{Story Retold}: Piña Colada Escape

If there was an Olympic prize for monotony, Quinn Reynolds would take the gold. She could predict her day almost down to the minute: alarm at 6:02 A.M.; run from 6:10 to 6:39; breakfast at 7:05; first round of column submissions at 8:30 A.M. For lunch, everyday she had crackers and PB&J cut diagonally, except on Thursdays when she treated herself to a salad from the restaurant down the street. When it came time to clock out, she’d head home, cook dinner with Jeopardy! as her background noise, and call it lights out by 10.

Never one to do well with uncertainty, Quinn found comfort in the routine, in knowing what to anticipate. But at times, when she was truthful with herself—usually at two in the morning when a dream shocked her awake and her body felt like she had downed three cups of espresso—she longed for a way to step out of the schedule, and have something a little less mundane in life. A little more interesting, spicy, intriguing.

Every once in a while, she caught a glimpse of it at her job. Five days a week, Quinn sorted, processed, and typed obituaries and personal ads submitted to the Boston Herald for publication. Most of them were rote, uninteresting, and bland—court announcements, an apartment for rent, a person searching for their lost cat, and so on—but in the heap, she’d find a few diamonds. The woman looking for her father, who had left her and her mother, and never came back. Answers on the origin story of an ornate sword found in the wall of a 19th century home. The man who locked eyes with a woman in a charcoal business suit and purple silk scarf on the MBTA bus.

She lived vicariously through these stories, keeping tabs on the submissions like a private investigator hired to track a deceitful husband. Quinn celebrated when the woman received a response from a man saying he was indeed her father and had wished to know her. Her heart broke when the bus man kept writing into no avail. In these slivers of experience, she found humanity—its messiness, and magic, its grief and greatness. Every emotion was waiting to be mined, and they set her mind running wild.

One Tuesday, as the rain beat against the window across from her tiny cubicle, Quinn found her interest piqued once more.

It was a personal ad from a woman, not seeking someone she had seen on a bus, in the grocery store, or at the petting zoo (that post had been a rollercoaster ride), but a woman seeking anyone who met the following criteria:

 

If you like piña coladas

And gettin’ caught in the rain

If you’re not into yoga

If you have half a brain

If you like makin’ love at midnight

In the dunes on the cape

Then I’m the love that you’ve looked for

Write to me and escape

 

— Ms. Piña Coladas, Needham

It was almost lyrical in its construction, and if Quinn was into women, she could see herself responding to the ad. She hadn’t experienced most of the things on the list, but they seemed like they could be fun, almost electrifying.

Sliding the text of the ad out of the way, Quinn picked up the paper listing the sender’s contact information in case there were any questions or the bill bounced: Maureen Potter, 68 McKinley Circle, Needham, MA.

 

“Good luck to you, Maureen,” Quinn said to the ad copy, clipping it to the board beside her typewriter, and began entering in the words. She believed Maureen’s luck would be good and the newsroom would receive many letters from readers writing back.

Usually, Quinn was pretty good at predicting the response to a personal ad.

She had seen enough of them to know which triggered a mountain of mail, and which went unanswered; although, there were always a few that threw all her bets. Maureen’s was one of them.

Over the next three days, as Quinn eagerly awaited the deluge of responses, she received only a trickle—a lackluster trickle, if she could say. One man just literally wrote in: Hey, Piña Colada lady, I’ll meet you on the dunes on the cape with initials and a phone number. If it was possible for your entire body to cringe, Quinn’s did just that. This woman was looking for romance, not some random one-night sandy stand. After plunking it in the typewriter, she picked the letter up by its corner, dropped it in the garbage, and wished she had some disinfectant that could clear away disgust as well. She wouldn’t be walking the beach for a while, and she hoped Maureen wouldn’t be either.

A couple of writers made more of an effort than Mr. Dune, but just didn’t hit the mark, sending in ads with bad rhymes or in bawdy limerick styles. She couldn’t help but feel disappointed, and if this was how she felt, she imagined Maureen must’ve been even more—unless limericks were her thing. Was there suddenly a dearth of creativity in Boston area men? Or at least those who responded to personal ads?

Quinn’s answer came in the next day’s mail drop, in an envelope marked with double postage:

Yes, I like piña coladas

And gettin’ caught in the rain

I’m not much into health food

I am into champagne

I’ve got to meet you by tomorrow noon

And cut through all this red tape

At a bar called O’Malley’s

Where we’ll plan our escape

 

— Mr. Champagne, Needham

“Aww,” Quinn said, her faith restored.

