August 25, 2006

Thanks to everyone who weighed in with their antidepressant recommendations. And thanks to those who didn't, too. Something Deborah said when we discussed it was, "No one has to know," but I'm sure that if I ultimately choose to skip down the golden road of gingerbread and lollipops, I won't be able to shut up about it. In the meantime, I'm too unmotivated to bother, so for now I'll follow Kyle's advice and stick with the Trumph for my stress relief. The only problem is, I’ve noticed my emotional state is intimately connected to how well the old bird is running. Yesterday, thankfully, it purred like a kitten and ran like a top, which left me feeling unusually upbeat.

After a nice, long ride, I met Deborah for dinner in Manhattan. "There's a barbecue place near work," she said. "Wanna try it? My treat."

I arrived first and took the only table available, next to the front window that opened onto a usually sleepy sidewalk in the West Village.

"Do you have a jacket or anything?" Deborah asked when she sat down.

I dug into my bag and pulled out a dirty T-shirt I've been using at the garage.

"I have this, but it's pretty dirty."

She took it and draped it across her bare shoulders. "Perfect," she said.

The restaurant was mainly a take-out joint, with only three tables, all occupied. Outside, a couple was waiting for one to free up. The guys next to us had finished eating but were taking their time finishing their beers. The couple kept staring through the open window at them, and at us, giving off the "hurry up, we're waiting" vibes, but it wasn't working. The girl got bored and pulled out a laptop from her large purse. She sat down on the sidewalk and propped herself against a fire hydrant. Maybe she was researching alternate dining options.

Deborah and I endured roughly fifteen minutes of the guy's staring and sighing — less than a foot away — before the guys at the table beside us finally left.

"We're up next, right, Pam?" the guy said through the window as the waitress wiped the table and set out fresh silverware.

"As soon as I finish cleaning," the waitress replied.

The waitress was very friendly and courteous, though not as familiar with the man as he was with her. He called her by name more than necessary, cracked bad jokes, and greeted the other employees. He made recommendations to the woman he was with. "I always get the buffalo wings," he said. "But their ribs are fantastic, aren't they, Pam?"

The fact that the ribs really were fantastic made it easier to ignore the guy and focus on our meal, but once we finished and stepped outside, there was no way to avoid commenting on his behaviour.

"Wow," I said. "That guy was so annoying. The way he was staring through the window like that—"

"I know. When he first looked up and saw him, he scared me."

"And then he was trying to be such a big shot for his date."

"He's one of those guys who doesn't have many friends. His whole social life revolves around eating at restaurants. The waitress acts very friendly toward him — ‘Hi, how are you, so good to see you’ — because he's a regular and probably tips well. But as soon as she walks into the kitchen, I guarantee she complains to whoever will listen, 'Ugh, that annoying guy is here again.' Meanwhile, the guy has no idea. None."

"Yeah," I said. "I think I've been that guy."