Today, I had lunch with my future self at Frisch’s Big Boy Family Diner and Restaurant.
When I came in, he came in. I was promptly seated near the window, as always. (Having been a frequent guest of the establishment for over seven weeks, the staff already knew my personal preferences when it came to dining there.) When the server began to seat my future self along the wall, however, he insisted that he sit near the window as well. Thus, he came to occupy a booth adjacent to mine; and by some measure of interest, he sat facing me.
Now, this was somewhat peculiar. On any other occasion, I would have sat facing the Big Boy entrance. But today, the server, who was new and hadn’t yet learned my routine, slid the placemat to the booth position that would require putting my back to the door (which never fails to drive me up the wall with anxiety). Of course, I could have just replaced the mat myself, and sat where I wanted - but I rescinded to sit where she put me, in hopes that doing so might actually do me some good.
My future self sat ten feet ahead, inescapable. His brow was furled, as if he had been conditioning it with frowns and curious glances for many years. His eyes were dark and wily and intelligent, yet strangely possessing a natural softness that he seemed to disfavor. Underneath the sharp wrinkles of these eyes hung his thin spectacles, nestled not over the eyes, but low over the bridge of his chubby nose - a deliberate suggestion of intellect. His beard and hair were kept neatly trimmed, as if - after decades of letting the hairs grow free - he had finally conceded to keeping them neurotically kempt; while the little, untamed flecks of grey and black maddened his mind. His mustached mouth was pursed shut, opening only when it was required to speak - a practice which creates over time the deep, distinct ridges between the cheeks and upper palate observed only on the faces of mutes and non-gabbers. His dress was meager and unassuming: cool shades of grey and chocolate brown, all congealed in the folds of economic fabrics.
We didn't speak to each other, of course - we'd both be too shy for that. I snuck glances at him when I could; all the while feeling that every moment I wasn't looking at him, he was invariably sneaking glances at me. We ordered coffee, my future self and me. As always, I emptied two single-serving sugar packets into my cup and stirred, adding a single-serving shot of creamer to complete the mixture - a proverbial science project. He drank his black as blood at midnight, and his staunch rejection of the server's bowl of creamer indicated that he wanted to make known his coffee preference. He spoke calmly - a subtle, droning, deep voice; pervaded not by smoke, but by speaking - and his words felt pleasantly contrived, as if he’d been reciting them since he sat down:
Yes, thank you.
Orange juice, I think.
Quite comfortable, yes.
Even the emphatic "No" he afforded the waitress may have seemed rude to everyone who heard it, but we both knew that it was just a word, and that connotations are invented only by those who require them. We ate our breakfast unceremoniously, as we favored our meals a private and timely enterprise; and if we had been seated together, the silence would no doubt have been there still, nestled under the surrounding chatter of nearby guests. He who enjoys a meal in silence is an endangered specimen, to be sure.
When we were finished, neither of us bothered to leave. We remained there, sitting; enjoying the day's deviation. He clutched his book - a novel - lovingly; not like a reader, but like someone who's closest and most benevolent friends are books. He grasped the top of the spine with one hand (not too tightly) to brace the pages open, and read unflinchingly with the other hand nestling his brow. He seemed to favor the pose: massaging his forehead, or softly pinching between his clenched eyes; all designed to alleviate temporarily the unknown amount of weight drenched upon him. Despite this, my future self displayed the cosmetic sense of comfort and confidence. But inside, I could see his anxiety bubbling furiously, as he struggled to keep a militia of nerves from toppling him over.
I was preparing to pay my check and depart when I snuck one final glance at the man I was to become, and that’s when it happened. His eyes met mine. A wayward gaze locked for a single moment - one that I shall never forget. They say that, when looking into someone’s eyes, you can peer right into the eternal soul lurking just behind them. It’s not a “second star to the right, and straight on till morning” kind of thing, but I must have found it. In fact, he must have been calling me there.
Behind his glassy pupils - behind the anxiety and pain and regret and jagged footholds of joy and irrepressible guilt and forced contentment and everything else - I saw me. I witnessed my entire life from me to him; not as if I had read the chronology in a biography, but as if I had actually lived it. My rain-soaked college diploma. The scurry of the cockroaches who shared the space (but not the rent) of my first apartment. The rumpled sheets following a night of irresponsible courtship. The shimmer of my father’s silver casket. My son’s doodles posed proudly in the margins of his homework. The ring of coffee staining the manuscript I’ll never see published.
And then, he looked away. His eyes fell back into his book. I kept looking at him, hoping (and fearing) I’d see more - but after a few moments, I gathered myself, walked to the counter, paid, and left.
I will never see him again.
END
