Every once in a while, when I decide I need a break in between marking papers and offering comments, I sneak in a bit of leisure reading from my "remote office" at Borders. I browse the shelves and pull my favourite magazines. The magazines I don't have subscriptions (to be fair, I subscribe to 9 magazines and 6 literary journals). Perusing the aisles, I take great interest in home decour and design, outdoor living, high fashion ( oh how I yearn to subscribe to WWD-Women's Wear Daily!) and some lit magazines that I don't have subscriptions to at the time.  Every time I do this I succumb to Seattle's Best Coffee…(now is it really Seattle's Best?) all the while, ordering in Starbucks lingo they pretend to not understand. Hello, aren't you both owned by the same company or something? I thought I heard a rumour there somewhere. 

I always try to take seat at the back of the room, hoping to gain access to an outlet or at least bribe someone to put their plug into my extension cord, and watch as the people study, talk and have a drink. I get happy seeing people read. I get happy seeing them browse through magazines, talk about their favourite books and study with a partner or many partners. Oftentimes armed with highlighters and pens, computers and telephones, I watch the past collide with the future, people reading books and people reading from their e-readers. Every once in a while a person answers the phone in a much too loud and overbearing voice, or a ringtone alarms the room especially when it's a rugged looking older man with Taylor Swift's song signaling a call. 

The last few months, I've had the pleasure of having my magazines and books raided and judged by a very mysterious man who I will refer to as "D."  D lives in the area, somewhere and asks a bunch of questions about me, but rarely talks out himself. He is jovial, laughs a lot and likes to talk. A lot. He also loves to invade personal table space and share a table with me without asking my permission. It's kind of funny, as if he is an old overbearing friend. He takes my magazines and runs through each one, oohing and awing the things he says he likes and pointing and mocking the things he doesn't. 

It's almost a random meeting yet somehow he still manages to playfully scold me for not being at Borders on a certain day, or he gives me an account of things that transpired the day before. "You would have loved to see Cowboy dude and his 'friend' talk the other day. Can you believe he reads Mary Higgins Clark?" and I laugh, thinking that it is always surprising to see people's reading lists, it's almost as if it's a tiny clue into their mindset. 

He knows only my first name and I know only his. That is, if his is correct. At times, I see him with a big taupe messenger bag, cleverly pulling flashcards of words that appear to be, or rather, definitely are, Arabic.  

I once asked about Dubai, hoping to hear him nod in agreement that it is a place for me to visit. Instead he says he cannot answer. He can't say whether it's a good place or not and I get it. I know he is in the military or connected with the military and has a top secret job. It's kind of interesting and yet, I tease him about the flash cards and ask him why he doesn't go to the Defense Language Institute in San Diego or use Rosetta Stone? "I hate Rosetta Stone," he says, "they never tell you the bad words."  

About the DLI, I always wanted to go and apparently it's not open to civilians. I slightly envy the military and their access to it.  He says he can tell me this; he's been to DLI, but not for Arabic.  

His flashcards, he shows me, are common American things one would say, but in Arabic…like "do you have a cigarette?" "How much for the girl?"  I laugh, thinking he is joking, but he turns over each card, showing me the American translation.  

"Sometimes you just got entertain yourself, you know." And I know all too well. Whenever I study a new language, I like to know all the dirty things first. It makes it a bit more spicy and intriguing. I think it is a bit common, to know all the bad words, first, but it still makes me laugh. 

In our random meetings we've spent hours talking about sports, music, language, culture, technology-you name it. 

He is a die-hard sportsman and challenged me to a go of the Steelers previous championships. "Prove it" he said, when he second guessed one of my answers.  I took out my iphone and showed him. "Damn technology," he said, "now you're not gonna believe anything I say."

Times like today, when I have invaded the magazine rack, coffee in hand, and a store full of people on their own agenda. I think of him. I sometimes hope he'll come and look through my daily selection and interrupt me from my work. 

When I don't see him for a while, I wonder if he is off in Iraq or Afganistan, if he is back in the UAE, or any of the Middle Eastern countries. I think about the things he has told me "there is no real Arabic translation for the word "liberal," and the off nature thing he told me about Dubai, "just don't be too American and you'll be fine."  I wondered about the last statement and think he means not to be one of those "ugly Americans" who doesn't research the culture before going somewhere but i'm not exactly sure.  I wonder if he is off fighting, learning a new language or hanging his hat in the Grand Canyon. "I guarantee your i-Phone thing won't work there," he says, "and then you'll just have to believe everything I say without looking it up."

"Probably," I think, but then again, I never really doubted him. He's the one that told me he wanted proof.  I gave him the proof and you know what? I was right. Thank you for damn technology, eh?