So on a recent Saturday night, something suddenly came up and my dinner plans fell through. It was a somewhat pleasant night (finally), so rather than sit home alone with the remote and a plate of cheese and crackers, I did something I never do: I went out to dine by myself.
Yeah, it had been a looooong week. I wanted to be around people, but not exactly with anyone. If that makes sense. Besides, didn’t Ernest Hemingway hit bars by himself all the time? And look how that worked out for him!
So I pulled up my bootstraps, mustered whatever pluck I had laying around, and found my way to a hip brew pub about 15 minutes from my house. Even though I don’t really go for any of the 117 local craft brews on tap there, I really like the food and vibe.
When I get there, the place is busy but not overwhelming. Perfect! I take a deep breath and head inside.
In the back of my mind, Billy Joel’s “Piano Man” cues up. Not that I’m the lyrical storyteller he is, but I can see pieces sort of coming together.
“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in …”
Okay, more like six o’clock—I ain’t no 30-year-old wild man! I find a stool at the bar and then order a glass of water and mozzarella sticks because, you know, I’m a wild man like that.
I pretend to focus on the college baseball game on the TV over the bar, but I’m really glancing around surreptitiously. Couples are dining together, some laughing, some chatting, some in stony silence staring anywhere but at one another. Other couples, trios, quartets, etc. drink, eat and interact socially. The place isn’t exactly teeming with odd characters, which is fine. I don’t see any real estate novelists, although I’m not sure that anyone really has.
As an inveterate people watcher, I’ve often observed people who are alone at bars or restaurants. I try to not pass judgement, but I do tend to whip up back stories as to why they might be on their own in that particular instance. “Hey, bet that guy in the jacket is an international diamond thief who is laying up here until a fence can be found for the cache of jewels he has hidden in the sole of his sneakers.” Or “That lady at the bar with the burger and glass of white wine is a seventh-grade science teacher who just had the worst Match date at a coffee bar an hour earlier with a recently separated guy who is ‘in between’ careers and ‘temporarily’ staying with his elderly parents, neither of which was mentioned in his profile.”
I’m sure anyone watching me dip my mozzarella sticks in marinara is thinking, “Whoa, check out that super cool, bad-ass, off-duty special forces dude. I want to be with/like him.” Surely not, “Yup, there’s a dork biding his time until he’s abducted by a pack of melonheads and turned into their brood queen.”
“It’s a pretty good crowd for a Saturday …”
On one side of me is a group of a half dozen middle-aged friends/couples celebrating some event, although it could just be that it is Saturday night. They definitely have been here for a while and are well into the libations, barely this side of sloppy drunk. Overly loud, stumbling and slurring, they seem very excited about taking a number of group selfies from different angles, and then racing to post them on social media—like the college kids they still think they are do!
By the comments that I can’t avoid overhearing, I feel like they all have known and tried to outdrink/swing with one another for decades, with varying levels of success.
“Yes, they’re sharing a drink they call loneliness, but it’s better than drinkin’ alone …”
Farther down the bar is a couple in which the female wearing a tattered baseball cap looks to be at least 20 years older than her purposefully mustachioed hipster date. A cougar in its natural habitat? Rowr!
Their overly aggressive public displays of affection are not sitting right with the last bites of mozzarella sticks, but I power through and order a hot dog smothered with bacon and cheese. You know, because I’m still wild like that.
“And the waitress is practicing politics, as the businessmen slowly get stoned …”
On the side of me and down a few stools is a group of grizzled bar regulars. They seem pretty focused on mixing shots and beers, and giving the young female bartenders a hard time.
I don’t catch what precipitates it, but a bartender who I think may actually be a manager (she’s been here every time I’ve been here for the past year or two) throws up her hands and loudly declares to one of the guys, “Sorry, but I’m not talking to you any more!” All his buddies chorus together like, “OOOOH! You’re in trouble.” Except the bartender doesn’t look like she is joking, and sure enough, assiduously avoids that part of the bar until the group leaves.
When it initially happens, I consciously slide my barstool a few inches away from the hyena pack so as not to be inadvertently included among them. Not to be all white knighty, but like many of you, my patience for this kind of “locker room” shenanigans is absolute zero nowadays. This isn’t helping repair the damage done by decades of societal misogyny, to say the least.
Look, I understand the situation in a sense—the bartenders are all female and all busty, or at least dressed to give the impression of being busty. (Think Renaissance faire, but without the ill-fitting corsets, smoked turkey drumsticks and the “Huzzah!”s.) And of course, they’re being friendly to try and boost their tips ….
BUT that isn’t an invitation for anyone to be crude and/or offensive. And yet somehow not everyone understands that, no matter how much it’s pointed out. Sigh.
When I get my tab later, I ultimately make sure the tip exceeds 20 percent, you know, because that’ll somehow make up for some other guy being a dick. Even though I know it doesn’t work like that.
“There’s an old man sitting next to me, making love to his tonic and gin …”
At some point, a guy who I’d peg as in his mid 60s comes in and sits down next to me at the bar. I can tall by his posture that he wants to engage me in conversation, but I’m tired and just trying to mind my own business. When my full dinner arrives—the aforementioned hot dog smothered in bacon and cheese (Hey, I ran 5 miles this morning!), he leans over and says, “Now that looks GOOD!”
I say, “Yeah, it does, thanks!” And I politely end the conversation there. He leans in as if to invite more conversation, but again, I’m just not feeling like a lot of conversation tonight. He then drains his second beer in about 2 minutes, gets up and quickly departs, letting the front door slam behind him. Not quite sure what was going on there, just happy I avoided it.
I polish off my dinner, debate about having dessert, and decide I’m not that much of a wild man tonight. I pay my tab, take another look around ….
“Oh, la la la, di da da, la la, di da da da dum …”
Yeah, I guess I’m finally feelin’ alright. I nod to the bartender, go out the door, and head home for what’s left of Saturday night.