Scenes from Boston Market

I live a great deal in my own head. Writers (and I use this term loosely when applying it to myself) in general tend to have a voluble inner monologue. Sometimes it can drive you a bit loopy. Unlike some, I tend to spend a lot of time in my own company. I'm not really sure if it's by choice or if it is purely happenstance. Rather than jib at it as I've done in the past, I've lately come to embrace it. My pocketbook is littered with scraps of paper where sometimes I've been so struck by an idea or thought that nothing would satisfy but to seize a pen and commit my thoughts to paper.

The following is kind of a stream of conscious monologue that occurred when I was recently dining at a Boston Market. To set the scene, it was a Friday around noon...on an overcast and terribly humid day in a town in Central Florida, but it could have been any Boston Market in any state with their generic decor and utilitarian tiled floor. 

I enter and right away I'm struck by the noise level, it's doubly loud because of the tile. Every scrape of a fork against a plate, every kid whining, every abrasive clash of a chair being pulled back or banged against a table is amplified by an intensity of about 4-5 decibels. The smell of chicken is immediate, rich and seductive, and I can see the crispy golden skin of the chickens glistening reddish-gold in the light of the slowly turning rotisserie and feel myself salivate. Mind immediately goes to Newman (Helllooo Newman!!) and his unholy love of Kenny Roger's Roasters offerings and all of the sudden I am picturing Kramer with his chicken body and Cosmo face with the crazy hair and I stifle a giggle as I approach the 'Chef'.  Probably not a chef at all but some kid who did not object to wearing a hairnet in public and seemed to be able to handle a knife without cutting himself as often as the last kid they hired who left for a better paying gig at Chili's. He takes my smiling face as a good sign of a customer who for once is going to be easy to please. He has no idea that on the inside of that face is a loony who's trying to keep a straight face while re-running past episodes of Seinfeld in her head. The moment comes when he asks me, 'What'll you have?'  Here's the thing, ever since, well ..about birth I have been afflicted with chronic indecision and have while in line changed my mind about eight times, which is ironic because I ALWAYS end up getting the same thing, 1/4 dark, mashed potatoes, and corn. I have the calorie count committed to memory, it's in my budget, add in the complimentary cornbread and it's more than enough food. Which makes it doubly perplexing as to why, when, with the moment upon me under pressure and feeling myself begin to perspire, I blurt out, "the special!". Here's the other thing, growing up in a household such as mine, with money a constant concern and raised to always seek out a bargain, if there is some kind of special, even if it's something I don't particularly want, I take the special just to prove how very economical and frugal I can be. Unfortunately this time, the special is actually half a rotissierie chicken, HALF!, with two sides. Terrific. I can actually feel my hips increasing in circumference as I watch my mashed potatoes and corn being ladled on the plate. Just watching the process I begin to lose my appetite. I start to wish I was Adam Richman who is very well-compensated by the Travel Channel to ingest more food than is good for him. Or anyone for that matter.

My plate is passed down the line and as I am about to approach the cash register, I see that the guy ahead of me, has ordered the meat loaf and is in serious consideration over whether or not to order dessert. Meat Loaf. One ironclad rule that I stick to and which has served me well in life is that, unless I or possibly my Mother has concocted said loaf, I ain't eatin it! For a few reasons, with the chicken, I can actually see it roasting, being prepared, watch them hanging the chickens on the spits. No such luck with the meat loaf. You can't smell the ground beef, check the grade, the fat to meat ratio or see how much filler and what is in the filler. Lastly, I always have inward wariness over anything that has the term loaf or perhaps log attached to it. Finally guy ahead of me decides against dessert. Somewhere for no apparent reason, Michele Obama finds herself smiling. Chalk one up for the healthy eating lobby!

Lady behind me, who has been in a tizzy for the last five minutes over the fact that she doesn't see the vegetable plate on the menu boards is anxiously quizzing her longsuffering friend. "Oh gosh Margo, do you think they don't have it anymore, did they discontinue it!" Friend tries to reassure her in an attempt to keep her from diving out the nearby drive thru window and impaling herself on a Hyundai. Finally they reach "Chef" who when asking them 'What'll they have', says "Oh sure ma'am, the vegetable plate is number 13 now", and then asks her friend after ordering the 1/4 white, 'wouldn't she rather have the special which is a half rotisserie with two vegetables for the same price?' "Oh no, she says, "that's way too much food" Skinny Bitch!

