Manny Ruiz, 53, spent three decades hauling salmon out of the Pacific before a rogue wave snapped his left knee and pushed him into his second career: restoring antique typewriters out of a 200-square foot shop tucked between a taco joint and a record store in Northeast Portland. He’d spent the last eight years actively dodging anything that resembled romantic interest, convinced the scar splitting his left eyebrow, the permanent ache in his knee, and the way he still smelled like machine oil and salt even after three showers a day made him too rough around the edges for anyone worth keeping. His ex-wife had left for a software sales rep who didn’t come home with fish guts under his nails, and he’d taken that as a universal verdict.
He only showed up to the neighborhood block party because 72-year-old Marge, who lived two doors down and brought him peach pie every Sunday, threatened to withhold all future baked goods if he hid in his apartment again. He’d planted himself against the thick trunk of the oak tree at the edge of the street, sweating through his worn gray flannel even as the September air cooled, nursing a PBR and counting down the minutes until he could slip out without anyone noticing.