Chapter 3

Like many people, graduating college was a very anti-climactic experience for me. I was definitely ready to move on, but I didn’t feel any kind of closure. I was grateful for what I had learned in four years; pleased with how I had grown as a person and as an artist. But mostly I just felt detached. Detached from people I spent four years with, but would probably never see again. Detached from a city I lived in, but never fully explored.

So when my friend Becca told me she was traveling through Peru for the summer, I bought a ticket for Lima that night. For two months, we traveled around the country, attending workshops in traditional weaving, hiking through the Andes, and visiting native Quechua communities.

At the end of the summer, when Becca left to return to the States, I couldn’t face going home. The past few months had been the most peaceful and grounding time I had ever experienced. So I stayed for six months, living in a small remote village, working with a women’s artisan co-op, selling my weavings and saving up enough money to pay for my ticket home in cash.

When I finally did move back to Boston, I immediately thought I had made a mistake. Before I found Keith and the loft, I stayed with a friend of a friend from college, who dragged me to every gay bar in town every night for the first two weeks. I was in such a daze at that point, that it hardly bothered me. I always hovered near the bar, drank my whiskey, and let the crowded room blur in the background.

But when my less than sensitive temporary roommate insisted he throw me a “back to civilization party” (his words), and dragged me to (my god!) Costco to shop for it, I had my first of many panic attacks. I knew it would be hard to transition from months living in an impoverished area to the wealth surrounding me back home, but not this hard. Standing in Aisle 26, staring at a choice of six different fabric softeners, I vomited, ran out of the store, hopped on a bus, and cried the entire ride back to the apartment.

That night I checked into a youth hostel. Needless to say, the party never happened. I never did talk to that guy again, not even to explain my crazy behavior. I feel a little guilty about it now, but c’mon, Costco?

* * *

As I watched the clock on my computer change from 9:52 am to 9:53 am, I prayed that something, anything, would break up the monotony, which is the life of the Junior Associate Buyer Trainee (excuse me, Junior Associate Buyer). A bomb scare. An announcement of leftover food in the lunchroom. Anything.

“Hey, Allison. Wanna go get some coffee?”

Allison took a long pause. “Uh. Please don’t get mad at me for saying this, but I kind of don’t want to get the reputation for, uh, well, taking a lot of breaks. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I think they notice, y’ know?”

“Yeah, well, I’m just gonna take that chance. Latte’s on me sister. You just sit there looking industrious, and I’ll be back in five minutes. Cover for me, OK?” Even though I wanted to do something nice for (poor disillusioned) Allison, I smiled at the thought of her fretting over her obligation to “cover for” her bad-ass break-taking cubicle co-pilot.

Sitting outside the café, I saw a familiar scruffy face pedaling my direction via a well-worn Schwinn.

“Hey, there!” I yelled out. He slowed down his bike and stopped next to my table. Although he (knowingly?) stared at me, he didn’t reply.

Small talk, Lexi, come on. It’s not that hard. “Uh… where’d you get that bag? It’s really cool.”

“Well, yeah. I, uh, kind of designed it.” My heart lept. As did my coffee, which spilled on my over-starched-too-corporate-for-a-cool-scruffy-bike-messenger-to-talk-to-me-button-down blouse. I should really use sippy-cups.

“Really? I design bags, too. Well, I design them, but nothing comes of it. I’ve been looking for design jobs for months.”

He pulled out a napkin from a well-designed pocket of a well-designed messenger bag, and handed it to me. “Well, I don’t really design them myself. A woman from a local design firm interviewed me to, y’know, find out what makes a good messenger bag? So, yeah, I, kind of co-designed it with her.”

“Wow. I’d kill for a job like that.”

“Yeah, well, I could give you this woman’s number. She’s really cool and liked my ideas, so I kind of have an ‘in’, I guess.”

“That would be great. Thank you so much. I’m sorry, I haven’t even introduced myself. I’m Lexi.”

“Cool. Here’s her card,” he said, pulling it out of another well-designed pocket of a well-designed messenger bag. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you around, I guess. I deliver to your building every day,” he said while anxiously looking at oncoming traffic. He pulled back onto the street, and yelled over his shoulder, “10 am, every day.”

* * *

“He likes you.”

“What?” I responded, dropping my sandwich, causing roasted eggplant and peppers to land on my lap. “No way. He’s a bike courier.”

Joan threw a crouton at me. “Since when are you a class snob, Miss I Lived in Peru with Indigenous Weavers?”

“I’m not saying I wouldn’t like him because of his job. I’m just saying he’s too much of the artsy type to be attracted to me.”

“Lexi! You went to art school.”

“I know. And that’s how I know the artsy type don’t fall for me. The design majors were too into themselves to notice me, and my only other friends were the lesbian fibers majors.”

Joan looked concerned. “You mean you never dated in college?”

“No, I dated. But I resorted to intense Harvard psychopaths who were so involved with their studies. I don’t know. It just never worked out.”

“Well, I still don’t believe any of this “artsy-types don’t like me” business. But, anyway. Finish the story. Did you call this woman?”

“Are you kidding me? I ran, no sprinted, to the nearest phone booth. We talked for, like, 20 minutes, and the company sounds really cool. She said they’re always looking for designers, and it’s all freelance work, so you make your own hours. Basically, my ideal job. And they’re right downtown, so I could get rid of my awful car I have to drive on the awful turnpike every day. Oh, Joan, when I say it out loud, it sounds even better.”

“I’m so proud of you, chica.” Joan said, with a huge smile. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“Me, too. I have an interview at their office on Monday. Oh, and one more thing. It was a little awkward because the courier never gave me his name. But the woman knew exactly who I meant. Plus, she gave me his name and number.”

“Lexi! Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Joan’s eyes sparkled at even a hint of potential scandal. “You’re gonna call him right away, no?”

“Well, I do have to tell him about the phone interview.” I love teasing Joan with my nonchalant attitude. It fuels the fire of the drama she craves.

“So, what’s this artsy-type future Lexi boy-toy’s name?”

“Brent. Not bad, huh?”

Feedback questions from Chapter 3:

Lexi spills stuff on herself twice in this chapter. Is this overkill? Is the whole "I'm cute and clumsy" thing way too trite at this point?

Do the three different sections flow well?