magic words, vol. 8

"It would be better to lose your life than to waste it."

according to my cell phone...

"hey. i heard 'bout u, and i wanted to say hi. Umm, i'm kinda unsure, so how about you come check me out online. I got a profile at date-shake.com"
CB#: UNKNOWN
11:43A Thu Oct 23

what it is

A plane took off today at 11.15, and I saw it leaving the runway as I headed north to pick up my new friend on the way to my parents' house for Thanksgiving. I surfaced from the music cracking through my stereo long enough to think, "How tiresome to be stuck inside an airplane on the morning of Thanksgiving." But if that's the quickest route to the ones you love, then wedged against a window in coach class probably feels like a great place to be.

It was a gathering of displaced persons at my folks' place that afternoon. Not only my new friend, who had never met my family before, but also my sister's friends, who are fresh off the boat from Gambia (which is in northern Africa, for those of you who secretly have no idea), had joined the party. Also, our friends J and L had brought with them J's nephew, who didn't talk except to his cell phone and who wore a blank and hunted expression all afternoon, like a deer caught in the headlights except more like a sheep, or a St. Bernard.

We listened to the little girls perform their Christmas choir numbers, and we went around the table and told occurrences of the past year that made us thankful, and the boys played hacky-sack outside, and inside people talked about things that they mostly agreed upon. It was pleasant and warm and mild, like our climate. Then I left to go to my work party. The owner of the restaurant had invited everyone to his home for a Thanksgiving meal cooked by our chefs--I was eager to see what they would prepare on their off hours. They live in a Craftsman bungalow just up the hill from my apartment, a house with beautiful bones and lots of paintings from local artists and, as I discovered later while helping to clean up, no garbage disposal. The kitchen staff was better represented than the front of house staff--Leo and Javi and Ana had brought their spouses and children. The chefs had brought their girlfriends. I was the only server and the only singleton who attended--both facts I only just realized. There were also several friends who don't work at the restaurant but are familiar customers. As people milled around the kitchen, where the appetizers were arrayed, and the backyard, where the turkey was deep-frying, I recognized much of the food and drink as coming from the restaurant--cans of Modelo, Sunburst clams, baby radishes, fried oysters. By twos and threes, people shuffled into the back garage to get high, and I felt a little bit high myself as I sat in the kitchen with my glass of well-watered whiskey. I was grounded, my feet hooked firmly around the legs of the chair, but light-headed and disoriented, unsure of where I stood in this well-established chain of acquaintance. Were they mostly people who had nowhere else to go? Had they been looking forward to this gathering since last year? Did they only come for the free food and booze? Were they tipsy because of high holiday spirit, the glee of friendship, or out of desperation and boredom? I settled into my chair and focused with what I hope was Zen-like intensity on A, the girlfriend of one of the chefs who spends most of her evenings after work at the restaurant. Every segue in the conversation felt like a blind leap from one stepping stone to another; I never lost my footing, though. In fact, by the time we all sat down to dinner, I felt almost comfortable. The owner was red-faced and laughingly imperious, like a Fezziwig at the head of the table; the chefs were gabbling drunken rhetoric as they passed the plates; the kitchen staff were jovially sober, probably on account of the children who were beginning to fall apart at that late hour. G sank into the seat beside me with red eyes and confessions of her affection for me; M was tired and bloated, having already eaten a big Thanksgiving dinner that she herself cooked for her boyfriend's family. I listened to people talk around me. I chewed very slowly. I felt the weight of myself in my seat. I wondered what time it was but did not want to ask. I thought, "Whatever I am right now, it isn't unhappy. It isn't unhappy, at all."

I thought about people that I wished were there with me, but I didn't feel alone. That was perhaps the most alien experience of the night. Surrounded by people I know very little, who I share almost nothing with, who are neither family nor even truly friends yet, unable to make myself heard in the crossfire of conversation and with nothing much to say, anyway, nevertheless I felt assured, small but solid. I felt my own unassertive worth.

I suppose it came from being prepared to be uncomfortable, attending the party as an exercise in neither receiving, nor giving, but simply reaching out. It was a lovely freedom to ride through moments of discomfort without surprise--to drink with others and not get drunk, to smoke with them but not get high, to mention my church experience, to sit in quietness and solitude among a company of loud cohabitators. I felt like I'd been handed the key to the city.

A said, "It was great getting to talk with you." G gave me her scarf and a long embrace. People hugged me and laughed at my parting jokes, and I remembered that they were unlikely to remember any of it much, and I decided to love them nonetheless.

We can't all be family. Family can't all be friends. We can't all be Christians, at least not all at the same time. I don't know if anything is possible for "we all"--there are so many reasons and valid excuses and heartbreaks and hangups. But I can be grateful. I recognize it now. It's that deep, unemotional, spoon-fed sense of settledness in my gut, like a warm meal. It's a beautiful gift to be passed an overflowing platter and, asking "What is this? This looks good," to be told, "This is enough."