Dear reader, I assume you are of the worldly sort and do not require the particulars of my breakup with Juana Gonzalez of Beaverton, Oregon. Not that I am so heartbroken that I couldn’t bare to tell you all the details, I am completely over it as you will soon see but for the sake of brevity let me just say one day we were in love, the next day I was.
After the breakup Juana and I were left hypothetical friends and actual roomates. You will understand then why I began to look for distractions that would prevent me from being alone either with my former fiance or my thoughts. These distractions came in the form of what my therapist would call “risky behaviors”. With my usual skill and proficiency I sped through the traditional examples; drinking, drugs and scrolling on my phone and the combination of all three led me to Felicity.
On our first date I explained away the red flag that was living with my ex (we are actually really good friends) while she did the same for what she considered her red flag, that she sold nude photographs online (which, admittedly, wasn’t a red flag to me). She was mischievous and comfortable with my situation and we soon hatched a plan to engage in an even more risky behavior, theft.
I had gone 29 years and a religious deconversion without stealing so much as a candybar but I supposed that just then, working at a school and mourning the death of a 10 year relationship was the perfect time to start.
The prize would be an espresso cup from the Powell’s coffee shop in downtown Portland. That past Christmas, just three days after our breakup, my former (though she did not know it at the time) mother-in-law had gifted me a Moka Pot. As I am sure a cultured reader such as yourself knows, espresso goes cold rather quickly in your standard coffee mug. That then was my stated motive, to have a hot espresso. I will leave you to ponder my alternative reasons, I just knew that the object needed to matter, something had to.
In the days leading up to the caper I began to worry that a desire for a new cup wasn’t enough of a reason to risk social embarrassment. To deal with this anxiety I decided to make the whole experience bigger and more dramatic, just as my father had taught me. Petty larceny to deal with a breakup might be worrying behavior but a heist committed while wearing fingerless gloves and calling myself “Le Jaguar” was performance art about the transfiguring power of the imagination in much the same way I carry a notebook to give the veneer of “starving artist” to my poverty.
Thus, on the appointed day I left work disguised in a dashing tweed blazer, a pair of fingerless gloves and slight delusions.
Esteemed reader, you are no doubt familiar with the internet search engine known as Google and I direct you towards it if you have any desire to know the details of either Oregon weather or the interior of Powell’s Books. Suffice to say it was raining on the night of the Le Jaguar’s first hunt. I arrived early as all crime media had taught me to do and made my way past the literature and fantasy sections, dripping water and contributing, in my own small way to the musty smell.
The coffee shop inside of Powell’s has a name but for the life of me I cannot be bothered to look it up. Juana would have, she cared so much about knowing the truth of things. What matters to our story, however, is not the shop’s name but its layout. Which I will attempt to describe succinctly, though in the past I have been accused of “never shutting up” and “talking around things in order to not deal with the issue”.
It was a coffee shop. Powell’s priorities clearly lay with its books, three shelves of which invaded the coffee shop from the store proper. For the purposes of our story I suppose it’s important to note that on top of the traditional tables and chairs seating was comprised of a strange riser-like set of steps covered in cushions. There was also a bar which ran the length of the two wall-sized windows that faced Burnside and 11th. The register was situated across from the last of the colonizing bookshelves and provided the baristas an all encompassing view of the shop floor. One lone camera opposite the register covered any blindspots, well almost any.
You see even a jaguar raised in captivity has hunting instincts, I think, likewise my skill for deception was sharpened not by previous experience with theft but by strict parents.
Instantly upon entering the shop my eyes alighted on the perfect spot, like a jaguar picking out its vantage from which it will ambush a monkey (if jaguars do indeed eat monkeys, I wouldn’t know).On the opposite end of the shelf of books across from the register was the very last bit of bar which jutted up against a metal beam marking the transition from window to wall. Most of my back would be visible from the register which may lead those readers who have never worked as a barista (those over 45 that is) to question my instincts.
If that is the case I urge you to find a youth still talking to you and ask them about the merits of my plan. They will explain that any self respecting service worker will make use of their register screen to avoid looking the customer in the eyes. Thus, by sitting behind the customers back I appeared trustworthy while in fact being in the one place the employee’s eyes would not linger.
Suddenly “Ringtone”by 100 Gecs blared from my pocket.
“What’s up, nerd?”
“Hey, just wanted to know if you wanted me to grab frozen pizza for tonight?”
“Oh I’m on a date remember?”
“Shit no, my bad.”
“No she isn’t here yet! I’m just walking around. Want to talk?”
