I’m sitting in the Cannon Pub in Columbus, Georgia, trying to look busy. Eating in a restaurant by myself always feels a little awkward. Should I bring a book? Make conversation with my server? Eat my food as quickly as possible and get out? My solution tonight is to sit here writing on my little spiral notepad, which is serving a dual purpose: It gives me an activity, and also makes me look like a food critic, so my service is AWESOME. The manager has already come by my table to check in. There’s a free dessert in my future.
I’ve been in Columbus for a week now, though I haven’t seen much of the city. My play rehearsals and my little apartment are both inside the opera house. If I didn’t smoke, I seriously doubt I would’ve been outside at all. My apartment is designed to handle a constant influx of artists coming and going, and is stocked with set dressing from past stage productions. It kinda looks like a state college dorm room furnished with a bunch of stuff from your grandmother’s house.
Speaking of college dorms, I’ve been talking on Facebook a lot with my friend Ames, who’s in her freshman year of college. She hates it. The girls are bitches and the unsympathetic professors are shockingly different from her supportive high school teachers. I’ve been talking her off the ledge quite a bit. Because she hasn’t made any friends (nor should she, from the sound of things), she spends a lot of time on her own. I’ve been trying to sell her on the idea of the pleasure of her own company. It’s a tricky skill to develop, but necessary for survival in any number of awkward scenarios. I’ve had to tap into that myself these days, away from my fiancé and friends. When not in rehearsal, I’ve been sitting in my room reading and watching that YouTube clip of a cat eating spaghetti.
I told Ames that there’s much to be gained from taking yourself out to lunch, or going for a walk, and I determined I should follow my own advice. I’d already celebrated the Obama victory by myself, and had too many meals sitting on my secondhand sofa from a Noel Coward play. I’ve found myself longing for a familiar face- not just Preppy, Mandy, or George, but Roberta at Suntrust who always gives me a hug when I come by, or the cashier at Kroger who knows my cigarettes. I apparently need some human contact. So today I decided to break out of the opera house and get to know Columbus a little better.
I’ve been in Columbus for a week now, though I haven’t seen much of the city. My play rehearsals and my little apartment are both inside the opera house. If I didn’t smoke, I seriously doubt I would’ve been outside at all. My apartment is designed to handle a constant influx of artists coming and going, and is stocked with set dressing from past stage productions. It kinda looks like a state college dorm room furnished with a bunch of stuff from your grandmother’s house.
Speaking of college dorms, I’ve been talking on Facebook a lot with my friend Ames, who’s in her freshman year of college. She hates it. The girls are bitches and the unsympathetic professors are shockingly different from her supportive high school teachers. I’ve been talking her off the ledge quite a bit. Because she hasn’t made any friends (nor should she, from the sound of things), she spends a lot of time on her own. I’ve been trying to sell her on the idea of the pleasure of her own company. It’s a tricky skill to develop, but necessary for survival in any number of awkward scenarios. I’ve had to tap into that myself these days, away from my fiancé and friends. When not in rehearsal, I’ve been sitting in my room reading and watching that YouTube clip of a cat eating spaghetti.
I told Ames that there’s much to be gained from taking yourself out to lunch, or going for a walk, and I determined I should follow my own advice. I’d already celebrated the Obama victory by myself, and had too many meals sitting on my secondhand sofa from a Noel Coward play. I’ve found myself longing for a familiar face- not just Preppy, Mandy, or George, but Roberta at Suntrust who always gives me a hug when I come by, or the cashier at Kroger who knows my cigarettes. I apparently need some human contact. So today I decided to break out of the opera house and get to know Columbus a little better.
I went to Burger King.
