I leave him alone…for one minute. I turn around. He’s fully engaged with another customer who just seconds ago was a complete stranger. Now they’re best buds. They’ve found each other with rapturous island radar. There is a loud rat-tat-tat in Spanish with appropriate hand gestures.
Reluctantly, I sidle over to the table, having abandoned all hope of exiting quietly with my boxed food. His girlfriend looks up at me. ‘I’m not Puerto Rican’. She smiles. ‘I’m not either’ I respond. Now she’s really smiling. She says proudly, ‘I’m Sicilian!’
(‘Here we go’ I say in my head). I’ve landed at the struggling corner of garlic pizza and ‘where introverts go to die’. I’m forced to step up my social game. I’ve had half a bottle of Coca-cola…and we’ve launched. Topics discussed: prices, food, furniture, healthcare, dementia, our jobs, getting an RN degree…I’m starting to fade. I move slowly back…in the direction of our table where there are boxes, soda bottles, wallets, phones…there is a final round of handshaking, best wishes, phone numbers exchanged…and he’s ready to go.
‘Are you going to help me carry all of this out to the car?’ I ask sweetly.
‘What? Oh, I forgot we came here to eat!’
I’m shell shocked into silence. I’m happy and exhausted. The pizza smells delicious.
690 Saint Paul 