I know that guy at the end, there, Scott says.
Hmmm, I respond, hoping that this is recognized as coded language that equates to-nobody cares. The irony is that I care about most things. I care about too many things, but in this moment, I don’t want to talk about the bald-headed dude with thick, black plastic rimmed eyeglasses sitting at the far side of the bar.
Of course, my messaging is not received, because why would it be? I’ve rarely had luck with verbal conveyances of my feelings, so I’m unclear as to why I thought a monosyllabic expression would be understood.
Scott is fully telling me the story now, but I’m mostly tuning it out. I’m intermittently staring at the laminated menu on the bar in front of me and glancing at the other patrons seated at the bar. As I look up a third time, I see Sandy seating a couple to our diagonal. They both bear the telltale signs of beachgoers; copper skin, windblown hair and chapped lips.
I want to remark how the man looks like he spent the day vacationing on the literal surface of the sun, but we are apparently right in the middle of the guy at the bar story and I’m too lost to try and navigate the ‘where was I’ that will follow this interruption. I smile, thinking that this comment is actually quite clever, and manage to catch crazy, right? as it’s lobbed in my direction.
Bananas, I reply, hoping that this works with whatever the fuck he’s been saying. I don’t have time to worry about my response, because the waiter slips in behind us to take our order. Scott’s order is annoying. It’s needy and complicated. His order always makes me want to be as low maintenance as possible. I’ll take your ‘no avocado, skip the mayo and substitute salmon’ and raise you one ‘however the fuck it comes.’ There are occasions when I think to modify and then, I imagine the trauma of having two dramatic orders in one seating, and about face. Every time.
That’s not actually true. One time I asked to add cucumber to a roll and Scott had the absolute nerve to make a joke about how difficult I am. He was joking, but it made me homicidal, thinking of how many modified orders I had to sit through or how many longwinded notes I’ve written into the teeny tiny text box on Uber Eats, hoping like hell they understand the shortcuts I’ve used to meet the character limits.
I glance to my left while the most annoying order ever placed is being repeated back to Scott and notice that two other couples have been seated-one directly next to us and one, seated at the corner. My guess is that the corner couple is older than us, and my speculation is confirmed when the woman picks up her phone and shows the screen to the man and the rest of the bar, loudly proclaiming it’s my granddaughter, so I have to pick up. Maybe late 60s, I think.
I chuckle to myself thinking how the older couple looks like an aged version of the first couple I laid eyes on. Years of sun exposure have left deep creases in their still tanned faces, and sun spots dot their necks and arms. His hair is salt and pepper and cut short, but it’s evident that when longer, there’s curl there. Now it just looks like a soft layer of insulation coating his tawny scalp. Her hair is chin length and my guess, dyed blonde. It’s curly and I can tell from here that it’s been gelled into submission. She wears a rhinestone dappled t-shirt and he wears those polyester polos they sell at Costco.
I name her Cat in my head. Catherine is her name but she has everyone call her Cat. She makes jokes about her name and her tendency to be anti-social, but clarifies that she is actually a dog person. When she does this, she pulls a photo of her cockapoo up on her phone. His name is Bailey and he’s ten and the love of her life. She’ll tell people not to worry about Bailey because their housekeeper watches him when they go out to dinner and she’ll whisper housekeeper like it’s a dirty word. She used to call Lucia a maid but her daughter in law told her that’s out of fashion and sometimes she shares that too.
Glen, her husband, wears a Timex. He tells everyone that he could afford a nicer watch, but that’s just a waste, because Timex makes decent watches. They are reliable he says, and then corrects the characterization from decent to fantastic as he shows off the face. Cat uses this as an opportunity to tap her long, acrylic fingernails on the face of her Apple watch, sharing how she never thought she was a technology person and now, she just can’t live without it.
I always try to get in my steps, she says, pursing together her metallic pink lipstick-coated lips.
The couple seated directly to my left is lking. My guess is twenties. She’s wearing an engagement ring and wedding band, but he looks like he just sprouted underarm hair a handful of years ago. Glen asks Bobby the baby face what he does for a living and I nearly fall off my stool when Bobby responds that he’s an ER doc.
Again, a Doogie Houser joke dances on the tip of my tongue, but the order of the year is nearly done, and it’s my turn.
Hi, I say, I’d like a salmon skin roll and a spicy tuna roll, please. I want to ask for extra ginger, but even this feels like too much and so, I know I’ll just ration.
I had my menu to the willowy gentleman who took our order, and turn my body slightly to the left, sending a message to Scott that I’m eternally over his story and also, I’m very interested in understanding this exchange that is unfolding to our left.
Scott brings his phone into view and noticing a Bumble message, busies himself. This makes me want to dump his steaming green tea on his lap, and also, I’m relieved because I’m free. For now.
Bobby shares that he’s a newer doctor (no shit) and that his wife, Kate (I didn’t hear the introduction, but she is unquestionably a Katie to few and Kate to the rest) is a teacher.
It’s hard to hear their words fully over the din of the busy restaurant, but the gist is that Cat was a teacher in her day (retired) and Glen worked for the railroad (on brand), and still, Glen has a thought or too about pensions (spare us).
Bobby and Kate seem more trapped than captivated but they aren’t the rude types and so, they’ll let Glen talk until he occupies his mouth with whatever cooked meal he settled on. Bobby and Kate are the kind of polite that’s deeply painful for them and incredibly pleasant for nearly everyone else. They never show up at a party without something for the host, they have sex on a schedule, and Kate still shits in their guest bathroom, keeping the idea alive that she’s the one human on Earth that disposes of her digested food using some alternative method that is not pooping.
Suddenly I feel tired. Exhausted, really. I’m tired of Glen and Cat and their schtick. I’m tired of Bobby and Kate and their rigidity. I’m tired of the tan man and his companion and the carelessness with which they approach self-care. I’m tired of the dude at the end of the bar who is really the quintessential divorced bro in his 50s. I’m tired of the sushi chef and the way he has to placate annoying and mildly racist patrons. I’m tired of Scott and his never-ending orders and his unfunny jokes. I’m tired of feeling invisible enough to observe and not participate. I’m tired of not being a participant.
I have to use the restroom, I say, pushing back my stool with such force that I nearly knock it over. Scott catches the back and says okay Hulk or something equally idiotic. I slide my purse strap off the corner of the stool and wrap it around my wrist as I walk through the crowded middle of the restaurant, past the bathroom, and straight out the front door.
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