chapter 9: paul's diner

Today is the day I do it. I’m waiting in my house. Sitting on the couch. Waiting for the man in the brown hat to pull up outside my house. James, or Jim, or Jeff. When he does I’m going to confront him. I know now that he’s not dangerous. He’s human. Just some jerk who hangs out at a brewery correcting everyone. He’s skinny, and lanky. He definitely doesn’t own a gun. I’m still a little buzzed from last night. I was so happy I avoided a fight. I was so relieved that I didn’t do anything stupid the night before. I went all out. Really drank. At Al’s you don’t have to worry about anything. You can get drunk in peace. Tanner, Billy, and I partied. Everyone in that bar was drunk by the time we left. That’s how it’s supposed to be. When the lights came on at 3 am, we felt like we had actually accomplished something. I slept well last night with that sense of accomplishment. I slept like a baby who drank a keg of beer.

I need to figure out what to do about my car. It’s still at the brewery and I’m worried if I don’t pick it up today it might get towed. I could ask Tanner for a ride, but he lives kind of far away. I would feel terrible all day if I asked him for such a big favor. I never can ask anyone for help. The guilt I feel outweighs the convenience, so I always just let my problems build up until I do not know how to crawl out from under them. Then I lay in bed and hope they go away. With enough time they usually do. New, bigger problems pop up, and then you forget all about your old problems. That’s how life works.

I think I’ll just walk to my car. I’m going to wait at least an hour or so first to see if the man in the brown hat shows up. I think about all the things I could say to him. All the accusations I could throw at him. All the questions I want answers to. Then I get a text. It’s from the red-haired girl. It says: “Sorry I never responded to you. Meet me at Paul’s Diner in 30 minutes.” Before I know what I’ve done I text her back saying I’ll be there. Why don’t I tell her an hour would work better for me? I always just agree when someone asks me something. Truth be told I’m dying to see this girl again. I had started to accept the fact she didn’t like me, and came to terms with being ignored. Now there is a chance she really was out of town. I had been clinging to this vague hope these past few days. Maybe it really is true. Maybe she doesn’t regret talking to me. So I agreed.

Fuck. Now I’m rushing around the house like crazy trying to get dressed. It’s like a 20 minute walk to the brewery to get my car and that’s if I walk fast. Then I have to drive across town to get to Paul’s diner. Another 15 minutes at best. No time for a shower. I reek of booze. No time to pick out a nice outfit. I can’t find my favorite shirt. It’s this black dress shirt with two vertical red stripes. I look really good and thin when I wear it. It makes me feel comfortable and confident. I’ll just wear what I have on. Black jeans and a stained black t-shirt. I put on deodorant. Wipe each armpit twenty-two times. I douse myself in cologne. Maybe it will cover up my sweaty, boozy scent. I feed my cats. I rush outside. I’m going to have to practically sprint if I want to get there on time. It feels like it’s 100 degrees outside. I’m going to be drenched in sweat for our first date (??).

As I walk down the sidewalk I’m already sweating. The more I think about it the more I sweat. I walk quickly. Not quite jogging, but definitely not walking. I think about the man in the brown hat. I guess I won’t confront him today. Was he outside my house when I walked by? Now I can’t remember. I completely forgot about him until just now. Anxiety can erase even the greatest of fears. People always talk about anxiety like its bad symptoms are absolute, but you can get a lot accomplished when you feel like you’re going to die. When you have crippling anxiety you have a near death experience every second of every day. After a while though, it fails to be enlightening, and you can just use it to avoid other, greater anxieties. It really can be a beautiful thing. Like poison ivy hidden in a white, sterile office. Beautiful danger to break up the day. An ever looming threat to make you forget about your deadlines.

I find my car where I had left it in the parking lot. There’s a ticket under the windshield wiper. $75. Whatever, I’ll figure it out later. I’m going to be late. I get in my car. It doesn’t have AC. It’s even hotter in the car than it is outside. I’ve sweated completely through my shirt and sweat is dripping off of my face. I hit a red light immediately. Then another. I’m speeding. A cop pulls up behind me. He flips on his lights. His siren wails. Fuck. I start to pull over but then he speeds around me. Why is it that when you’re in a rush everything goes wrong? It’s almost like someone is punishing you for being late. Why is being late such a terrible offense? We gladly break all kinds of laws to avoid being late. I’m going to be very late.

I practically run into the diner. I’m well over 20 minutes late. I’m literally dripping with sweat. Luckily I wore all black today so that sweat stains don’t show up to the casual eye. If I had worn a gray shirt it would be soaked through. I can’t catch my breath, and I am hyperventilating. I go straight to the bathroom so I can cool off for a few minutes. Bathrooms are the greatest refuge known to man. The last place with any semblance of privacy. I finally catch my breath after running cold water over my wrists. I walk back outside and try to be calm. I walk to the front of the diner and wait behind the sign that says “Please wait to be seated.” I tell the hostess I am meeting a girl, and describe what she looks like. She tells me no one like that is here. I tell her I’ll go ahead and get a table. She walks me to a booth and says, “so do you want one or two menus?” I tell her I’ll take two. I don’t like her tone. I take out my phone and text the girl that I’m here. She texts back, “running a little late. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”

Thirty minutes later the girl shows up, and sits down in the booth. I’ve been sipping water and even had a coffee. I figure if I’m going to be nervous I might as well be extra nervous. At a certain point being nervous stops being awkward, and starts being quirky, and I’m really trying to see if I can push into the boundaries of the latter. When she sits down she says “hey,” and then just stares out the window. I wish I could be comfortable sitting in silence, but I’m not. I panic and as I’m about to say something about it being hot outside the waitress bails me out and walks up asking us what we want to order. I order a BLT, with fries and a diet coke. She orders a water and coffee. She says she doesn’t want any food. While the waitress was talking to us I was busy planning things we could talk about. I don’t want to talk about the weather. That’s just way too obvious. I should ask her what she’s been up to. I should ask her how much coffee she drinks a day. I should ask her what side of town she lives on. I should ask her what her favorite movie is. I should ask her what her favorite restaurant is. I should ask her if she thinks I’m ugly. I should ask her if she wants to hit me again. I should ask her if she puts cream in her coffee. I should ask her what books she has read lately. I should ask her if she has seen the Bakin’ Bacon Houses show. I shouldn’t ask her where she’s been. That’s personal.

I ask the red-haired girl where she’s been. She tells me she was visiting her brother at the hospital. His name is Happy. His name was Happy. He’s dead now. Funny how verbs change when you die. He was very sick she tells me. She spent the last few days at the hospital in a bed next to his. He was in a coma. Now he’s dead so she’s back in town. I don’t know what to say, so I ask her to tell me about Happy. The waiter comes back. She asks us if we need anything. I tell her I would take an orange juice. I don’t really like orange juice at all, but if I get another drink it will give me something to do with my hands while we talk. I can press the cool glass against my sweaty palms, and cool down some more. I’m still running hot. The waitress looks over at the red-haired girl “Do you want anything, Sweetie?” The girl tells her she’ll take more coffee. The waitress leaves. The girl looks back at me. “You want to know about Happy?” she asks me. I tell her I do. It would be wonderful if she would do all the talking. Thinking up questions to ask her is wearing me out. This is the story she told me: