Once In A While, I “Like” Something Of Hers, Just To Be Nice.

I’m out of town, visiting friends. I’m kind of obsessed with a barbeque restaurant not far from their neighborhood; they take it for granted, and are always surprised when I mention it. This place has a secret extra-hot sauce that they keep behind the bar. On the menu, it says “We advise trying ‘Hot’ before seeing the bartender about ‘Extra Hot’.” It’s good advice, because the sauce is painfully hot, but I always go get some anyway.

We’re right at the entrance when I hear “Hey you!” behind me. I don’t recognize the girl who says it. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she asks me. I don’t. Because I don’t, I say, “Oh hey, yeah! Sure! Hi!” I turn with my friends to go get some extra-hot. She stops me.

“How have you been? It’s been forever!” It has been forever. As in, we’ve never met. Come to think of it, “How have you been? It’s been forever!” is kind of a fun thing to say to someone the first time you meet. I turn back, and she says, “Missy! I knew you didn’t recognize me. We were talking about you just the other night! How are you?”

I didn’t recognize her. “I’m all right.” That’s what I say when I’m not all right, but we’re not close enough for you to get the whole scoop. It’s my version of “Fine, and you?”

“Kids? Do you have kids?” I tell her that I don’t, and I don’t ask if she does. She asks me, “None?” Yes, none. What, like she thought maybe I misheard her and would say, “Oh, KIDS. Yes. I have seven, duh.” It’s not change. I don’t have to check my pockets to make sure I have it. “Do you have kids” is a concrete question with one answer per person. Missy says, “I have three, but you knew that. Ugh! Always hanging all over me! But I love them. I do love them.” Keep telling yourself that, Missy. She says, “Stacy and I were just talking about you. We wondered what you were up to.”

This is the only move I’ve got: “Just out, getting barbeque. Extra-hot!” I make a little gesture, kind of like air-drumming, that I think, in the moment, looks like fire. My friends turn and walk into the restaurant.

“So are you coming?” Oh Missy, I just don’t know who you are. I’m trying to figure out if you’re someone maybe periphery in my life, a friend of a friend? Someone from a wedding? A play? School? I make a face that says, “Coming to what?” even though I’m otherwise mute, and probably still making my “extra-hot barbeque drum solo” gesture.

Missy wins. I exhale, “Coming to what?” I’m starving, by the way.

“The reunion! Not so far away, really. Getting close! Creeping up on us!” She thinks we went to school together, I guess. We didn’t. I can’t ask her who she thinks I am, since she has a clear idea of that already. Is it rude to ask someone “Who am I supposed to think you are? What memories of you should I have?” I run through my mental lists of friends. Scanning the yearbooks, address books and Facebooks of my mind, and coming up zero. She keeps on. “Stacy and I were trying to piece together what had ever happened to you, and neither of us knew! What’s new?”

“Just, you know, just the uh, the same. More of the same.” I’m holding the restaurant door open. Two different parties have thanked me and entered.

Missy says again, “I have three kids.” She names them, and with each name, holds her hand out to indicate their heights.

“Oh, cool. Yeah.” This is my response to kids I have not met. I promise I’m a nice guy otherwise. I can read stories, play Legos, rock babies, you name it. But give me the benefit of the doubt if I don’t ooh and ahh over a kid who only exists invisibly under a three-foot indicator hand.

“Won’t be long, [she’ll] be taller than me!” When Missy says this, she names the tallest kid, and holds her hand level with her own head.

“Yeah, that’s what happens.” I’m shaking my head, as in, Oh these kids of ours, growing up so fast. Inside, I hear one of my friends say, “Three. We’re still waiting on someone.” I need to settle this in the parking lot, or else Missy will come to my table. Might even want to sit with us. I don’t know Missy at all, but I can tell that’s her style, all Hey, let’s push these tables together! Just like old times! I think this is smart way out: “Yeah, so I guess I’ll see you there!” I turn to go.

“Where do you think we should have it?” Oh Jesus Christ.

“I’m cool with wherever. You guys can get my contact info from my mom, and I’ll show up wherever is best for everybody else.”

“Your mom?” This was not a smart way out.

“Or just online. Find me online. We’re all online now. Probably the best way to plan something.”  I’m sorry, how do we know each other? That’s what a person says, in a society. I’ve chosen to live my life outside of society, like Larry David, or John Connor, and now I’m paying for it. Missy is one of the machines, and she has risen.

“Just give it to me now.” Missy is digging into her purse for a pen. I always have a pen inside my right front pocket. You need a pen, I’ve got one. Always. Missy doesn’t have one, and needs one, and reaches out to take mine. From my pocket. My jeans pocket. Front pocket. Is it just me? A little inappropriate, right? You guys, that’s pretty much where I keep my genitalia. It’s also right around the height of Missy’s middle kid. I forget his name. Missy takes my pen, and flips over a greeting card. The outside says, “WOW! YOU DID IT!” She sure did. “Okay, so what is it?”

I take the card and my pen, and I write down my actual email address. That’s not what you would have done. Everyone I’ve told this to has told me, No. That was a mistake. I never would have done that. I give back the card, put my pen in my pocket, and say, “I have to...I’m having dinner with my friends, so I should. Inside. I’m supposed to go inside.  My friends are probably thinking I’ve been murdered.” Seriously. I’m the weirdest person you know. Murdered. Out loud, in public, in a conversation. Murdered. I toss the door open more (my arm is all flexed and sweaty inside my elbow), and pivot on one foot. I’m almost to the bar, shaking my head at my friends, when I hear behind me, “Nice seeing you, Ryan!”

She’s emailed me three times. We’re friends now, on Facebook, where we don’t have a single mutual acquaintance.

Comments

[qtip]

Where was this? I hate that whole awkward situation of not knowing someone who obviously knows you. Happens all the time to me, i'm terrible with names. Funny article though Wayne.