“What is it? Another lost dog because people don’t know how to use a leash?” Dana pushed out on her wheelie chair from the cubical beside Quinn, and peeked her head around the corner of their shared partition. In terms of work friends, Dana was the closest Quinn had; they talked all day and had lunch together, but when the clock struck five, they both went their separate ways. That’s how things went in Quinn’s world. Dana had tried multiple times to have Quinn come out with her, but to little avail. It disrupted her schedule too much.

“No, no,” Quinn said, then pivoted. “Someone wrote back to the piña colada ad.” The personal post had become a topic of conversation between the two since it first arrived, with Dana stating after reading that “women are wasted on men.”

“From your tone, I’m guessing this one is a winner?” Dana said.

“I think so.” Scooting back herself, Quinn handed Dana the ad. Dana’s eyes bounced back and forth across the page for a few seconds before she nodded.

“Not too bad, Mr. Champagne.” Her eyes scanned the page again. “Does he have a real name?”

“Let me see.” Rolling back up to her desk, Quinn picked up the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper inside. “Mr. Edwin Potter—68 McKinley Circle, Needham, MA. Wait, no that can’t be right.”

“What? That his name is Edwin Potter? Mr. Ed Potts?”

“No, no. Well, kind of yes.” Quinn thumbed back through her files from earlier in the week, and found Maureen’s letter. Her suspicion was right. “These came from the same house.”

Dana’s squinted at her, her head cocking. “No, they didn’t.”

“Um, they definitely did.” Quinn pulled Maureen’s letter from the manila folder and held it in one hand and Edwin’s in the other. “Last name Potter, both at 68 McKinley Circle, Needham.”

Dana yanked both of the letters from Quinn’s hands, her gaze ping ponging between them. “No shit.”

From a few cubicles down came a gasp. Their superior-in-age only, Raquel bolted up from her chair, her finger extended in reprimand. “Language!”

“Sorry, Raquel,” Dana intoned, her eye roll directed at Quinn and not the woman at her back.

Raquel, not satisfied with the apology, clicked her tongue, and disappeared behind her cubicle wall like a rabbit into its hole.

“What are the chances of that?” Quinn asked, keeping her voice at a library whisper. “I mean, they both have to be married to each other right? But they’re both trying to cheat on one another?” Decidedly less romantic. Much less. The full-body cringe returned.

“That’s one scenario. Maybe they’re roleplaying, or maybe they’re brother and sister in for a rude awakening. Or the husband caught the wife and now is trying to trap her.”

Quinn took both the letters once more, and replaced Maureen’s in the file. “I’m hoping for roleplaying. If not, can you imagine their faces if they both show up at wherever O’Malley’s is and see each other.”

Dana laughed. “Oh, I’m going to do more than imagine. I’m going down there.”

“What?” Quinn spun around. “What do you mean?”

“Tomorrow noon, I am going to O’Malley’s, and I am watching this play out and you’re going to come with me.”

Immediately, Quinn began to shake her head. “No, no, I can’t do that. We shouldn’t do that. It’s an invasion of privacy.” But was she intrigued, and did she want to see their reactions? She sure as hell did. “Besides, how do you even know where O’Malley’s is?”

Finding an O’Malley’s in Boston was the Irish bar equivalent to finding a needle in a haystack.

“I can’t say it’s the right one, but I know there’s an O’Malley’s in Needham and there’s only one. If they need to pick a place they’ll both know, it would have to be close, so I’m guessing this would be it. Plus, it’s dark, and with the right amount of alcohol, sort of sexy.” Abandoning her chair, Dana walked over to Quinn, placing a hand on each arm rest. “Come on. You’ve been obsessed with this all week. Come with me. This is what lunch hours are for.”

“I don’t think that’s exactly true,” Quinn chuckled. The voice in her head droned: You can’t go out. It’s salad day. It throws off the entire week. What if you get behind on work because it takes longer than an hour to get back? What if someone finds out and you get fired for crossing a line? Another voice, not as loud but just as convincing: What if you have fun? Wouldn’t you regret not getting to see how this all turns out while Dana does?

 

This new voice is not as loud as the other, but it’s just as convincing.

She had been looking for more fun, a step out of the norm. Couldn’t this be it?

Against her better judgement, Quinn smiled. “Okay.”

