You…!”
I snarked, “You’re talking about the novel, right? Not something else?”
“You are awesome,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, for the conversation.” I said, and we went our separate ways.