Forgot to turn on my human module before going out last night. It’s one downfall of working from home, sometimes you forget how to act. We went to some pub because my friend, just back from an eating binge down south, had a craving for a certain type of salty cheese I never heard of. After hunting through every grocery in the neighborhood, he read online that this pub makes their own.
For some reason they serve their margaritas in a pint glass, which was the first red flag that I was out of my element. No half-pints? Because this was a very fancy pub, my hungry buddy had to order a side of cheese to smear on his burger, nickle-and-diming at its finest. So the food comes and our 20 year old waiter assumes my friend ordered the burger and I the ginormous mound of pink spread complete with a handful of saltines. He slides the plate in front of me. Some of the crackers picked up momentum and slid clear off the plate, which the margarita in me found hilarious.
Waiter said “Sorry”. The music stops so everyone in the pub can hear me say, without making eye contact or in any way indicating I was joshing, “Thaaaaaaanks” in a nasally voice that doesn’t really belong to me. Waiter scurries away and I look up to see a brand new expression on my friend, equal parts horrified, embarrassed and confused because I don’t usually make servers cry (He didn’t really cry).
Doesn’t it seem like some people just bring out the worst in you? If you do one weird thing and someone happens to see, it’s that person who always witnesses you tripping orphans or stomping on grasshoppers. They should have shirts that say “This isn’t really me”. That would be my going out shirt. How I’ve digressed from the days of at least trying to look like I tried to look like I tried.
I swear every time that poor waiter walked by I was mid-sentence – mouth open, teeth bared. And he kept getting younger and younger. By the end of the night he was a 5 year old creeping on egg shells. Just another night out in Brooklyn that proves I should stay home always. I went home and read Rachel Dratch.
Hopefully I’ll find the human button by this weekend, or we may break into stalker mode at Brooklyn Book Fair. Maybe I should just apologize in advance: Hey, Coleson Whitehead and Paul Auster … Sorry!
Which authors would you go mad to meet?