Being Funny with a Foreign Currency:
The 1975, casual stalking, and finding myself.
Theodora MacLeod
December 2022
The 1975, casual stalking, and finding myself.
Theodora MacLeod
December 2022
“I’m sorry to tell you this, but that’s totally counterfeit.” the man who broke the news to me was in his forties; I knew that because I’d been talking to him for at least half an hour. The conversation bouncing from the differences in Canada’s legal cannabis market, to his three partners and their polyamorous family structure. It was my first stop on my first day in Portland, Oregon; a well-lit cannabis dispensary that was so nice I was surprised I didn’t need to wipe drool from my chin.
“What? No!” There’s a good chance the blood drained from my face, as if I could afford to appear any paler. A week prior I had allowed a customer at my own cannabis dispensary to pay in American currency, taking it at face value then immediately buying it from my till in anticipation of my upcoming voyage to the lower 48. I’d thought I was clever as hell saving a bit on the conversion rate.
Handing the bill back to me, he produced a real American 100-dollar bill to demonstrate difference. I could immediately spot just how badly I’d been duped, mine was significantly smaller in size.
“The 50 too, but that one is a much better fake,” he added regretfully.
Our conversation caught the attention of his co-workers, and I swallowed my emotions. Not only was I learning that I was out $150, but that I’d allowed a customer to get away with using counterfeit cash... twice.
My first call when I left the store was to my manager. The same manager I’d been working with when I accepted the money. The one I’d had Google a picture of American money to verify its authenticity because I had a funny feeling.
“I need to start trusting my gut,” I moaned into the phone, my body propped up against a brick wall and my elbow resting on a recycling bin beside me.
She owed me nothing, she would have been well within her right to point and laugh at my obliviousness and misfortune, instead she reassured me, “We’ll call head office when you get back.”
I had travelled from Edmonton to Portland for a concert that was scheduled to start in a few hours, my first real break from work in over two years. As my gaze drifted to my right, I paused…did a double take. A tall man walked beside a woman who was pushing a stroller, headed towards me. I’d know that face anywhere.
I don’t make a habit of approaching people in the streets, nor do I commonly make my boss wait on international calls, but no sooner had I seen them was I telling her not to hang up and stepping hesitantly towards the family.
“Adam?” I choked out, a little more flustered that I’d have liked. Had I actually trembled? It’s likely. Adam Hann, the guitarist of the band I’d flown to see, my favourite band, nodded and I knew I no longer needed to worry about looking pale, my cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“Hi, wow.” I gasped a little, hiccupped maybe, then noticed how uncomfortable he seemed. Really, I couldn’t blame him, if a strange girl standing outside a pot shop who looked like she was seconds from a serious cry popped out at me, I too would be startled. “I came down for the show tonight. The new album is beautiful. Thank you!” In my mind it sounded collected, but I’ve met myself in these situations; it was more of a jittery ramble.
He was much calmer, polite, as British a man as I had ever met, right down to the long peacoat.
“Oh, thank you so much.” He’d clearly had practice with my type, excitable fans who were contemplating pinching themselves to check for signs of consciousness.
I turned to his wife, who is featured on the album singing the most holy and glorious love song I have known and continued my praises. The whole interaction was brief. It ended with me asking him to send my best to the rest of the band, as if they’d have any idea who I was. When we parted ways, my face was still hot, and I remembered the call that was still connected a country away
Surprised my boss hadn’t hung up on me, I laughed almost delirious with excitement.
“Well now that I know they’re all around I wonder if I’ll run into the other three.” I snorted in amusement. Unlikely, I thought to myself. Once is a blessing.
I realized that there was no way I would be able to continue our discussion about the matter of the counterfeit cash.
It wasn’t even ten minutes before I rounded the corner of the same block with my Google Maps in hand and almost collided with a group of women. Strange for a group to congregate on what seemed like a boring street corner, but I’d been told by the murals and signs that Portland was keeping it weird. I didn’t give it a second thought until I’d passed them, and my navigation started to glitch. With no indication what direction I should be going in, I doubled back to the group in search of a local. A few of them eyed me hesitantly as a lifelong Portlandian told me what street to look out for and how far to walk.
