THERE'LL BE SOMETHING FOR YOU

Ok, one last tidbit for context. One of the vice-presidents of the World Council of Churches lived in the Okanagan of British Columbia, and was a board member and former staff person of the residential educational centre I'd applied to. We'd met in the late 1980s in Buenos Aires. She was as impressed with my work as I had been with hers. But, as a plain talker, she was the one who told me to get my Ph.D., then apply to be Executive Director at her centre next time it came open. And my "Ph.D." was sitting back at the computer store at the university in critical condition while I was venturing up into the mountains.

So there I was, in the rental, racing back to Vancouver, post-interview. Finally getting into their Fraser Valley where the sun in front of me was dark-orange as it set in the west. I wanted to get back to the university residence before too long, because it was a 3 hour time difference and I'd promised Alice a full report back home. It would be past midnight at home.

Ok, back to the narrative.

Early next morning I was pacing in front of the computer store front door, to be there as they opened. Admittedly, my mind was scattered. The laptop. The Iomega drive. The click of death. The interview tonight at the university church. The kids back home, Claire Louise as a pre-teen was challenging Alice at every turn. Our youngest wondering why Claire Louise got all the freedom. Yada, yada, yada.

So I was not exactly paying attention as two people on the inside came to open up, hopefully to allow me to rush in and get the news about my thesis. Agh, er, I mean my laptop and the back-up media.

The young guy of the pair, probably 19, had the keys. He opened the door and the 30-something young woman behind him wanted to know when her stuff would be ready. He said, "Maybe tomorrow, maybe next week." She turned and kissed him, said, "make it tomorrow and there'll be something for you." And then she pushed past me. The only really weird thing about that encounter was the difference in their ages, she was much, much older.

Me rushing in with my own agenda, halfway to the counter at the back of the store it hit me. I recognized that voice. I don't know why the delayed reaction.

Was that Paige Jennings? No, it couldn't be. I'm across the continent, in another country.

WHO IS THIS 'BOB'?

It struck me so hard, that at the counter I changed my former ironclad agenda about my own future. I asked him, "Hey, was that your girlfriend?"

It left him completely embarrassed. Flustered. The only thing he could manage was to mutter, "no one is supposed to know." This kid was not yet 20, and obviously had never had a girlfriend before. Welcome to the computer world!

So far we'd not said a thing about my laptop or the recovery of data. That alone should indicate that I was probably as flabbergasted as this kid across the counter.

I said, "Look, I'm here for my laptop." He assured me that he remembered, and went on to say that it would be later today before they would know for sure. They had been doing a sector-by-sector reconstruction of what appeared to be long files. Whatever that meant.

He said, "We thought we had all of today to see to it. They've got the sectors mapped out with your data files, and it's just a matter of imaging them on to another disc. But it'll be pricey." I assured him that cost was no obstacle. But then I returned to the other elephant in my head. "Say, please forgive me if I seem to be prying. I don't mean to. Is that girl's name 'Paige'?"

I was afraid I'd pushed him back into what appeared to be severe introversion with a healthy dose of social awkwardness thrown in. But he did manage, "No," and then told me the name he knew her by. He then answered very quietly, questions I'd not asked: "We do things. I don't know where she lives. Please don't tell. No one knows."

Leaving the store, I wracked my brain for the direction that the young woman had gone. I could not remember. So, because of the early hour and feeling a tad hungry, I went over to the student building where they had a large cafeteria.

Eggs and a sticky bun. And coffee. I took the tray to a remote corner of the cafeteria, vowing to myself I was going to mentally image tonight's interview. Between bites, I rehearsed key events from the WCC in Argentina, as well as pastoral situations in Alexandria at the Reed Street Church. Fundamentally, I was worried that there was some nuance in the Canadian progressive Christian scene that I would miss. As I had with Argentina in my first years there. Indeed, here, no one seemed to be called, 'pastor'. Here, I was 'Rev. Tim'.

Then, blimey, there she was again. Standing over there, way across the cafeteria. With a group of about 20 people sitting around a large table who'd been alternately deep in conversation or roaring with laughter, there she stood. If that was not Paige Jennings….

This time I moved quickly, but still not quickly enough. Without seeing me, she turned and headed for the cafeteria door outside in a crowd of some of the others. I did not see which way she went. Returning to her table, four young men were still there sipping their coffee, as others too were leaving.

