Observations of a Solitary Meal: Adventures in Field Notes
As the sun is setting, there's nothing beyond the trees.
The pencil's a prop. All just a show to the people who aren't looking.
It's all alright--they do it too. Notice how no one notices.
Starting to fill up. Sun sinks deeper. Keep on writing. Thoughtful bites.
My reflection's in the window. The rain's made my hair puffy.
Storm clouds in the sky. Storm cloud on my head. Sizzle of electricity.
The man at the next table sticks his fingers to his scalp--trying to keep his hair from escaping. His battle's been in vain.
He drinks Pepsi from a can through a straw. That's efficiency--no gratuitious lifting required. His is a solitary business dinner. No schmoozing with clients. Just numbers and pages and pen ink on his chin.
At the high top table, his feet dangle like a child's. His youth has settled in his feet.
There's another guy. At the table directly in front of me. He chews, then looks to his left at the window. Nonchalance. Subtle. But then I notice you can't see anything out the window anymore. He, too, looks at himself in the glass. The window to his soul.
He caught me. He sticks on his long black coat and stands, sticking his graduate student backpack over only his right shoulder. Picks up his tray and rushes off. He forgot to push in his chair. He takes the long way around to the garbage can.
Two men walking in unison to the food counter. They get closer. Realize I know one of them. I look back down at my paper. He keeps walking.
Woman wraps brightly colored scarf around her neck 5 times. It's longer than she is.
My chicken's gone cold. I eat it anyway. With barbeque sauce, I barely notice except to point out its state of coldness. Today it was the good chicken. The fresh kind. Not the dried under the heating lamp remnants of lunch, but the beat the crowd preparations for dinner.
Man keeps fidgeting. His hand makes red marks on his forehead. I can make out each individual finger. They thumb makes a spot right between his eyes. Bull's eye.
I don't understand the random flourescent lights. Incongruous to the cozy, soft lighting of the dining room. Lends a McDonald's feel to the otherwise Italian restaurant vibe of the student center cafeteria.
Chilly next to the window. Wind from the lake seeps through the edges. Dampness pervades.
The dinner crowd is here.
I am gone.
The pencil's a prop. All just a show to the people who aren't looking.
It's all alright--they do it too. Notice how no one notices.
Starting to fill up. Sun sinks deeper. Keep on writing. Thoughtful bites.
My reflection's in the window. The rain's made my hair puffy.
Storm clouds in the sky. Storm cloud on my head. Sizzle of electricity.
The man at the next table sticks his fingers to his scalp--trying to keep his hair from escaping. His battle's been in vain.
He drinks Pepsi from a can through a straw. That's efficiency--no gratuitious lifting required. His is a solitary business dinner. No schmoozing with clients. Just numbers and pages and pen ink on his chin.
At the high top table, his feet dangle like a child's. His youth has settled in his feet.
There's another guy. At the table directly in front of me. He chews, then looks to his left at the window. Nonchalance. Subtle. But then I notice you can't see anything out the window anymore. He, too, looks at himself in the glass. The window to his soul.
He caught me. He sticks on his long black coat and stands, sticking his graduate student backpack over only his right shoulder. Picks up his tray and rushes off. He forgot to push in his chair. He takes the long way around to the garbage can.
Two men walking in unison to the food counter. They get closer. Realize I know one of them. I look back down at my paper. He keeps walking.
Woman wraps brightly colored scarf around her neck 5 times. It's longer than she is.
My chicken's gone cold. I eat it anyway. With barbeque sauce, I barely notice except to point out its state of coldness. Today it was the good chicken. The fresh kind. Not the dried under the heating lamp remnants of lunch, but the beat the crowd preparations for dinner.
Man keeps fidgeting. His hand makes red marks on his forehead. I can make out each individual finger. They thumb makes a spot right between his eyes. Bull's eye.
I don't understand the random flourescent lights. Incongruous to the cozy, soft lighting of the dining room. Lends a McDonald's feel to the otherwise Italian restaurant vibe of the student center cafeteria.
Chilly next to the window. Wind from the lake seeps through the edges. Dampness pervades.
The dinner crowd is here.
I am gone.