I want to pretend it was an incessant journalistic need to always know what’s happening that kept me from hurrying on my way, but, truthfully, I was just a little high and have always been kind of nosy. She didn’t want to tell me when I ask the purpose of their posse; there was an air of secrecy about the gathering. Eventually it clicked. It wasn’t the three people wearing band merch that did it for me, but the four girls in Doc Martens who looked like every woman I’d ever swiped right on.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the concert tonight, does it?” Her face lit up and I matched her grin. Jackpot!
“The 1975 are staying in that hotel, they’re in there right now,” she finally revealed, and my eyes widened. It made sense that I’d seen Adam less than a block ago and I told the group exactly that as I filled them in on our polite interaction. I knew the second I opened my mouth that I would not be following the itinerary I’d made myself before leaving the hotel.
They were on a mission, pinpointing the hotel the band was staying at after the lead singer posted a selfie with the business across the street in the background. My new friends had pooled their resources and gotten someone inside the hotel with a walkie-talkie. It was serious business trying to get a glimpse of the curly haired and controversial front man, Matty Healy. They’d already been told by security to keep their distance, but no one was ready to give up.
“What? No!” There’s a good chance the blood drained from my face, as if I could afford to appear any paler. A week prior I had allowed a customer at my own cannabis dispensary to pay in American currency, taking it at face value then immediately buying it from my till in anticipation of my upcoming voyage to the lower 48. I’d thought I was clever as hell saving a bit on the conversion rate.
Handing the bill back to me, he produced a real American 100-dollar bill to demonstrate difference. I could immediately spot just how badly I’d been duped, mine was significantly smaller in size.
“The 50 too, but that one is a much better fake,” he added regretfully.
Our conversation caught the attention of his co-workers, and I swallowed my emotions. Not only was I learning that I was out $150, but that I’d allowed a customer to get away with using counterfeit cash... twice.
My first call when I left the store was to my manager. The same manager I’d been working with when I accepted the money. The one I’d had Google a picture of American money to verify its authenticity because I had a funny feeling.
“I need to start trusting my gut,” I moaned into the phone, my body propped up against a brick wall and my elbow resting on a recycling bin beside me.
She owed me nothing, she would have been well within her right to point and laugh at my obliviousness and misfortune, instead she reassured me, “We’ll call head office when you get back.”
I had travelled from Edmonton to Portland for a concert that was scheduled to start in a few hours, my first real break from work in over two years. As my gaze drifted to my right, I paused…did a double take. A tall man walked beside a woman who was pushing a stroller, headed towards me. I’d know that face anywhere.
I don’t make a habit of approaching people in the streets, nor do I commonly make my boss wait on international calls, but no sooner had I seen them was I telling her not to hang up and stepping hesitantly towards the family.
“Adam?” I choked out, a little more flustered that I’d have liked. Had I actually trembled? It’s likely. Adam Hann, the guitarist of the band I’d flown to see, my favourite band, nodded and I knew I no longer needed to worry about looking pale, my cheeks felt like they were on fire.
“Hi, wow.” I gasped a little, hiccupped maybe, then noticed how uncomfortable he seemed. Really, I couldn’t blame him, if a strange girl standing outside a pot shop who looked like she was seconds from a serious cry popped out at me, I too would be startled. “I came down for the show tonight. The new album is beautiful. Thank you!” In my mind it sounded collected, but I’ve met myself in these situations; it was more of a jittery ramble.
He was much calmer, polite, as British a man as I had ever met, right down to the long peacoat.
“Oh, thank you so much.” He’d clearly had practice with my type, excitable fans who were contemplating pinching themselves to check for signs of consciousness.
I turned to his wife, who is featured on the album singing the most holy and glorious love song I have known and continued my praises. The whole interaction was brief. It ended with me asking him to send my best to the rest of the band, as if they’d have any idea who I was. When we parted ways, my face was still hot, and I remembered the call that was still connected a country away
Surprised my boss hadn’t hung up on me, I laughed almost delirious with excitement.
“Well now that I know they’re all around I wonder if I’ll run into the other three.” I snorted in amusement. Unlikely, I thought to myself. Once is a blessing.
I realized that there was no way I would be able to continue our discussion about the matter of the counterfeit cash.
It wasn’t even ten minutes before I rounded the corner of the same block with my Google Maps in hand and almost collided with a group of women. Strange for a group to congregate on what seemed like a boring street corner, but I’d been told by the murals and signs that Portland was keeping it weird. I didn’t give it a second thought until I’d passed them, and my navigation started to glitch. With no indication what direction I should be going in, I doubled back to the group in search of a local. A few of them eyed me hesitantly as a lifelong Portlandian told me what street to look out for and how far to walk.
I want to pretend it was an incessant journalistic need to always know what’s happening that kept me from hurrying on my way, but, truthfully, I was just a little high and have always been kind of nosy. She didn’t want to tell me when I ask the purpose of their posse; there was an air of secrecy about the gathering. Eventually it clicked. It wasn’t the three people wearing band merch that did it for me, but the four girls in Doc Martens who looked like every woman I’d ever swiped right on.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with the concert tonight, does it?” Her face lit up and I matched her grin. Jackpot!
“The 1975 are staying in that hotel, they’re in there right now,” she finally revealed, and my eyes widened. It made sense that I’d seen Adam less than a block ago and I told the group exactly that as I filled them in on our polite interaction. I knew the second I opened my mouth that I would not be following the itinerary I’d made myself before leaving the hotel.
They were on a mission, pinpointing the hotel the band was staying at after the lead singer posted a selfie with the business across the street in the background. My new friends had pooled their resources and gotten someone inside the hotel with a walkie-talkie. It was serious business trying to get a glimpse of the curly haired and controversial front man, Matty Healy. They’d already been told by security to keep their distance, but no one was ready to give up.
Inspiring, really.
“The band is leaving for the venue at 5:00 pm,” the woman closest to my age told me after we’d been standing beside each other chatting about the similarities of her growing up in Alaska and me living in rural northern Alberta. The sun was getting low and, despite the green leaves still on the trees, there was a distinct December chill in the air.
“Might be time to get a drink.” She pointed to the bar adjacent to the hotel and smiled almost mischievously. Her boyfriend nodded then clarified that the bar shared a lobby with the hotel and I all but gasped. If they weren’t careful, I was going to get red in the cheeks again.
It didn’t matter that I had an order of vegan French (freedom) fries coming, or that I was leaving my bag with someone I’d just met. When 5:00 pm rolled around, my new friend and I left her boyfriend inside to save our seats while we went outside to “smoke,” counting on our more subdued and mature appearances (much less eyeliner) to allow us to blend in with the other hotel patrons while the younger, more obvious, fans were relegated to the corner still.
That last time I’d waited outside a hotel for a man, I was 20 and fighting crowds of middle-aged SportsBros to get a sight of Sidney Crosby and his sweet… smile. I didn’t make a habit of seeking out celebrities. I’d come to terms with adulthood and decided to give up on the desire for validation from men I’d never met who I considered (and maybe did —I’m not telling) writing fan fiction about.
But there’s something different about Matty Healy.
Something electric and magnetic. A contrarian, lacking a filter, chaotic, the entire artsy package I had been having my heart broken by since elementary school. Sometimes exceptions must be made.
For the second time that day my heart took residence in my throat and my hands started to do a little shimmy. Through the glass I saw the mop of curls, the angular jaw, dark clad figure. But very quickly he was coming towards me, and I needed to ready my camera. He came through the glass doors beside me, mere feet away. He was taller than he seemed in photos, a point he was forever trying to make, as he stood beside his almost obscenely vertical bandmates. He was carrying a Louis Vuitton weekender bag—classic, classy, a bit posh. His shoes were dramatic, a long toe coming to a squared off point at the end, some kind of leather—I like to imagine it was snakeskin, but I’m not going to pretend I was looking at them that closely, not when he was turned to face my direction. I could see the strands of grey in his hair - being thirty-three and in the spotlight for ten years or so can have that effect on a man, I suppose.
My god, I wanted to remember every detail of him as he walked by.
“I’m so sorry I can’t stop, guys,” he told us in the sweetest Mancunian accent. “If I stop here, I’ll have to talk to them too, and we’ll never make it to the show.” He gestured to the group down the block. I couldn’t muster it in me to be disappointed, not when I landed here accidentally, hadn’t been the one doing any of the plotting, and he was looking directly at me.
“It’s okay, I hope you have a great show,” I called to him, strangely more composed than I had been with his bandmate. “I came from Canada for the concert,” I added before someone else started talking and I saw his eyes widen and his smile grow stronger.
