The Burden of the Sorrow Bearer

Tonight I went out for the first time since Caro last was out of the house in August. I left at 9, but the open-mic acoustic show didn't start until 10, so I stopped at the new Hooters (since I'd never been to one) in Vandalia. The bartender was strikingly attractive, so of course I made every effort to avoid looking at the staff. Two Coors Lights later, I was on my way to the Trolley Stop. I'd've had only one, but they were running a special and I got to keep the football commemorative glass. Too bad I don't give a shit about sports.

I arrived at the Trolley Stop, and true to form plastered my back against the nearest convenient wall. There is a resident ex-hippie there whom I recognized from the first two times I'd been there. After an hour or so, I introduced myself and told him how much I admired that he would dance around even when nobody else was. He said that he noticed I was the only one there who was alone but smiling and moving the the music, and not to lose that satisfied grin. Ego boost. I notice a woman who looks every bit as awkward and lonely as I feel, so armed with a little liquid courage I seek to offer her my prime piece of wallflower real-estate, which is this little corner that's out of anybody's way but with a great view of the stage. She thinks I'm hitting on her, even though I assure her I'm not. She moves upstairs.

Time passes and a small two-person table empties. I grab it. Sitting there, very heavily buzzed, I am off in my own little world bopping to the guitar players. I take frequent looks around. Every other table is over full with people rapt in what I can only guess to be lively and entertaining conversation, based on the looks on peoples' faces, and the bar is alive with spontaneous conversations. Guys are putting on their best charm in effort to score those elusive pieces of ass. Women are eating up the attention, laughing at all the mens' jokes which I can only assume to be beyond lame. Meanwhile, I sit and silently bop to the music.

I am there, but at the same time I am not. It's like I'm watching it all on TV. I am left wondering what the fine line is between observation and participation, the boundary of which I can't quite figure out to which side I'm leaning.

Shy-looking girl is back down on the floor, doing what in retrospect is an excellent bashful puppy-dog eyes act, but my heart is breaking (as I am gullible and buying her performance) watching people pass by her as she stands against a ceiling support sipping her drink. I go over and establish, once again, that I am not hitting on her (as I point to my ring and flatly say that I'm married and thus harmless). I tell her that I have a seat open at my table and at the very least if her feet begin to hurt I'm good for some lively conversation. She asks me if I'm lying to her. Again, I point to my ring and tell her I'm not one of those creepy married guys who hits on women in bars. She thinks I'm hitting on her anyway... I can see it in the way she's looking at me. Fuck her. I return to my seat and my anthropological studies of the social behaviors of these weird 20-something creatures as I quietly bop to the music.

I see shy-looking girl has started talking to some guy, and after a half hour or so they head for the door. I smile knowingly. It's clear what she was looking for. They're probably fucking as I type this.

The next act just happens to be one of the guys that was at the movie auditions Saturday. I forgot to tell you guys about that, I'll have to later. He sucks terribly. Whiney hippie crap. Don't get me wrong, I am a hippie, I simply have no tolerance for whiney hippies. Yes, I can sometimes be whiney, and thus often can't tolerate myself. There.

I leave, a bit too drunk for comfort, so I window shop at a few antique and vintage clothing stores on the way to the car, hoping to walk off some of the buzz. The spare-changers are out in force, and I fear them worse than my inebriation, so I hurry to my car and get the fuck out of Dayton.

I get to Huber Heights. It's 1:17am. The White Castle is FUCKING CLOSED! When the fuck did this happen? No more 24-hour? The only other White Castle in Dayton is on the West Side. Fuck going there after dark. I'm not risking a gunshot to the skull, all for the sake of a tray of sliders. I take Chambersburg road out of Huber to Little York road into Vandalia. Waffle House it is.

I get to the Waffle House on US Route 40. Inside are two elderly couples at the tables and a redneck-looking mother and daughter sitting at the counter. I take a table. "Achey-Breaky Heart" is playing. (Does it get any more movie-moment than that?) Among the extensive array of bottled condiments is a jar of "Casa de Waffle Picante Sauce". I learn from the menu that there are 3,538,944 different ways to enjoy their hash browns. How the fuck did they arrive at that statistic?? Anyhow, I order a diet Coke and a waffle, and proceed to scribble notes (from which I'm now reading) on the backs of old grocery receipts I had in my coat pocket. I take a good look around. The waitress is filling pop glasses. The mother and daughter silently puff their cigarettes and stare off into space. The elderly couples look at their plates as they slowly chew their food, and the line cook is busy attending the grill. I feel like I had momentarily stepped out of reality and into an Edward Hopper painting. My very own "Nighthawks". I am pleased by the drama.