“Yes!” Dana said, punching the air in victory.

The next day, Quinn and Dana loaded into Dana’s station wagon and headed for Needham. It was a bit of a drive, longer than Quinn had remembered, although that could’ve been the anxiety slowing time. Finally, Dana pulled into O’Malley’s, its residency marked, unsurprisingly, with a shamrock on a sign. There were a handful of people inside, enjoying lunches at the bar top or in a booth. Dana and Quinn chose the latter for their stakeout, finding the corner spot to have the most optimal of views.

“Do you think they’re here yet?” Dana asked, unfurling her scarf from around her neck and piling it next to her on the seat.

Quinn looked around, craning her neck to see the possible suspects, only coming up with one.

A man, sitting at the bar, wearing a gray button down with black slacks, his hair thinning along the sides. “That guy there is by himself and not eating. It could be him.”

Dana analyzed him, her lips puckered in thought. “I think you’re right. Either that or he has a tick from how much he keeps looking at the door,” she said. “You think I should go over and ask him if he brought scissors for the red tape?”

Quinn had to hold in her burst of laughter, channeling into a shove to Dana’s shoulder. “Don’t even dare.”

The clock ticked closer to noon. With each opening of the door, the man checked, and Quinn and Dana followed suit, but found no one fitting their description, just a few couples and groups coming to join the lunch crowd.

“Do you think she’s not coming?” Dana asked Quinn at 12:03, as the man looked to be starting to break a sweat.

“I guess that’s possible. Maybe she didn’t like his ad. Maybe she didn’t even see it,” Quinn said. Earlier she hadn’t considered it a possibility that Maureen wouldn’t like the message, but if she was indeed looking to leave her husband and recognized his tone in it, she might’ve not been attracted to it, or thought better of coming.

At 12:05, the door creaked open, and a woman walked in—red hair hanging loose around her shoulders, floral wrap dress tied at the waist, nervousness covering her features.

Dana beat her hand against the table, and swallowed the gulp of her drink. “That’s her!” she whispered. “That’s her!”

Quinn nodded, but didn’t speak, convinced just as much as Dana that this was really Maureen, but too afraid to shatter the moment with speech. They both looked towards the man, where they received their confirmation.

He leaned forward, as if his eyes needed to adjust to seeing her in this new light, and his mouth went slack.

“Maureen?” they heard him say, and it was as if both Quinn and Dana decided simultaneously to eliminate one more source of noise and stop breathing.

“Oh, it’s you,” the woman said, although from the distance, Quinn couldn’t catch if the tone was of disappointment or relief. Maureen took a few steps closer, Edwin swiveling out of his chair. As they met by the edge of the bar, Quinn prepared for a fighting or crying session—possibly both. What she got, though, was a shared laugh. Over the talk of the other patrons, she could make out a few words—ocean, cape, and of course those piña coladas. Maureen shrugged, the couple laughed again, and they reached for each other’s hands, Edwin guiding her over to a bar stool where he ordered up two of the sweet, coconut and pineapple drinks.

“Okay, I’ll admit, I was kind of hoping for a throwdown or a sexy roleplay, but that is very sweet, albeit in a they-were-both-ready-to-cheat-on-each-other way,” Dana said, sipping from the water the waiter had given them when they first sat down.

Quinn didn’t know why they arrived, but had to blink away the tears in her eyes.

“It was. I mean, yeah, they’ll probably have to have a talk later, but still, sweet.” Her body radiated happiness, and she didn’t think it was only because of what they had just seen. She didn’t want it to be reserved for this one time. She liked her routine, but this offered a different kind of comfort, one found in others and chances and possibilities in things she had long dismissed. “We should do this more often, you know,” she said to Dana.

“What? Track down the people in personal ads? Because I am all up for that,” Dana said, earning another laugh from her friend.

“Sure, but I was meaning this.” Quinn threw her arms out, gesturing to the entire bar. “Go out for lunch more. Hang out.”

The smile drew across Dana’s face like a sailboat coming to full mast. She could’ve easily said, “that’s what I’ve been telling you” and it would’ve been fully warranted. But she didn’t. “We definitely should.”

Leaving the table beside them, a waiter walked over, stopping at the edge of the booth. “Sorry about the wait. What can I get you?” he asked, pulling the notepad from his jean pocket.

Without a thought to the consequences or the work they had to return to, Quinn held up two fingers. “Two piña coladas, please.”