My writing group is homeless. That is not to say that we’re a cluster of humanity who live under overpasses or on sidewalks who also happen to enjoy writing.
We are homeless in that the place where we normally meet is under renovation for a month or two and we have nowhere else to go.
We’re a group of people that I sometimes liken to square pegs in a world of round holes.
Now that I think of it, not unlike many in the homeless community. Interesting …
Our Fearless Leader who is NOT fearless, (which is why this little story has a twinge of irony to it,) had been attempting to locate an interim location for our sorry asses. I say sorry asses only because we tend to be a difficult bunch who are rarely sorry for our outbursts, but may concede that we are difficult from time to time, and thus, sorry, (although we usually don’t know for what.) Laura, our leader, is a saint. Holla.
Anyway, our Fearless- Leader- Who- Is- Not-Usually- Fearless decided to check out a Diner in the middle of town to see if it would be able to accommodate our group. She spoke to a nice lady, who shall remain nameless to protect her from arsenic in her food served by her co-workers. The nice lady advised Fearless that the patio room would be perfect because we’d be off by ourselves. It would be a quiet space, but we would also be able to have drinks and anything else we might want. So Monday evenings at six were agreed upon. The Nice Lady wrote it on a piece of paper and attached it to the diner calendar. Fearless Leader gave the Nice Lady a card with her phone number on it in case the Diner folks had any questions. The room was verified again via a phone conversation a week before our meeting.
When I arrived there on Monday night I was greeted by a sweet little old lady who asked if she could help me.
“I’m here for the writers group.” I smiled down at her. She reminded me of Grandma Grindle.
“We didn’t know you were coming.” Her demeanor changed from nice to something else, something sinister. The smile vanished like piss in sand. In a cold, flat tone she said, “We put you all back there. It’s the best we could do.”
I thanked her and made my way past the empty tables to a long setup where my group appeared to be sitting in each other’s laps. It was like an Escher optical illusion. I heard the old lady yell sweetly after me to enjoy my dinner.
An equally irritated server/waitress (what is the correct terminology anyway?) scurried around the table as if the Republican convention had just descended upon her. Come to think of it …there was a framed picture of Jeb and Dubya over the cash register. They probably didn’t catch hell. They probably called ahead.
I found an empty chair and wedged myself between Fearless Leader and a young lady in the group who is likely to burst into song anywhere, anytime … and she doesn’t even drink. She calls these outbursts, “air concerts.” She and one of the lawyers in our group were in rapt conversation about colleges. We have lawyers, psychologists, students, retired auto-workers, bakers, frustrated office workers, etc. in our bunch. Back stories abound.
Let me back up for just a moment. I may have misrepresented us a little. We’re actually a pretty agreeable group. We don’t ask for much. We just need a quiet place to read aloud, make suggestions to each other, and eat an occasional snack.
I couldn’t hear everyone at the table because menus were being handed out as our server answered questions about the food. Plus, the table was the length of half a football field.
A few real customers came in, so our server, who knew we needed a quiet space, sat them in our immediate vicinity.
She told us over and over that if she had only KNOWN we were coming, she could have set up the patio. But she was only one personand it wouldn’t be possible to go between two different rooms. (She’d actually have to OPEN A DOOR.) Besides, they’d need to put the air on out there on the patio and it takes time for it to cool down. She couldn’t understand why we hadn’t made arrangements before we came. Could she get us anything? (Sweet smile.)
Fearless Leader was flummoxed as she apologized to our waitress and assured her, for probably the tenth time, that she HAD made arrangements.
“Well, you should have called and confirmed hon. Now, what can I get you?” (Sweet smile again.)
“I guess I’ll have a chef salad. Is anyone else going to order anything? I mean, we’re here to read and critique…”
“What do you want on that hon? We have ranch, Greek, and French.”
We scrutinized the menus which took up most of what little table space remained. We were a little uncomfortable. This was definitely not like a normal writers meeting. Glasses of water and iced tea sat on top of books and copies of stories. Condiments covered every space in between. It was loud. We were confused as to whether we should order food or just a couple of appetizers to be polite.
