Oops, My Bad

Posted on September 8, 2008

By Katrina Elder

I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about. Flavio, one of a handful of approved Apple technicians in the area, is very impressed with my two-year-old laptop and reveals to Felipe, my boyfriend, how he looks forward to working on it. He rarely gets the opportunity to work on a MacBook Pro, he says. They chitchat some more in singsong Brazilian Portuguese, then Felipe translates their five minute, very cordial conversation into broken English, which I’ll sum up for you here: Flavio needs to open it up to find out what’s causing the annoying, possibly disastrous, buzzing sound. And, if he needs to order any parts, they’ll likely take three days to arrive from Rio de Janeiro.

I do the math. Best-case scenario, Flavio is excited enough to get to work on my laptop right away. He quickly sorts out which parts need to be replaced, calls Rio on Friday, and everything is placed into an envelope and shipped out to Belo Horizonte on Monday—for an on-time arrival Thursday morning. Flavio replaces the part right away and calls Felipe for a next day pick-up. All told, it’s a one-week turnaround. Hmm…

In a land I like to call Brazil, it would go more like this: Flavio opens my laptop sometime late Friday afternoon. He checks it out as he text-flirts with a ficha he met last night at one of the city’s 12,000 butecos. He looks at his watch. “Shit, it’s Skol time.” He closes up shop for the weekend and heads out to meet his crew. Flavio is in his early twenties, so we all know what that means.

Sometime during the groggy Monday after, he remembers my laptop. He pokes around inside for a while, but realizes he can’t do anything productive through the haze. Around Wednesday, he gets back to it, sorting out the possibly disastrous, but really-she-could-have-waited-to-get-back-to-the-States problem. A parts order is placed. Unfortunately, the only guy who knows anything about MacBook Pros has gone home for the day. Flavio hangs-up, notices he has finally recovered from the weekend, and dials-up his crew to see if they want to get a beer later. Need I go on?

Flippantly, to Felipe, I say “I don’t want to be without my computer for that long. I’ve got work to do, work that requires my computer.” Felipe translates, again. They smile and laugh, and I can tell Felipe has translated the words sans the sentiment. He’s protecting me from my very-American, very-impatient self. Good thing, too, because before I’ve agreed to anything, Flavio has walked out of the computer repair shop and is jaywalking across four lanes of rush hour traffic with my MacBook Pro tucked under his arm like it’s a Trapper Keeper.

My heart races. I snap at Felipe, “What just happened?”

“He’s going to look at it. We go? I’m hungry.”

Temporarily distracted by thoughts of Scooby Snacks (i.e. pão de queijo, those scrumptious little cheese breads I’ve been eating day and night), I follow Felipe outside. Across the street, a Happy Hour chorinho trio enchants a boisterous buteco overcrowded by lively discount drinkers. Girls act coyly. Boys press for numbers. They lift their bottles and toast to good times and cold beer. My eyes dart through the crowd as I search for Flavio. My stomach twists into a tight knot. I’m sure he’s got a tall boy perched on top of my laptop. Like it’s a coaster, the sweat of the bottle pools on its previously-well-cared-for sleek silver casing.

My breathing becomes shallow. My hands curl into fists. I panic. I realize, in my haste to stave-off certain computer combustion, I have not password protected any of my financial information. All of my account numbers and those pesky three digit “security” codes are easily accessible. Oh god, what have I done? I really don’t want to be that American on vacation, but let’s face it, I’m in a third world country, and Flavio is really cute and nice, but he’s…Brazilian and… Well, this whole computer shop could be some kind of massive criminal front, a con to swindle naïve tourists like me.

Fuck! Shit! Dammit! This fate was way worse than the buzzing sound could ever be! Had I just waited to see my nerdy white guy at the Genius Bar at the Beverly Center, I wouldn’t be in this blasted situation. Now, my identity is going to be stolen, my credit destroyed. My future children will end-up going to Los Angeles public schools and sleeping head-to-toe in a cramped apartment in the Valley.

All at the hands of the evil and sinister mastermind, Flavio! I force myself to take a breath and consider my plight.

