The compilation of thoughts, memories, and musings of a young girl living her life.
Perhaps after walking around blocks in search of an Italian restaurant for an hour simply exhausted me and when I saw that old man with a ponytail and no neck—looking eerily similar to Danny DeVito (is that how you spell his name? I forget) glare at me while I read the chalk sign outside, I gave up—despite being anxious and afraid of the prices I would be faced. Oh yes, my utter discomfort with my strict frugality was overpowering, especially with the greeting, “Lunch?”
He yelled at me.
“What?” I turned off my music, fumbling with my iPod next to my wallet in my pocket, which were too big for comfort. These weren’t my favorite pants; the pockets were far to large—so big that I could shove my wallet really close to my crotch, which bothered me. I labeled them my “masturbation pants” even though I’ve never masturbated. That disturbs me even more, now that I think about it.
“Lunch?” He said, his stereotypical harsh, Italian accent overpowering the question. “Do you want lunch?”
“Okay.” I had absolutely no confidence in my voice, like a child accidentally walking into a restaurant and now what? Do I just leave?
“Alright. Come on. Sit somewhere.”
Despite the fact that I felt I was being bullied, the timidity and ingrained courtesy I was raised with took the best of me as I gravitated towards a booth—scarlet leather—underneath the radio speakers playing Christmas carols and next to the refrigerators holding various sodas. “Let it Snow” played in the background as I sank down into the booth, the table reaching just parallel to my breasts.
I was tiny. I was a little girl trying to eat lunch all by herself like an adult.
“You the only one here?” The old man raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah.”
He nodded as if trying to understand, but I could tell he didn’t really accept the concept of eating lunch alone. It was when I pulled out my red composition notebook that he got the message.
“A writer, huh?”
I shrugged.
“I’ll get the waitress. Wait.”
The waitress was young—perhaps a little older than I was—and she seemed to realize my social awkwardness at first instance. You could tell from her blonde artificial curls, studded nose piercing, and waxed eyebrows that she was the daughter hired to work there, a socialite just trying to make some cash on the side, a typical college student getting by and unamused by my Loner Manifesto as she muttered, “Ready?”
“Um, I need—”
“I’ll be back.”
I wasn’t even sure if I could afford this place. There wasn’t an outside menu for me to check the prices—for crying out loud, what the hell was I doing? Everything here was at least twelve dollars—what the hell was I going to do? I can’t buy myself lunch. I’m in college. Money is a figment of my imagination.
The waitress slapped iced water in front of me.
I ordered fettuccine plain because if I wanted chicken, it would be three dollars more.
Apparently this came with a salad and bread with butter. Thank God.
“This place is a fucking mess!”
For a good part of my thought-provoking mental life, I’ve had this theory that only interesting, quirky situations occur when having solitude adventures. At least, in my case. Here was a middle-aged woman, her dyed platinum blonde hair falling out and thinning in its bunned state, raging in the restaurant in her cheetah jacket and aqua spandex leggings. Oh, if only I were lying.
“Don’t fucking shout in this place. We got a guest!”
Holding my fork in my hand, my poster grew worse as I realized I was the only person in the restaurant. The dim lighting, the green curtain dividing me from the other side of the restaurant, the stairs leading up to somewhere—it was all eerily adding up to a mafia-run Italian restaurant in Boston.
It had to have been all in my head, but well, it was funny.
So I smiled.
“DISH?!” The woman screamed, rearranging the flower centerpieces on each table. “HOW COULD YOU MENTION THE DAMN DISH?! YOU ASSHOLE. YOU LOW SCUM.”
Lunch was nice though.