I clicked my pen nervously and stared at the menu. I was hungry, so what the hell. I asked her if I could have a Caesar Salad. She told me in no uncertain terms that they did not offer Caesar salads, but I could have a GREEK salad. (Wasn’t the Caesar guy Greek? Maybe he was Italian…) I did not wish to have a Greek salad so I went with fried clams.
I knew things were off- kilter because I never eat fried food. I believe that an Evil Diner Spirit must have taken over the stomach part of my brain.
As the evening wore on, a few people attempted to read stories and poems they’d written.
Every time a person attempted to read they found themselves competing with our waitress who was busy plopping plates down in front of people who had not ordered those particular items.
“Well then, who ordered this cheeseburger? I could have sworn YOU did. That’s alright; we’ll get this figured out. Who got the wine? Did you need more water sweetie? Anyone want more tea? HOW’S EVERYONE DOWN THERE? Ok then, I’ll just leave ya’ll alone. Enjoy!”
“This is the first time I’ve read so I’m a little nervous…”
“Can you SPEAK UP? We can’t HEAR you down here!”
“Sorry!” It was the waitress again. “Who ordered these FRIES? Here you go honey. Now, did anyone need anything else before I leave you be?”
“Anyway, (clears her throat) this is a true story about ...”
“WE CAN’T HEAR YOU DOWN HERE!”
Laura had not gotten her chef salad. Everyone else was almost done eating.
The waitress returned. There was loud laughter from the tables around us. “I hate to bother you, but does anyone need anything else at all? That’s what I’m here for!” She winked.
“This is a story about a dog…”
“SPEAK UP!”
“I didn’t get my salad yet. I ordered a chef salad.”
“Are you sure? The waitress asked Laura as if she was too feeble to know whether she’d eaten or not. I wanted to jab my fork accidently into her leg while she stood next to us with her hand on her hip.
We tried to listen to the story between the clearing of plates, the clanking of silverware, and the laughter of the few patrons seated directly around us.
“HERE’S your salad honey. I’m so sorry. I hope it’s not too late. Now what kind of dressing did you say you wanted with that?
“Do you have Italian?”
“GREEK. We don’t have Italian. We have GREEK.”
“We were driving through the mountains when this very thin dog….”
“You know hon”, the waitress said as she placed the salad in front of Laura, “as long as you let us know AHEAD of time, we can get that patio ready. It doesn’t take all that long.” (She forces another smile.) “What ELSE can I get anyone before I leave you alone?”
“But I thought you said you couldn’t handle two rooms. I thought you said that you’d have to get another waitress?”
“The dog trotted up to our car like he knew us and…”
“SHOOT, I can handle these two rooms, but we have to know that you’re coming hon.”
“But I came and talked to someone. I talked to another woman and I called.” Our waitress asked who she spoke to. Laura told her. She rolled her eyes as if to say, “HER? You told HER??? Well THAT’S where you made your mistake! WHY would you make arrangements with HER?” We watched her roll her eyes about her fellow employee. I wondered what their Christmas parties were like.
The writer finished reading her story and set it down on a wet spot in front of her. I was reasonably sure it was a very good story. Thankfully we had copies, even though we had nowhere to put them so we could write on them.
“Well, we’ll be glad to have the patio ready from now on. Enjoy your salad sweetie.”
Fearless leader, looking entirely bereft, asked, “Does anyone have any comments or critique?”
And so it went.
Now, I’ve been accused of being passive-aggressive from time to time, but for the life of me I have no idea why.
So I mentioned to the waitress as we were leaving that I was sure the NEXT time they wouldn’t be so confused because maybe they’ll actually think to check their calendar. Of course, they probably didn’t need our business anyway, given how PACKED they were. (I gestured to the empty tables.) We truly enjoyed everything she did to accommodate us on such short notice, which probably explained why the clams had the texture of deep-fried rubber bands. Still, they did us quite a favor considering how disruptive we were to the other patrons, all two tables of them.
And the patio would probably have cost them extra money to cool. It was obvious they were on a tight budget judging by the food and all. We probably shouldn’t come back, given what a pain in the ass it surely must have been to write separate tickets and pull these tables together. But she was so sweet to take care of us. Really. I conceded that our group belonged more in a library setting, or someplace like that. What were we thinking?
Never piss off a writer.
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