How Many Sir?
I felt emboldened by the location of the national chain restaurant, a joint advertised for all my life as a hip and friendly and fun place to eat. And not just for the those who mistakenly saw themselves as terminally hip, but for the whole family. Situated as it was across from the new Target in a small but growing Virginia town, I was able to convince myself that it would not be as all out a frightening experience as I remembered from 30 years previous, in Dallas, where the branding of hipness, while not a new thing, was still in its nascent stages as applied to chain restaurants. There was back then the incentive for employees to be individuals, within a strictly defined framework. This forced individuality was as often as not demonstrated badly, and left you nodding and smiling at people you neither agreed with nor felt friendly towards. These Virginia country employees would be from a simpler--and therefore in my mind, better--stock. They wouldn't be so perky and eager and annoying and robotically friendly. There might be bits of hay lodged in the cuffs of their pants. And the training manual would have gone through its necessary maturation process in 30 years. Time had made some fun of the original model. I was arriving early to beat the lunch rush. There was no hostess at the hostess station. The air felt sticky. There was a bar to the left and the room was gi-normous, made for a crowd. It was by itself bigger than many restaurants. I caught the bartender's eye. He was no fresh faced youngster. His skin was etched with the creases of a life lived outside the box, a life that did not proceed along the lines laid out in manuals. His eyes told tales. We acknowledged each other, two old gunslingers, one who would pour drinks for the next several hours, the other a bit lost, lacking definition, not even sure where he had left his gun, who came only to eat, before shopping next door for a washer/dryer combo.
How many sir? I'd been flanked. There is only me, I said. It struck me that those were the first words I had spoken out loud in four days. I should have practiced. You can't get through life just nodding, or, when forced to speak, blurting out oddly phrased bits. I could have said, I am alone, but frankly, the melodramatic is rarely appropriate. I will be dining by myself young lady. No, absolutely not, that would not work, I am an aging gunslinger, not a proper English gentleman. I think, "just me" would work (should there ever be a next time), delivered with sincerity and a dash of understated optimism. I was seated at a table for two, where I could only hope the extra seat would not be temporarily used by the wait-person, my long lost best friend just stopping by to rest a spell and take my order. He would in my nightmare spin the chair around backwards and fold his arms across the seat back. Is it any wonder I cry out with regularity in my dreams--"shit!"
Actually two waiters showed up and politely battled for the right to serve me, each in their own inimitable fashion.
I was handed a menu by the winning waiter and then he disappeared. The menu was responding to the sticky air by being sticky. I don't think it was unclean but I wasn't ruling that out. There were so many choices and the choices had catchy names that made me pause and wonder, and then cringe. I would choose to not join, to be apart from this hip and fun national chain, by ignoring all these choices and ordering a cheeseburger and fries and ice-tea. My waiter came and I wanted to get down to business. I wanted to skip a step. I only wanted to eat and skedaddle, I did not come for the "experience." He wanted me to have one of their signature margaritas, but failing to convince me that a margarita before noon was a good idea, still wanted me to wait before ordering. He would bring my tea first and some silverware. I said thank you. He came back a few minutes later and asked me if I had decided, knowing damn well that I had decided three minutes ago. I was not angry. He was a nice kid. I placed my order and then stared at the ceiling, and the fixtures, and inspected some nearby caulking. Have you been waited on sir? I have, yes I have, thank you, I said. I continued to inspect my immediate surroundings with what I think appeared to be inexhaustible fascination. Until I exhausted myself and was forced to stare down into the depths of my being. Everything all right sir? (Uh, I don't know, isn't it? I don't really feel qualified to answer that question, I mean everything? Are you kidding? Is everything all right? I should say not, but...), Oh yes, fine, thank you, I said.
Finally I glanced over at the only other guy sitting in the section. I did not make eye contact, but nodded, internally, it's just you and me fella.
My food came, thank you, I said. Yes, you will be the first person I let know if I need anything else, yes, I will, thank you.
It was all edible.
What? Oh Lord, huh? Yes, I'm good, thank you.
A drill sergeant came up the isle and while passing barked, how was it, sir? I squeaked back at her, the best, thank you.
When the waiter brought the check I gave him a twenty before he could put it down on the table. I will be right back with your change, sir. He brought the change and informed me that he had rounded off the bill in my favor. What could I say? I said, thank you.
I stood in front of the washers and dryers, paralyzed. I opened up each washer and looked inside and felt nothing. Was I supposed to feel something? I did not know. After awhile I began to worry that a salesman was going to approach me. I had used up every iota of my self just having lunch. I would not be able to engage with anyone else today. A pity really. The machines were all so shiny. This was in a big home improvement store so I just wandered off and looked at a wide variety of items. After roaming the same aisles repeatedly I realized that it was unlikely that I would buy anything that day so I just came home.
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