I’d claimed the perfect table at Starbucks, right next to a column that both blocked me from visual distractions and gave me access to that most prized of things—an outlet. I plugged my computer in, swallowed some caffeine, and set to work on my soul-sucking IRB paperwork.
That’s when he came over, a man with glasses and thinning brown hair. He pulled two chairs up to my table: one to set his laptop bag on, the other to set himself on.
WTF.
I looked around and the tables were pretty full. I think they all were occupied save two, and those were cluttered with magazines and newspapers. Okay, I supposed that I could share my table. But, dude, he could have at least asked before claiming the space.
When he ambled around, trying to find a place to plug in his i-pod, I noticed there was something not so typical about him. He seemed perplexed when he finally spotted the outlet, only to find that I and a seventy-something year old man in Nikes had swiped it already. So he ambled back to our table and sat down.
“I’ve never connected to the Internet from here before,” he said after taking a sip of his Strawberries and Creme Frappucino.
“Oh, you haven’t?” I said as an acknowledgement. And I turned back to my soul-sucking IRB paperwork. I had to get it done, you know. It’s why I left the house after all . . . and I’d told myself I wouldn’t go home until the soul-sucking paperwork was done.
But then he started asking me spelling questions. The first word was “tournament.” I whipped out the spelling because that’s what English teachers are supposed to do—it’s the parlor trick the rest of the world expects of us. Except, I got two letters in and he stopped me. I was going too fast.
So I slowed down. One very slow letter at a time. And I realized that there really was something not so typical about him.
I had the soul-sucking IRB paperwork to complete. I needed to get it done. But . . .
I got pulled into a conversation with Matt. He was writing a letter to his girlfriend, Tanya, who lives in Yuma. She is the first girlfriend he’s ever had and he just met her at Camp Tatiyee (it was the first time she’d ever gone). There is an age difference—he graduated from high school in 1999 and she graduated in 2003—but he didn’t care that she was an older woman. Yes, I know those numbers don’t make sense, but since she is taller than he is he knows she's older. What matters is that he was twenty-eight and in love for the first time.
He asked me for help composing his letter, and this is what he had at the end:
Dear Tanya I wish u were here in Tucson Arizona. I’m gonna see u at the basketball tournament in Mesa. Can’t wait to see u again at the camp next year. I had fun with u at the dance and the go-carts and the fishing. I love u. I want to see High School Musical and Twilight with u. Will u marry me.
I’ve spent over a decade tutoring writers, helping them find a way to convey their messages to their audiences. But sitting with Matt in Starbucks, helping him write a letter to the woman he loves, was the most rewarding experience I’ve ever had with a writer.
Yeah, f*** the IRB paperwork.
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