towards Evan Gordon

Me and a Basket of Fries

Erica Kletkin

I’m digging through a basket of Belgian fries, my stomach already half full from having a bowl of soup just before. It’s a good meal. The walls of the restaurant are all transparent glass, so every time I look up from my lunch I get to watch a new sea of people pass by with their shopping bags and coffees. It seems you can’t go anywhere without a coffee these days. It’s a sophisticated inconvenience — sort of like wearing heels, I guess. I’m not trying to pass judgement or anything. God knows I can’t go anywhere without a cup of coffee either. It’s just an observation. It’s good to notice these things. Someone needs to pay attention to this kind of stuff. Most people aren’t really looking into it, but I am. I get to sit back and watch. The whole world is one ongoing tv program that never shuts off. No commercial breaks or hiatuses. Makes you thankful for those tv shows that only release one episode a week. You get too much at once and you stop seeing the pretty things. You stop getting impressed by the way the seasons make the world change colors and you don’t feel small next to tall buildings anymore. All you notice are the coffees. Matter of fact, I’m going to order a coffee myself. You have to be one of many sometimes. Besides, coffee tastes good.

I run over to the counter and order some variation of coffee that costs me seven dollars. Seven dollars is quite a lot of money for eight ounces of liquid laxative. I keep looking back and forth from the cashier to the table where all of my stuff is at. It’s one of my least favorite things about dining alone. You always have to keep an eye on your stuff. God forbid you have to use the bathroom. You end up having to ask someone sitting nearby to watch your things, just so you can go without losing your table. Everyone always seems happy to do it, but the minute you start walking away, they turn back to their laptops and cellphones. One day, I want to ask someone to watch my things, just for them to say, “You know what? I don’t want to look after your things for you — and also, fuck you.” You see, that would be exhilarating to hear. I might cry a bit in response, since you know, it’s a pretty harsh reply, but man what honesty.

The cashier, a woman of ambiguous age with a rockabilly hairdo, slides me my coffee and I return to my table. I take a good, long sip and realize that half of the cup is just ice. What a ripoff. I continue to pick at my fries as I look around the room. I notice the door open as a short, stout man runs in to grab a pickup order from the counter. He leaves in a flash, then mounts his bicycle and rides off into the busy street. I always get the slightest twinge of anxiety whenever I see those delivery guys riding around New York City. Honestly, I think those guys should join the military. Have you seen how fast they are? Teach them how to diffuse a bomb and they’ll have it done in no time. They’re pretty dauntless too, you know. Imagine riding a bike through the streets of Manhattan. Heavy backpack full of food. Buses and cars zooming past you at all times. One wrong turn and you’re just relics of a car accident. We gotta give it up for the delivery guys of New York City.

In front of me, two tables away, are two guys sitting across from one another. They’re scarfing down burgers and laughing about something. I don’t know what they’re laughing about, but it sure seems funny. They seem like the best of pals. Man, do they seem like the very, very best of pals. I want to know what they’re laughing about, just for kicks, but there’s music playing from the speakers above me and too much chatter going around that it’s nearly impossible. I think I heard the one in the sweater mention something about a movie. He’s got a really nice sweater on. It’s Manhattan, so you don’t see many people in bullshit sweaters here. If I had to place a bet on it, I’d say it’s merino wool. Mr. Merino Wool guy definitely said the word “movie,” but that’s all I could make out.

The door swings open again. This time, it’s a middle-aged man and a girl who looks about twenty. There’s this weird air to them, like they’re still somewhere else despite having entered the restaurant. This place is one of those fast-casual joints — meaning you have to seat yourself — so, the two of them take up the booth that’s diagonally to my right. The man is facing me, but the girl is facing the opposite way. I want her to turn around, so I can get a better look at her face, but all I see is her profile. I see short brown hair with messy, loose curls and pale, slender fingers. I look over at the man, who’s salt and peppered, but with some life left in him. He has a grey stubble and a big coat on. They haven’t made eye contact with each other once since entering, which I find intriguing. Both of them are looking at the menu that’s hanging behind the cashier.

After a minute, their silence breaks.

The man asks, “What are you ordering?”

The girl goes, “I’ll have half of whatever you’re having.”

“What if I want the whole thing?”

“Well, I don’t know if I have enough room for an entire meal right now.”

“You said you were starving.”

“Yes. I did say I was starving.”

“What? Did you swallow so much air on our way here that you’re full now?”

“I’m allowed to change my mind.”

The man replies with, “What does that have to do with your stomach?”

“It’s a woman thing. You wouldn’t understand.” she bites back.

He groans and rubs at his temples. “Everything with you is a woman thing.”

She turns to face him and they make eye contact for the first time. They just stare at each other for what seems like a very short while or a very long moment. He’s not rubbing his temples anymore. He has his arms planted in front of him, on the table, crossed over one another. Her hands are in her lap. She fidgets with the fringe of her scarf. It’s a mossy green.

“Maybe we should go.” she says.

“You always do this. Why can’t you just be happy?”

“Why do I have to be happy?”

“Because, you should be. You’re always moping. It’s exhausting. If I knew you’d be like this” he says, trailing off. He looks back over at the menu.

“What? Finish what you were about to say.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, this fucking girl is staring at us.” he says, averting his gaze from the menu to me. The girl sitting in front of him doesn’t turn around. Instead, she just lowers her head. His eyes pierce through me like knives. “Fucking weirdo.” he continues, his voice bitter and angry.

I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say, but I can feel my cheeks turning red. I shoot up from my seat, grab my things, and flee from my table. At the door, I bump into one of the burger guys. Not the one with the sweater. The other one. He apologizes, which is obscene, because it was totally my fault. I want to say something in response, but I just scurry past him into the snow.

I turn around, now standing outside the restaurant. I peer back in through the window, just to check on my table in case I left anything behind. The table has nothing on it besides a half empty basket of fries, a tray, and the coffee. Either on accident or by habit, I look over at the girl, but she’s apparently already been staring at me this whole time. Her eyes are wet and I notice the tears moving down her cheeks. I can tell that the guy, whose back is faced towards me now, is saying something, but I obviously can’t hear what it is.

The girl just keeps staring at me. It’s a helpless stare. It’s the stare of a wounded animal that knows its about to die. I feel like she’s holding onto me as she stares at me, so I try to hold onto her. I don’t look away. I don’t look away until the man starts to turn around. Then, I abandon her, feeling dirty.

Portrait

Violet Webster