I stood at a respectful distance, said, "Excuse me, my name is Tim. I'm wondering if I can ask you a question." They stopped what they were doing and turned to me.

"Say, I think I recognized an old friend at your table a few moments ago. Was that young lady who just left called, 'Paige'?"

One of the guys looked at me, and said, "Which one? Lots of people just left for classes, and we're just hanging around until ours."

I struggled with how to continue without seeming like some sort of stalker. "The older young woman. The one with the backpack. I'm from Washington, D.C., out here for a job interview. I'd seen her over at the computer store on campus, but couldn't get her attention. I may know her from Washington. Now she's here. I think we knew each other in D.C."

The same guy said, "Well, that's not 'Paige'. In fact, she's not even a student." Oh. I hadn't asked if she was.

"Do you guys meet here often? I mean, if I were to come back would I be able to touch base with her, just to renew old times?" At that the four guys looked at each other.

Finally one of the others said, "You can do what you want. This is only the second time she's been here. One of the older guys, Bob, knows her from a few years ago when she'd hung out. But her name is not, 'Paige'. It's probably not who you think."

At that I thanked them, went back to my table and finished my breakfast. My interview was tonight and my flight home was two days hence. I had to focus. So depending on what happened tonight, I may or may not have tomorrow to sort all this 'Paige-stuff' out.

As the four of them went their ways, one of them came past my table. I stopped him, "Say, I hope I'm not prying. But who is this 'Bob' guy?" From the look on his face, I thought he was considering calling the police.

But he said, "Bob's not a student. I mean, he probably was 20 years ago. He hangs out at the university, but works down in the city at the hostel. That's all I know."

SUBURBAN CANADIAN MINISTER

The interview for the university church went well. And before I forget - yes, I did retrieve my repaired laptop - the thesis was on a few floppy disks that I could load later. I guarded them like gold. I junked the Iomega drive.

The interview was bizarre in one respect. Even though the congregation was independent of the university, there were reps on the committee from the congregation, the university student body, its faculty, as well as regional denominational representatives. It was a large group! Privately, I was to say later that that was a poor way to select a minister. There must have been 20 on the interview panel! What a way to run a railroad.

Once again, I need to cut back to the narrative at hand. After the formalities, the group was able to stay for one-on-one chat as time allowed. I managed private, detailed chat with most. One fellow was a pastor at a small suburban church south of the city, almost to the Washington State border. As he and I were talking, I repeated with him what I'd asked some of the others, "Do you know a guy named Bob, a long-ago graduate of the university, but who now works at a local hostel?"

He beamed. I won't use the man's full name here, but the minister said, "Oh, you probably mean Bob (-strikeout-). That guy is an institution around here. Knows the church, knows the university." As we finished up, I asked the minister if he could do me a favour - apologizing for the distance from his little community by the border, to here at the campus - could he meet me sometime tomorrow? I was flying home the next day.

Again, he beamed. "I'll do better than that. We can meet for lunch in the student cafeteria. I practically did my undergraduate degree there. If we're lucky, we can meet with a 'coffee klatch' that still meets there. Both Bob and I know the people as they drift in and drift out. It's quite the eclectic group of folk."

My oh my.

Next morning, 11:30 am, there he and I were at that very table I thought I'd spied a young woman from my past. Now I had legitimate reason to be there. At noon, we were joined by one of the four guys who'd lingered yesterday afternoon.

The guy said, "Hey, did you ever find that girl?" I said I hadn't but we agreed that with any luck she might wander by today. The minister asked, "Who are we talking about?" The guy mentioned the name I'd not recognized, and told the minister that she had been here at the university some years ago, and had just these past weeks resurfaced. "She's staying off campus somewhere, and hangs around the campus computer store. One of the computer geeks here at the klatch introduced her to faculty at the computer science department." Apparently, Bob had shown her around campus some years' previous and had introduced her to this coffee klatch.

There were not as many who came to check into the conversation that morning. I asked the minister, "You know, I'm leaving tomorrow. Do you think you can introduce me to this 'Bob'?" He assured me he probably could, but that we may need to drive down to the hostel to see if he was there. Bob was often a hard guy to find, as he marched to his own drum beat. So we drove down there.