Belo Horizonte might be the third largest city in Brazil, but I hadn’t even heard of it until I met Felipe last year in Paris. From his description, I imagined a Brazilian version of my childhood hometown, Chicago. And, between its urban energy and love for beer, I was spot-on. The only difference is Belo Horizonte scares the crap out of me.

I know that sounds harsh. It’s just, when I look around here, I realize there are things I don’t understand and probably never will. At night, I look up and am hypnotized by the twinkling favela lights that are creeping ever higher into the hillside. What would be the most coveted land where I come from—movie stars, infinity pools, yoga—is the worst place to live in the entire city.

I pass little kids selling trinkets at the intersections and wonder, “Why aren’t they in school? Where are their parents?” It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that they are malnourished and in need of a new pair of shoes.

I want so badly to do something about it, but I know it’s just my imperialistic “America the Savior” posture creeping into the equation. Haven’t we done enough? McDonalds, Pizza Hut, Blockbuster, Outback, TGI Friday’s? I want to scream to the masses, “Don’t take the pox-infected blankets!” But, I only speak English, and frankly, they’re way past being warned. President Lula bbq’d with President Bush not too long ago in Texas–the proverbial thumbs-up was heard ‘round the world. I loathe the day when America gains access to the newly found oil off the coast of Rio. Daniel Plainview’s voice rings in my ear, “…If you have a milkshake, and I have a milkshake…”

But, I digress. I was talking about Flavio and his gang of thieves who surely have aims to escape the favelas by stealing the identities of unsuspecting, xenophobic Americans.

Felipe and I are standing on the curb outside the computer repair shop. He’s hungry; I’m feeling like I’m on un-Fantasy Island. Wait. Is that smoke I smell? I follow my nose. Not fifty yards away, a fire rages out of control under an overpass. It’s dangerously close to a parked car. Felipe glances at it then trots across the street toward the buteco. I yell, “Do you guys have, like, 911 here?”

“For what?” he replies.

I’m flabbergasted. Can’t he see the fire? Can’t he smell the smoke? Why isn’t anyone doing anything about it?!? I step off the curb in distracted pursuit. A truck swerves around me and nearly creams a Fiat. Horns. Expletives. “What the—?” I jump back and double over, choking on the exhaust just blasted into my face. I squint through the cloud to make out three arrows painted in a triangular fashion.

This was their idea of a RECYCLING truck.

Somehow I make it across the street and find Felipe. Piled high in front of him are the promised pão de queijo. I pop one into my mouth as the waiter arrives with a cold beer. He pours some into two small tumblers in front of us. I slam mine back like it’s a shot of Johnnie Walker, and secretly wish it were.

The next day, I make Felipe call the computer repair shop twenty times. At four o’clock, he finally speaks with Flavio. Soon, we’re racing through rush hour traffic to fetch my darling MacBook Pro. When I finally have it in my hands, I boot it up and brace myself for damage beyond repair. First, I look at the battery. It was at sixty-seven percent yesterday. It had better be—

67%

Huh? I check the history. That’s where I’ll catch him.

Nope. Nothing. It’s exactly the same as I left it.

All the while, Felipe and Flavio are chitchatting in singsong Brazilian Portuguese, laughing and chatting some more. They’re not concerning themselves with silly Americans who always fear the worst. Finally, they shake hands warmly, and Flavio walks over. I quickly shut my laptop and try to appear innocent.

He surprises me when he says, in perfect English, “It looks like you might have hit it on something.”

What? How dare he— I catch myself.

I take a calming breath and look at my laptop. He’s pointing at something on the sleek, silver casing. I squint. Sure enough, there is a tiny little dent on the top of it. He charms me with a smile, and I notice for the first time he has braces on his teeth. Oh, how I will long for that delightful smile when I return to Los Angeles and finally take my MacBook Pro to a Genius Bar where they will keep it for nine days and not fix it properly. I snap out of it, look at the dent then back at Flavio. I bat my eyelashes and say, “Oops, my bad.”

Katrina Elder travels the world for Walkabout Jones. Check out her personal blog, Stages of Drudgery and Triumph, at http://drudgeryandtriumph.blogspot.com/

© Copyright Walkabout Jones • Powered by Wordpress • Inspired by Detour theme Edited by Cynthia Enciso.