We disembarked at Angrignon Metro into a brilliant sunny day. Multi-colored summer dresses and orange-white frocks whisked by on the sidewalk in front of us. A couple of malcontents hung out just outside of the metro doors, as they seem to do with every metro. Lineups of people of every conceivable persuasion stood passively in lines waiting for buses. Hip-hop minded teenagers, seniors with metal trolleys carrying their Provigo-bought goods, long-haired hipsters with golfing hats, girls in tank-tops and skirts talking on cellphones. All brought together to join in with the age-old ritual of Waiting For the Bus.
We thankfully had only a short distance to walk, towards the monstrous condominiums on the other side of the glass barrier where the Chateauguay buses queue up, and beyond the hill where I remembered a younger version of myself, sitting and watching the world go by.
I was wearing a black shirt, in a slight contrast to what most of these LaSalle types were wearing this mild day. But this wasn't downtown anyway. That sort of stuff matters less when you're outside the core. Fay (or was it Faye? I hadn't exactly asked for her business card) had anonymous earthtone tights and a green blouse. I thought I caught her casting hard glances at some of the more scantily-clad younger girls. Whether this was out of jealousy or disapproval, that is something only the Almighty perhaps can decipher, though I'm sure He too would have some difficulty unlocking the thoughts of women.
We didn't speak to each other as we walked, having little to say. We had planned our strategy beforehand. The negotiating would be left to her, while I was to inspect and approve the device.
A buzz on my cellphone and Paul was waiting for us in the lobby. He had a five o'clock shadow and a haircut where the middle of his head had a strip of hair longer than the sides. As if someone had put his hair in a vice. It was too short though to look especially punk. We made our introductions. After this, he produced the laptop bag he had latched around his chest and invited us to sit on a couch.
While I started it up and began running a few basic tests, Fay(e) kept Paul busy with small-talk. I interrupted occasionally to ask a question here and there. "When did you last format the hard drive?" "Is anything upgraded in it?" "Is the video card integrated?" "Has it ever experienced hardware failures or overheated?" (An especially pertinent question.)
He assured me enough technically. He assured Faye by giving his home phone # and a signed receipt guaranteeing against hardware failure for a week. Not exactly a Future Shop-worthy warranty but hell, it's better than anywhere else we could've found that summer day.
After sharing some covert nods, we told the guy that we had to discuss amongst ourselves and that if we were interested, we'd be back later in the day. I decided to go visit the old hill and look out over the lake that sits behind the bus shelters. It was still late afternoon, around 6. The sun doesn't set in Montreal during the summer till 8:30 or 9. I sat on one of the handful of rocks that sits at the top of the hill and proceeded to take out my Google Map printout and a small Ziploc I carry around with personal supplies.
Faye sat on another rock and watched me go about my business, the precise handiwork of self-destruction.
"I'm satisfied," I started, to preempt any drug talk, "we have the guarantee, you can try it out yourself if it works or not and it's a decent enough price."
She paused, still glancing at my hands and the Ziploc and the paper.
"Yeah, but we shouldn't just go for the first thing we see. What about waiting and seeing if we can get a better deal from somewhere else?"
"We could, but I'm saying that there's no point since there's nothing wrong with this deal."
"I don't know, the guy seems to be sort of sketch too."
"Why? You seemed like you were having a good time."
"What does that mean?"
"Nothing, you were getting on fine enough with him. He lives in a nice place."
"That doesn't mean anything, he could be moving tomorrow for all we know."
"Look, it's not like we're buying a hot Rolex from some crackhead in VSL."
"I wouldn't know about that. I don't deal with crackheads."
I paused a half-second in what I was doing, thinking through the intent of that last remark.
"Fuck it, if you don't wanna buy, don't. But I personally need a laptop as soon as possible and don't feel like waiting around a week or two for us to find somebody else who you do like. Too much arranging of schedules and shit."
I finished and lit the joint. We sat for a few moments in silence. I watched kids and families play around the edge of the lake, wisps of smoke flying off into the air. As I was taking another haul, she reached for my hand.
"You smoke?" I asked.
"Yea sometimes. Don't tell my brother though."
I left it at that as we smoked.
Six minutes later, we stood up, carefully.
"So?"
"Fine we'll get it. But I keep the reciept and I'm going to show it to my brother. If he says it's okay, we'll keep it."
"Ok then. So how exactly do we share the thing?"
"I get it for a few days, you get it for a few days. If you're going to need it for school or for anything important, let me know in advance. That's all."
That's how it was supposed to work. Sharing a computer. It became something else.
