Stale-popcorn hospitality
carries me forward. When
we finish each four-dollar
pitcher, I refill the basket for
the table. The jukebox trades
Merle Haggard for Beyonce. I
can’t clearly catch anything
said by the people around
me. I can’t make out the
lyrics. Someone is queen of
the aspirational divas. Someone
seems to have made an excellent,
age-specific insight. It’s not
my generation. She laughs and
awaits my response. I smile, nod
knowingly, wonder what was
asked. Does he want a refill? We
both do. The TV plays sports
recaps on mute. I can almost
read lips. They seem to be having
more fun in the booth behind
us. Sorry to stick you with my
sodden self. But nobody admits
I’m a boring fraud. Soon come
the townies, the regulars. This
is the précis of a community. Home
is an impulse pizza and
a crosstown stumble away.
John F. Buckley 