North Star Writers Group

If it’s family I know you’re not required to, but in a restaurant with strangers the protocol’s a tad fuzzy. It can be an awkward situation. You’re temporary dining companions, kind of. If you’re seated at the bar or counter as it were, you’re sitting mere inches away from each other. How can you not talk?

It’s kind of like the U.S./Mexico border situation. Hey, we’re sharing the same border and air, you might as well pay for our schooling, health care, give us your jobs and assist us with housing. OK, OK, that was a stretch. I apologize.

For example, I travel a lot and find myself dining alone quite often (at least, I think that’s the reason.) If I’m seated at a table by myself I’ll scoot my chair over to the table closest to me and initiate small talk if that person is also dining alone. I seem to have a certain knack for spotting lonely people who would enjoy a bit of chit chat with their meal. It’s a gift.

Roger: Hi! What’s shaking? Eating alone, I see. Oh, hey, they have really good Calamari here. Sorry, I was eating alone and saw you sitting here alone too and figured you – OK, I will, I’ll do that. OK then, nice to have met you as well. Thank you. See you soon.

Sometimes people aren’t always up for company.

When I’m eating alone I dislike it when people impose themselves on my space and time. If I’m seated at a barstool at a restaurant, I can tell when someone’s longing for chit chat, waiting for the green light to strike up a conversation, especially if they’ve had a few. They’re slumped over the bar, chin on their chest, mouth agape, eyes rolled back into their head.

If I’m not in the mood for small talk, I don’t want to encourage it by giving them an opening to jump in. You’ve been there. You can feel the desperation in the air. It’s thick with loud sighs and sudden glances your way. You’d like the pepper but then you’d have to let him in. The hell with it, I don’t need seasoning. I’m part English. He’s already on his third martini and he’s been here less than 30 minutes. He must work for the Democratic National Committee. There’s no way I’m talking to this idiot. I don’t want to hear his views.

And then there’s “restaurant stranger betrayal”. This is where the tardy friend of the drunk that you didn’t want to speak to in the first place arrives and the drunk doesn’t bother to make introductions or anything. They just up and leave. You extended yourself. You allowed this schmuck, this ingrate, into your space and world. You opened emotional veins, told him about your experience with certain banned substances, your uncle’s affiliation with certain “hate groups” and your sister-in-law’s relationship problems, and now, not so much as a goodbye. You bastard!

Now your self esteem plummets . . . again. You’re on the phone with the suicide hotline. “Hello, suicide hotline? Yes, I’m a mess. I was just dumped from another relationship. I don’t know what the problem is . . . one moment we’re having dinner and drinks, communicating with each other and it’s beautiful, and then their friend shows up. It’s like I didn’t exist. I can’t take any more rejection. I’m killing myself as soon as I finish eating my cheesecake. What’s that? I’m having the chocolate mousse. Yeah, it’s my favorite too. I feel better now. Hey, what took you so long to answer the phone? The suicide hotline has caller I.D.?”

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This is Column # RM013. Request permission to publish here.