“Aww, thank you so much.” A direct response.
I want to tell him how he’s changed my life. How I listened to The 1975’s first four albums over and over while driving around alone in the darkest days of the pandemic. How I wasn’t quite sure who I’d be without lyrics that validated everything I felt about the world and just how angry I was all the time. But I’ve told enough men I love them without hearing it in return.
So, I beamed as he walked away, and had the best night of my life. Though not because I met Adam Hann and Matty Healy, but because I met the side of myself who can walk up to strangers, stand outside hotels casually stalking people, and travel internationally alone for the hell of it.
So what if I hadn’t seen the Russian text and the words, “This is a souvenir,” on the 100-dollar bill when I accepted it as legal tender?
“The band is leaving for the venue at 5:00 pm,” the woman closest to my age told me after we’d been standing beside each other chatting about the similarities of her growing up in Alaska and me living in rural northern Alberta. The sun was getting low and, despite the green leaves still on the trees, there was a distinct December chill in the air.
“Might be time to get a drink.” She pointed to the bar adjacent to the hotel and smiled almost mischievously. Her boyfriend nodded then clarified that the bar shared a lobby with the hotel and I all but gasped. If they weren’t careful, I was going to get red in the cheeks again.
It didn’t matter that I had an order of vegan French (freedom) fries coming, or that I was leaving my bag with someone I’d just met. When 5:00 pm rolled around, my new friend and I left her boyfriend inside to save our seats while we went outside to “smoke,” counting on our more subdued and mature appearances (much less eyeliner) to allow us to blend in with the other hotel patrons while the younger, more obvious, fans were relegated to the corner still.
That last time I’d waited outside a hotel for a man, I was 20 and fighting crowds of middle-aged SportsBros to get a sight of Sidney Crosby and his sweet… smile. I didn’t make a habit of seeking out celebrities. I’d come to terms with adulthood and decided to give up on the desire for validation from men I’d never met who I considered (and maybe did —I’m not telling) writing fan fiction about.
But there’s something different about Matty Healy.
Something electric and magnetic. A contrarian, lacking a filter, chaotic, the entire artsy package I had been having my heart broken by since elementary school. Sometimes exceptions must be made.
For the second time that day my heart took residence in my throat and my hands started to do a little shimmy. Through the glass I saw the mop of curls, the angular jaw, dark clad figure. But very quickly he was coming towards me, and I needed to ready my camera. He came through the glass doors beside me, mere feet away. He was taller than he seemed in photos, a point he was forever trying to make, as he stood beside his almost obscenely vertical bandmates. He was carrying a Louis Vuitton weekender bag—classic, classy, a bit posh. His shoes were dramatic, a long toe coming to a squared off point at the end, some kind of leather—I like to imagine it was snakeskin, but I’m not going to pretend I was looking at them that closely, not when he was turned to face my direction. I could see the strands of grey in his hair - being thirty-three and in the spotlight for ten years or so can have that effect on a man, I suppose.
My god, I wanted to remember every detail of him as he walked by.
“I’m so sorry I can’t stop, guys,” he told us in the sweetest Mancunian accent. “If I stop here, I’ll have to talk to them too, and we’ll never make it to the show.” He gestured to the group down the block. I couldn’t muster it in me to be disappointed, not when I landed here accidentally, hadn’t been the one doing any of the plotting, and he was looking directly at me.
“It’s okay, I hope you have a great show,” I called to him, strangely more composed than I had been with his bandmate. “I came from Canada for the concert,” I added before someone else started talking and I saw his eyes widen and his smile grow stronger.
“Aww, thank you so much.” A direct response.
I want to tell him how he’s changed my life. How I listened to The 1975’s first four albums over and over while driving around alone in the darkest days of the pandemic. How I wasn’t quite sure who I’d be without lyrics that validated everything I felt about the world and just how angry I was all the time. But I’ve told enough men I love them without hearing it in return.
So, I beamed as he walked away, and had the best night of my life. Though not because I met Adam Hann and Matty Healy, but because I met the side of myself who can walk up to strangers, stand outside hotels casually stalking people, and travel internationally alone for the hell of it.
So what if I hadn’t seen the Russian text and the words, “This is a souvenir,” on the 100-dollar bill when I accepted it as legal tender?