PERSONALLY, I DON'T EAT RIBS

I cringe. Neatly dressed, a smile on her face, menus under her arm, she quickly looks me over and asks, ‘How many, Sir?’ The question has become familiar, is dehabilitating. The answer, ‘Just one,’ still hurts. I’ve been here many times, seen many hostesses come and go. I give this one a month at best. She seats me at a small table, at the end of a row. It is directly next to a serve station where trays rattle, waiters argue. I slip her a buck and am moved to a more comfortable, but still loud, spot.

Mulligan’s is a so called ‘sports bar’ that is usually packed for lunch and dinner. Calling it a ‘restaurant’ would be wrong–there is no ‘rest’ here.Huge t.v. screens spew football, basketball, diving competitions. The noise can burst ear drums. Fouls bring grunts, first downs, whoops of joy. I can hide here, eat a rack of delicious ribs and not worry if I get grease on my tie. There have been a few hot, boring days where I have worn a sloppy white t shirt here, emblazoned in red ‘FU’ and noone has ever asked me if I went to Florida University.

Above the bar, in a more or less separate room, are many silver trophies that aren’t silver and were never awarded. It’s a bunch of hype, atmosphere. I can eat quickly or linger over a beer, a second one without getting a dirty look from my server.

Tonight the air is chilly, my apartment lonely. I don’t like being a nobody, a ‘one’ yet had to get out among noisy, happy people. Almost an hour has past and I’m feeling slightly guilty holding this table. As I try to find my waiter for the check, I stop. My soon-to-be Ex is coming down my aisle with a man I’ve never seen before. I hate him at once and raise my large menu to cover my face. It knocks over my beer and foams over the left over ribs. I feel all eyes on me. Addie would have to be blind to not be aware of the commotion I made. A waitress doesn’t want Addie’s clothes soiled so turns her and her ‘friend’ around and takes them towards the bar.

While I and my messy table are being cleared, an adorable young waitress wearing short shorts and a tight Mulligan’s knit shirt over her growing breasts, says to me, ‘Don’t fret, Sir. Let me help you wipe your slacks.’ I reluctantly thank her but think it best I rub the grease (as best I can) off of my crotch. Being suave is not possible. ‘Just let me have my check and I’ll be out of your way.’ I give it a speed-o glance, give her my American Express card and wait and wait for her to return. My charge card goes safely into my wallet and I leave a hefty tip, squeeze out of the booth and head for the exit.

When the hostess, who in my mind won’t be at Mulligan’s long sees me,she smiles a brighter smile and mentions my ‘Just one.’ ‘Why do you come here by yourself? There is a little Italian restaurant, Gnocci’s, only two blocks away. I go there alone every Monday. Want to try it with me? I’m quitting this lousy, noisy place at the end of the week. You and I can maybe enjoy being just two. What do you say?’

I give her a gentlemanly going over and am quite pleased.‘I say, OK. Can I meet you outside of Mulligan’s at 8 next Monday?By the way, my name is Jeb. What’s yours?’