I reach the cash register, quickly decline the dessert to show indecisive guy how easy the decision actually is, and then reach the next moment of panic that Boston Market now bestows on their patrons. In an attempt to change their image somewhat as less of a 'fast food' place and more of a 'restaurant', they now ask you 'where you want to sit' and than walk your plastic-ette plate to the table for you. You then get to watch your plate of food cooling on the table while you queue to fill up your own drink at the soda fountain/lemonade/ice-tea urn/cold water station. It's a head-scratching moment. I'm always wondering why A. they don't trust me to carry my own plate (of course if they knew me in some of my more accident-prone moments, it would make perfect sense) and B. if they take some kind of perverse pleasure in watching us try to decide where to sit while under pressure. After finally deciding on my own table arrangements which saw me just narrowly miss out on a booth, because by the time the family who looked in the process of leaving finally gathered up their cretinous whining children and the harried-looking dining room worker was able to scrape the 4 layers of greasy chicken and congealed macaroni and cheese off the seats, I'd already panicked and directed my plate-carrier to a rickety table with one chair leg that was missing a 'foot' and consequently rocked the whole time giving me a slightly vertigo-type feeling.  I wasn't the only one to feel this way, as I navigated my Rock of Gibraltar sized portion of chicken trying to avoid the skin, I amused myself watching other patrons and the look of panic that seized their facial features when being asked where they wanted to sit.

About halfway through the meal or about halfway before I decided to finally give up on the glacier-sized amount of food on my plate (damn special!) an older man came in through the front door and I guess being a semi-regular and knowing the procedure he was about to undergo decided to cut through the bureaucracy and before getting in line came into the dining area and laid his umbrella down on the table next to mine to 'keep his place'. It put me in mind of a tom cat staking out his territory by spraying urine. He further reinforced the randy tom cat image by looking me over several times lecherously. Let's just say his eyes never met my face. I begin to wonder what it is about some old men who just when I've begun to rethink the whole stereotype and decide that it's just an old wives tale and doesn't happen anymore, have to come by and blow everything to smithereens. Not being afflicted with indecision, he straightaway orders the meatloaf and furthermore he elects the chocolate cake for dessert. Somewhere from the vicinity of the White House living quarters, the sounds of sobbing are heard. He comes over, slams the cake in it's plastic container down next to the umbrella and then a few moments later comes back bearing a large plastic cup of Coke. His plate carrier follows meekly and sets down his meat loaf. I give my entire attention to my plate of chicken, not wanting to show him the slightest glimmer of interest lest he speak to me. I absorb myself in the contemplation of my lunch as if it was the most scintillating companion I've ever known. Then lecherous old man begins to cough and choke after one mouthful of food, then after the second bite and the third bite and on and on. 

As a compassionate fellow human being, I dare a quick glance in his direction, praying with all of my might that he isn't choking to death and in need of the Heimlich Maneuver because the thought of having to give this dirty old man mouth to mouth is absolutely appalling to me. Phew! No he's fine but still coughs and hacks through and after nearly every mouthful. All of the sudden, the humor of the situation gets to me, the screwy chair, Skinny Bitch and Margo daintily eating chicken and vegetables, lecherous old man literally choking down his lunch, "Chef" cawing 'what'll you have' to every blasted customer and trying to hawk the special, the guy in the corner table who talks enthusiastically with a drumstick in each hand using them as batons to drive home his point, panic-ridden customers being put on the spot as to what table they want to sit at, the mountain of food on my plate and I start laughing out loud. 

Sometimes when I get the giggles I just can't pull myself together. Every attempt to divert my thoughts in another direction just seems to make me laugh harder. People are beginning to stare and so I take out my pen and a scrap of receipt from my pocketbook and once more begin the process of committing this day to memory.  Doing so, it reassures me that even in the rough times, the crazy moments of life are still worth savoring.

Some day when I'm sitting in my cubicle office, untangling and analyzing lines and lines of meaningless data, I think back to this day, to this moment in time and again I laugh remembering that it's not the big things in life, it's the moments captured in time and savored that matter.