I’ll say this upfront, this story has a happy ending. But it did start a little rocky. It was towards the end of my shift yesterday when a woman (I’d guess around 60) came in by herself and sat at, without question, the most unpopular table in the restaurant, despite the fact that every more desirable table was available. (We were empty.) She asked about a combination special we used to have for 20 years that’s been gone for 5. That question is not rare, we get it at least once a day. The news that that special was gone and then the subsequent news that she missed the lunch special by 9 minutes seemed to affect her deeply.

As I said, the restaurant was empty. She asked me questions about one item that included breaded and deep fried chicken. She wanted to know if it was crispy, I said it was. She asked if they could make it crispy but not too crispy. She had a toothache. I told her we could make the dish with the chicken not breaded and fried but she said, no, no, no. She liked the chicken crispy just not too crispy. She repeated the information about her tooth hurting. She did order this particular chicken dish, with the directive to the kitchen about the crispness ratio. (“Chicken crispy but not too crispy” is exactly what I typed.) Then she proceeded to order two other items that are both, well, crispy. I warned her that those dishes were also crispy and she assured me that that was fine.

She asked me how caffeinated and sweet our iced tea was (very caffeinated, unsweetened). I think the moment I offered to bring her a taste of the iced tea was when our relationship shifted. I put some ice in a glass and filled it a quarter or so, brought it to the table with sugar. She told me she needed caffeine and sugar because she had been cleaning her house all day. She was almost done but she would do the rest tomorrow. She also told me she used to have a cleaning woman who was very good but the woman stopped returning her calls after the pandemic. Anyway, she needed the caffeine and the sugar to recover from the cleaning.

(Side note: Eric and I do not have a cleaning person. We could use it. We have way too much stuff and honestly, my time would be better served going through stacks of ephemera (playbills, estate sale books, photographs) and throwing most in the trash, than me retelling you this story about my day. But, as they say, I digress.)

The kitchen guys did ask me what I meant by crispy but not too crispy and I just said, “you know, crispy. But also, not too crispy.” When the food was ready, I brought it to the table and she thanked me. From a distance, I looked back and I saw her lifting her hands to the sky in a measured, reverent manner then brought her fingers to her lips and kissed them. It was a prayer of thanksgiving that I’d never seen before. (And I went to Bible college. In the 1980s.) I felt almost ashamed to witness such a private moment, but also, touched. My heart had already softened, and I saw a glimpse of the young girl she must have once been. God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for this food.

The chicken was apparently appropriately crispy because she ate it happily, if slowly. One time I went to the table to refill her iced tea and she asked me if I liked classical music. “Yes, I do.” (Only a small exaggeration.) She said, “I had a feeling you liked classical music.” She then gave me two flyers she’d received in the mail for concerts that were coming up in the LA. “Oh, that’s so nice of you, but I don’t want to take your mail.” “No, no, it’s for you, I scratched out my name and address.” So, I took them.

I must say, she had charmed me by presuming I was more erudite than I am. I’d already figured out that she was a little lonely. When the next server, my relief, came in I told him that she’d annoyed me until I realized that she is basically me and I am basically her. He laughed but did not disagree with me.

Here is how her I am. Some might remember in my last blog, about that car accident in July, I mentioned that the salads I’d purchased at Mendocino Farms ended up being casualties of the collision. (Literally tossed, the backseat of a Toyota Corolla the world’s largest salad spinner.) Last week, I reentered Mendocino Farms for the first time in two months. “Funny story,” I began to the early 20 something taking my order, “the last time I bought Mendocino Farms I almost died on the way to the Hollywood Bowl.” And because I do not hesitate to repeat a tired punchline, I told them the salads, intended for my friends and me, were “literally tossed” in the backseat of my Uber.

Though every person working at the counter (also young 20somethings) turned to listen to my story, their reactions were tepid, at best. “Oh wow,” my cashier said. Wow, indeed, I thought. I’ll be honest, I had hoped my story would be good for a free cookie or a bag of chips. Did I fantasize about the manager comping that day’s order, saying, “You, SIR, are exactly the customer, no, GUEST, that we value here in the Mendocino Farm Community. Thank you for not dying, but also, also, thank you for coming back to us, for coming back HOME!”?!?! You know me and you know I did. Anyway, no free cookie, no genuine, “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

Now, I’m the first to admit that I’m kooky, kooky being a euphemism for any number of other descriptors. I am Alex Forrest from Fatal Attraction. My internal monologue is always, persistently, “I’m not going to be IGNORED, Dan.” And the older I get, the more I feel this vanishing, this inconsequentiality. I am not heard, I am not seen. (Not always, obviously I AM exaggerating, for dramatic effect, but you get it.)

My friend, at Table 42, she told me that lately she has been watching the Three’s Company marathon on Logo. She said she watches it for twelve hours and her neighbor gets mad because she’s laughing into the early morning hours. “John Ritter is so funny. And Suzanne Somers, playing this ditzy girl but she was VERY smart.” She told me that Three’s Company was the first show she watched on tv when she moved to America as a child. We both sighed as we remembered the early death of John Ritter who had so much more joy, more laughs, to give the world. “And Suzanne died last year, of course,” she added sadly.

Anyway, not much later, she paid for her check. She tipped in cash, a thoughtful and appreciated gesture. She told me she was going to stay for awhile because she needed to call Autozone. She needed to find out if they had replacement bulbs for the lights that are in car visors. She told me that there used to be three really helpful guys at the Autozone in Burbank but they all left awhile ago.

She was on the phone when I slipped away, I looked her way to wave goodbye but she seemed very embroiled in her conversation. I couldn’t imagine how one could keep an Autozone employee on the phone that long. But she’d probably penetrated their gruffness the same way she did mine. There is a lesson there for all of us. And I know we all feel a little lonely, a little forgotten sometimes. Still, when you tell the universe you won’t be ignored, you will not be ignored.

And, maybe, you might be loved.