Page 47 of Engineering a Love Story

We’re inside the store now, a display of circuit boards in front of us. Seth pauses to take in the expanse of the place, which sells everything from high-end PCs to all the tiny bits and pieces one might need to construct them. The whole building hums with activity, people lining almost every aisle, even on a Saturday night. Classes began at the local schools this past week, and everyone is stocking up. Seth gives an impressed nod. “Of course,” he says. “I basically live in the Castro, remember? Any idea where power cords are in this place?”

I gesture to the right and we begin walking. “Pro-choice?” I ask.

“Come on. Are you really asking me that?”

We pass aisles, each with its own specialty: mice, modems, monitors.

“What about immigration? Like, liberal immigration policies. A path to citizenship for those already here?” We reach the row with cords.

“Yes,” Seth says, turning down this aisle. “And W is for that too. Under his compassionate conservative banner.”

“Okay, don’t say that. It’s hideous.” Seth squats to review a shelf given over to chargers and adapters, his soft laugh floating up to me. “You don’t sound like much of a Republican.”

He holds a box in each hand, looking at them as he speaks. “I’m socially liberal but distrustful in general of a large central government, of consolidating all that money and power in some central bureaucracy, expecting those people to make all the right decisions.”

I squat beside him. “But how do you keep it all separate? Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh? Those guys are selling the family values crap to get poor people to vote for Republicans, who then cut social programs and safety nets.”

Seth raises his eyes to meet mine. “I know you’re fond of your radio, but you’re not listening to Rush Limbaugh, are you?”

“No. Of course not.” I attempt to sort out my response. “But there was this guy I worked for at BayBank. He listened to talk radio all day. He didn’t understand the concept of headphones, I guess. He definitely couldn’t fathom women programmers.” I look past Seth, down the long aisle, which I’m pleased to see is crammed with a good number of young women. There are even more young men, but still. “This guy, Donny, thought he was some kind of Fortran god. BayBank totally should have been using off-the-shelf components, but Donny kept convincing our managers that the stupid transaction processing system could only be built by gods like him … sorry, I’m off topic.”

Seth returns a box to the shelf and tips another toward me, indicating he’s found the correct cord. We stand. “Sexy when you talk about Fortran though,” he says. In the aisle opposite, the head of a pimply teenager pops up.

“I’m telling you something,” I say, a quiet pleading in my voice.

“And I’m listening.” Seth puts a hand on the edge of the shelf, giving me his full attention.

“With Donny’s radio, an average day included Rush ranting about Hillary’s testicle lockbox and his hypothesis that feminism was only invented so ugly women could find jobs.”

“I’m no fan of Rush Limbaugh. Just to be clear.”

“But W’s best pal Karl Rove? What’s the difference? Nothing good is going to come from those guys and their whole stew of mistrust and grievance.”

“I’m hopeful the Republicans won’t go that route,” he says. “It’s still the party of Reagan.” Holding his box, he gestures to the front of the store and we walk in that direction.

I scamper beside him. “What do you think your friends in the Castro would say about Reagan? Are you serious? Saying you’re fiscally conservative sounds okay, but I wouldn’t be here—literally would not have just crawled out of bed with you, if it weren’t for government investment.”

“Now that’s romantic.” Seth shoots me a side glance, a smile pressing into his cheeks.

“I’m serious. We didn’t have money for college. And borrowing money, that’s the kind of leap of faith my father avoids.” I slow. “The opposite of your dad, I guess.”

“Yes.” Seth puts his free hand out to clasp mine.

We arrive at the register and stand in the three-deep line. “I went to school for almost nothing because my father made so little money. That was a four-year education, a degree in computer science. I was recruited on campus. I moved to Boston. I had a job, no student loans. I mean, that’s life-changing.” I pause, unsure I’ve ever articulated my path in quite this way before.

“I’m fiscally conservative, but I don’t disagree with you about investing in education.” We reach the checkout, Seth pays for his cord, and we leave the store. On the sidewalk, he again takes my hand. “Were you always interested in politics? Were your parents?” he asks as we walk toward my car.

It’s a deliberate swerve, him not wanting to discuss his politics when I’m putting it in the personal framework of my family. Then I remember his story about his dad and creditors knocking on their door. And I let it go. Politics are always personal.

I tell him my family members were Democrats, as much as they were ever anything. I recount waiting in my father’s pick-up when my parents went to vote for Carter. “Reagan was a long, low period, I guess.” I shrug. “I wasn’t paying much attention to politics then.”

“What were you doing?”

I try to remember. After what happened with my mother and the stress with my father, I worked at the grocery store and focused on school. But there had been friends too, a social life, dances and parties. My boyfriend Kevin. The two boys who came after Kevin. I wasn’t thinking much about Ronald Reagan.

“I don’t know.” We arrive at my car and I look at Seth over the roof. “Math. And boys?”

“Jesus.”