I’d passed this Burger King on my drive into town, and it’d drawn my interest. It was such a pretty restaurant, and it was huge. Once inside, I had to pause and compose myself. It was the nicest fucking Burger King I’ve ever seen. There were quotes from Mark Twain and Orson Welles on the walls, leather lounge chairs, and a variety of cozy dining nooks. I knocked on the brick wall, expecting it to be faux, but found actual masonry. This is the Burger King that only exists in the company’s commercials- filled with sunlight and happiness, where everyone is polite and near-orgasmic over the taste of their fries. I wanted to move out of my opera house apartment and live here. It’s so damn unfair, because this is not the experience I have at the filthy Burger King on Memorial Drive, where “Having it your way” means “Not getting shot,” and you should count your blessings if you manage to get that.
Thus emboldened by my fantastic fast food outing, I took myself out to dinner, which is how I ended up here at the Cannon Pub, impersonating a food critic for free desserts. Because Preppy is a vegetarian, meat is a rare guest in my refrigerator at home. It’s just too much effort to make two different meals for dinner. So whenever I go out, I try to have a celebration of meat. If there’s a Meat Lover’s option of any kind, that’s what I’ll get. Bring me a burger with a side of bacon.
I’d passed this Burger King on my drive into town, and it’d drawn my interest. It was such a pretty restaurant, and it was huge. Once inside, I had to pause and compose myself. It was the nicest fucking Burger King I’ve ever seen. There were quotes from Mark Twain and Orson Welles on the walls, leather lounge chairs, and a variety of cozy dining nooks. I knocked on the brick wall, expecting it to be faux, but found actual masonry. This is the Burger King that only exists in the company’s commercials- filled with sunlight and happiness, where everyone is polite and near-orgasmic over the taste of their fries. I wanted to move out of my opera house apartment and live here. It’s so damn unfair, because this is not the experience I have at the filthy Burger King on Memorial Drive, where “Having it your way” means “Not getting shot,” and you should count your blessings if you manage to get that.
Thus emboldened by my fantastic fast food outing, I took myself out to dinner, which is how I ended up here at the Cannon Pub, impersonating a food critic for free desserts. Because Preppy is a vegetarian, meat is a rare guest in my refrigerator at home. It’s just too much effort to make two different meals for dinner. So whenever I go out, I try to have a celebration of meat. If there’s a Meat Lover’s option of any kind, that’s what I’ll get. Bring me a burger with a side of bacon.
And a slice of ham. And sausage. Mmm.
My server brings my brownie topped with ice cream, much to my delight. I dig in, enjoying every bit of my date with myself. It’s not bad at all. I might have dived into my dessert with a little too much gusto, because a pecan sticks in my throat and I choke a little. I grab my beer and try to wash it down, but this maneuver backfires and I start hacking like a cat with a hairball. I am drawing curious glances from other tables. I reach for my napkin, trying to preserve dignity and failing miserably. Oh God. This is how I will die. Alone in some nameless pub, like so many of my Scottish ancestors. Who will the restaurant call? How will they know to call Preppy? The first name in my phone book is “Adam,” my friend in New York. He’ll call Mandy, and she’ll call Preppy to report my death. After she stops laughing.
And then my server appears and gives me a firm smack on the back, dislodging the pecan and assuring he gets a generous tip. I collect my things and head for the door, enjoying one more aspect of spending time alone: When you make an ass of yourself, there’s no witnesses to remind you later.
My server brings my brownie topped with ice cream, much to my delight. I dig in, enjoying every bit of my date with myself. It’s not bad at all. I might have dived into my dessert with a little too much gusto, because a pecan sticks in my throat and I choke a little. I grab my beer and try to wash it down, but this maneuver backfires and I start hacking like a cat with a hairball. I am drawing curious glances from other tables. I reach for my napkin, trying to preserve dignity and failing miserably. Oh God. This is how I will die. Alone in some nameless pub, like so many of my Scottish ancestors. Who will the restaurant call? How will they know to call Preppy? The first name in my phone book is “Adam,” my friend in New York. He’ll call Mandy, and she’ll call Preppy to report my death. After she stops laughing.
And then my server appears and gives me a firm smack on the back, dislodging the pecan and assuring he gets a generous tip. I collect my things and head for the door, enjoying one more aspect of spending time alone: When you make an ass of yourself, there’s no witnesses to remind you later.