“Actually I’ll probably try and go out. Somebody had asked earlier but I wasn’t sure. Call me if you need a ride.”
Feeling suddenly defeated, I hurried from the shop and let my feet wander. When I came to, I was standing in the geology section and had a book on rock polishing in my hand. It would make a perfect gift for Juana I thought before reminding myself I was no longer supposed to think like that. Heart pounding I fled back from whence I came only five minutes after I’d left.
Unable to think of any other way of passing the time I ordered my drink, feigned as if I had not already planned where to sit and took up my perch at the bar. Once settled I opened the green shoulder bag Juana had bought me when I first started at the school and withdrew Borges’ “A Universal History of Iniquity” a wicked little collection of vignettes detailing the lives of some truly nasty villains in whose company I’d soon belong. Concentration eluded me however and I took to scrolling on my phone until my order was called out.
The white cup, saucer and metal spoon rattled together in my grip as I thanked the barista. Great, I thought, another woman I would disappoint.
Back in my seat I looked once more at my book and seized again by my desire for drama I grabbed it and ripped from the title page a scrap of paper the size of an Ipod Nano upon which I wrote;
“Le Jaguar has struck!”
Smiling, I sent a picture of my calling card to six confidants. Felicity responded (“almost there, OMG Le Jaguar, so stupid.”) Juana didn’t.
The espresso was bitter and I reflected I did not really enjoy the drink but I was already there and my nerves had settled. My societally prescribed Lexapro and my self prescribed mushrooms were doing their jobs and if anything I was feeling a bit flat about the whole affair. It was a wonder that I did not begin darting between shelves out of sight to give myself a pick-me-up.
One of the only moments of excitement came when a curly haired manager walked towards me looking serious but he was simply doing the rounds. At 7:36 I received another jolt when a pair of hands gripped my shoulders and someone said, “What do you think you’re doing?”
Felicity wore a mischievous and self pleased smile, a plaid skirt with dark tights and a long leather jacket. I told her she looked like a 70’s cop, she more accurately described her look as an “english art student” complete with two bags of supplies. It was strange to me that someone would choose to think of themself as looking like a English rather than French art student but you don’t look a gift horse in the mouth and when a beautiful woman agrees to help you steal a cup to deal with a breakup you smile and nod.
Felicity placed her bags on the floor and sat on my right.
“No, put your bags up here.” I pointed to the spot next to her elbow.
Felicity was not listening and began to tell me about her day.
“Oh wow, interesting. Put your bags on the counter.”
“Why?” A smile appeared on her lips like that of a cat whose cornered a particularly adorable mouse.
“To block the camera!”
She giggled.
“Oh my god you are so silly. It is soooo easy to steal. Just act confident! I once stole $70 pants from Nordstrom and even got the security guy’s number on the way out.:
“I know it’s easy, that’s not the… Wait, really? How did that go?”
The leather coat squeaked as Felicity shrugged. “I mean he worked private security downtown so he had some ideas about women and we didn’t meet up.”
“I know it’s easy but that’s not the point. Look, I’m wearing fingerless gloves and everything! I’m a master thief!”
Felicity rolled her eyes but looked pleased.
“Alright Le Jaguar, what’s your brilliant plan?”
In my mind an Ocean’s 11 style flash forward montage played as I outlined my scheme.
“First, I’m going to finish my drink, then I am going to sweep the cup into my bag as I move to hold you for a kiss, then we will leave my calling card behind to go get food.”
Admittedly it was a short mind montage but I thought it left room for things to go wrong as I assumed they would. Perhaps we’d be chased across rooftops or maybe Felicity would betray me, the possibilities were endless. I finished my drink, swept the cup and saucer in my bag, kissed Felicity and we left. It was almost disappointingly easy. Felicity even stole the spoon as an afterthought and twined it between her fingers on the way out the door, mocking me.
The rest of our date consisted of the usual things which never quite hide Juana from my mind. By the time I disembarked from the max in Beaverton my bus had stopped running. I was dropped off at the nearest stop next to Sisters of Saint Mary’s Convent which is across the street from a Toyota dealership, the perfect location for a novel about American faith and late-stage capitalism but just then I didn’t feel like daydreaming about a novel I’d never write or calling Juana for that ride. I decided instead to walk the 4 and a half miles home.
It was 1:34 AM when I arrived back at our apartment. I carefully placed the espresso cup on my counter where tomorrow a tired, sad and lonely me would see it, the hopeful calling card of Le Jaguar.
Electric Absalom 