Dinner For One

It took me a minute to catch my breath after having walked so far without any sidewalks, alongside a road with cars whizzing behind my back at a frightening pace. The only thing keeping me from becoming roadkill was the small white line that created an 8-inch walking space for the courageous pedestrian, it felt like walking on a balance beam. It had been a while since I'd walked in Nashville let alone Durham; I forgot how dangerous walking in the south could be sometimes. That was but the easy part of my journey, however. I stood outside the wood framed door, under the shade provided by the roof which jutted out over the walkway; for me it felt more like a gangplank. I looked down at the blob of gum two inches in front of my foot while I exhaled one last time and reached for the pepper-shaped door handle.

"How you doing today? How can I help you?" said the cheerful brown-haired hostess stationed at the front of the Chili's Restaurant a few blocks down the road from my girlfriend's apartment.
I told her that I wanted some food- she probably thought that I wanted Chili's ToGo and came in the wrong door. I looked her in the eyes- I think she blinked twice before she responded.
"Just one?" she asked with the voice you use when a young child loses a turn in Candy Land. I looked around, hoping to spot anyone by themselves, anyone. Someone in a booth or at a table would be preferable, but even somebody having a late lunch at the bar by themselves would have been fine. No such luck. Ever person in the place was at least paired up and a good amount of them were with two or more people, laughing and having wonderful conversations about Michael Phelps or the presidential race, or the happiness they felt about having so many wonderful friends and never having to eat alone on a Saturday afternoon in a town they've never been in. She walked me to a table towards the back but in the direct sightlines of the entrance, so that ever person casually looking could get a glimpse of me eating my mushroom swiss burger all by my lonesome.
Maybe I was overreacting- but it's that word "just" and how it's said that makes all of the difference. It signifies loneliness- what LOSER goes to a sit-down restaurant by themselves? Once the hostess sees that you're eating by yourself, it's like she knows your entire life- it's the once piece of evidence needed to convict you on all charges- nerdiness, incompatibility, awkwardness. The assumption is that there must be something wrong with you as a person to have to eat alone. The may be a bit too strong; it's not that there is something wrong or unnatural about it, but like Homer Simpson said about his gay friend- it's not.... usual. I know, I know, having the ability to go places on your own can also signify a kind of strength and confidence. But from a distance it looks sad and tragic- up close it just feels disappointing.
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Of course none of that is actually true, it is perfectly fine to eat, go to a movie, go to a concert, and generally have an enjoyable time all by yourself. I've done so many things by myself, and still do it all the time. Sometimes I prefer to be by myself when I'm engaged in one of those activities. A few hours after the above mentioned incident I went to a Chinese buffet by myself and it was great. I got to eat at my own pace, I did a lot of very productive writing as well as some even more productive thinking, and I got to have my requisite one beer (a very tasty Tsing Tao) without feeling any kind of guilt. Those thoughts didn't creep up on me at all. Part of it is because the Chinese buffet was a lot more low-key, drabbly lit and almost completely empty. A very contemplative place, a restaurant worthy of a person's reflections and kind enough to give you your own space. Chili's was full and loud, bright as the sun at noon, with waitresses/waiters constantly asking you if you wanted, needed, required, any help, assistance, appetizers, or the check. The atmosphere was conducive to jokes and lots friends and petty (in a good way) conversations. It magnified the best parts about being with a group while magnifying the inadequacies of being by yourself.
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This has happened to me before, this sudden feeling, a self-consciousness accompanied by only its own thoughts (in fact I wrote a rather lengthy blog post about it). Freshman year of college I went to a concert by myself because I really wanted to see the artists that were playing and I couldn't get anyone to pay the 25 bucks it cost to go. I remember seeing people from my school and them asking me who I came with, wondering if I was waiting someone, mouths agape when I told them I came by myself. The worst part was, I was totally self-conscious even though I didn't normally give one damn about anything those people thought. I wasn't too much concerned about actually going to a show, it was having something to do, someone to talk to during the interim periods, before the next act came on. I was so concerned I even bought some cigarettes just to have something to do- something I hadn't touched since the summer before I turned 17, an activity that I hadn't ever done even semi-regularly. I ended up smoking two before throwing the rest in the garbage.
Part of or maybe even most of this reoccurence, is my natural anxiety about moving to a new place and not having that many friends yet. I always wondered how come people always expressed having such a hard time meeting people once they are out of school.. I don't anymore. Although I've only lived in New York for two weeks, I know why. It's tough to meet people besides your co-workers without school, which forces you to get to know people. I've moved around a lot, I've had to make friends quickly all the time. It's just that there are not that many opportunities, and when there are, you have to create them yourself. I'm not too worried- I've always been one to explore my surroundings, and if I try and create some distance between myself and the situation I can see that I'm not doing that badly. Sometimes, just the perception that things are proceeding too slowly can have a tremendous effect.
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Just yesterday I went to see a movie at Socrates Sculpture Park on Vernon and Broadway in Astoria on a whim. It was an old Italian film, 8 1/2, by Federico Fellini, the same guy who made Il Dolce Vita. I got there a little early 45 minutes or so before the movie started- the time you had to figure out what to do in the interim, besides sitting down and making sure you put on your "I'm not at all concerned that I'm by myself" face. In lieu of conversation, I listened to some old world Italian music, paid 9 dollars to have eggplant parmagiana, sausage and peppers, meatballs, and a canoli, drank some coffee, and sat on the cold grass in my shorts as the wind blew brisquely off the East River. Luckily the coffee, which was quite brilliant, warmed me up, helped me to focus on the movie when it started. Pretty much everbody else there had muiltiple companions, blankets or chairs to sit on, and bags with other snacks and bottles of wine. Those are the moments that can go either way- I love being able to ponder the meaning behind a beautifully shot film, hate not having someone to discuss it with.
I sat down with another 15 minutes to kill. I spent it people watching. There was a Caribbean woman probably in her late twenties, her hair wrapped in a black scarf sitting a few yards in front of me. Like me she was by herself, unlike me she was smart enough to bring a blanket and a bag. I watched her look around, at all the people with their significant others and pets and coworkers, wishing desperately that she saw someone in the crowd that she knew. Resigned, she stared blankly at the screen as it flashed pictures of some of the parks sculptures and waited quietly for the movie to begin. Her misfortune was my gain though and I had to smile; sometimes we're all alone in the same boat.