The Invitation

I’m not really sure how I got here. I walked into the first generic chain gas station I saw and asked for directions. The man behind the counter was pretty gruff and grumbly. It was fairly new and clean looking with the air-conditioning on way too high. The dude did not get what I was asking at all. I admit asking how to get the ocean on foot from a semi-middle-of-nowhere town is out of the ordinary but I don’t think I deserve head shaking and impatience just because I’m not giving adequate account of myself. I felt like a snotty prep school kid who had wandered into town to “interact” with the locals, which is a hollow feeling to have. I almost shouted “Dude, I’m an Indian.” Then this other guy got involved, boy really. He started giving directions. But then the dude behind the counter cut him off and said he was wrong and started giving completely different directions, even though ten seconds ago he didn’t understand what I was asking. They started arguing and looked like it was getting pretty heated but I couldn’t tell if they knew each other and it was jocular or if the dude behind the counter was going to blow and totally yell at this kid, who looked like he was in Junior High. But all of that is just a prelude, like the set up of a joke but more serious. While all this is going on I’m just sort of standing there. I remember thinking I should step in and sort out where the hell I should be going. I remember trying to think of a good dramatic line that would send them both into stunned silence and allow me to elicit the simple clear truth with my level headed questions.

“Jimmy, stop arguing.”

Instead this girl walked in and yelled “Jimmy, stop arguing” and the dude behind the counter just turned around he gave off that “shrug” attitude but I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually shrug. I started explaining myself to the girl because she seemed in charge, or at least to be a “with-it” type of person who had answers for perplexed and semi-lost travelers such as myself. (Yes, that’s how I was thinking of myself just then). She laughed. In my face. I’d never had anyone do that to me before. I’ve had people mock laugh me in the face and I’ve had people laugh at me before but I’ve never had anyone actually laugh me right in the face like that. I shut up just as quick as Jimmy had – who was now wandering around the little quick-mart picking up and then replacing every single item in the store.

“You’re seriously just walking?”

I nodded. I should have had a quick witty reply. I’ve been walking around for a week without much to think about and this was an obvious question I could have anticipated receiving eventually but I had no reply, not even the truth. So I nodded and then stumbled over myself trying to explain everything, but of course I wanted to make it simple and clean so I left out complicating details, but that just made it sound lame and lamer as I went on. She didn’t laugh a second time. I expected her too. The part of me that wasn’t being embarrassed was trying to figure out what I would do when she laughed at me a second time. She actually nodded kind of knowingly. It felt weird to be taken seriously. It felt good but then I felt silly for feeling good because I was feeling good that this random girl was taking me seriously even though I knew perfectly well that what I was saying wasn’t serious.

We talked some more and now I’m sitting at a kitchen table in her house about to be served dinner, I think. I’ve never been invited home for dinner by a stranger before. But that’s not the part that feels weird. I ran away from home and am walking to Oregon. It seems almost natural that strangers would invite me into their homes and feed me. My mind accepts, perhaps expected, that that goes with the territory. The weird part is that I said yes. It was a total “why the hell not” moment. If nothing else it’ll get me a free warm meal. While I felt good about saying yes back at the gas station, and I don’t regret it yet, I do feel a tad uncomfortable sitting here. Jimmy is in his room, playing video games I think. Emily – that’s the girl’s name – is in the kitchen making dinner. I’m sitting at the kitchen table, which is covered in crap, looking around trying to get my bearings. It’s a small house. The vibe is a cross between redneck and college dorm room, or at least that’s what I’m getting from it. I’m never really sure what to make of other people’s houses, how much or what to read into the décor and such. They often feel like sports fields for some game for which I don’t know the rules. I offered to help but it was pretty clear that there wasn’t much I could do in the kitchen. So I’m sitting at the table sipping awkwardly at a glass of water. It looks like dinner is going to be pretty simple, mashed potatoes, left over meat and veggies a la frozen aisle.

“Why did you invite me over for dinner?”

I wasn’t exactly invited over for dinner. I was, but that makes it sound like she asked a neighbor or a family friend. I’m a stranger, a random dude from the street, and a guy traveling on foot from who knows where to god knows where for unknown reasons. The girl must be crazy to just ask me over like this.

“Charity maybe? I dunno, just popped into my head and it seemed like I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

I hadn’t thought of myself as a charity case. I figured we were just two friends having dinner. I realize we’re not friends friends, seeing how we don’t really know each other. Friends the way everyone you go to college with – even if you don’t know them – is your friend and it’s ok to bum a cigarette off of them. I assumed Emily was part of the crazy underside of society, just like me. I didn’t take her as the pity and charity type. You read about folks who “don’t want to take no charity”. I always thought they were fools, take what you can get right? Especially when you’re down and out. I sort of resent being considered charity. I’ll still eat the food of course, no overblown sense of pride here, but I was enjoying it more when we were two kids, each crazy in our own way, who had come together for a nice meal. It be impolite to object but I do have an urge to say something. I almost say, “Well I appreciate it.” That would just clinche the whole charity dynamic and doom the evening to a really awkward dynamic. I actually want to start asking Emily about her life, what she does, who she is, but I can’t think of anyway to broach the subject that wouldn’t come across as creepy prying from the strange man. So I’m still just sitting here. Emily is busy with the cooking so the silence probably doesn’t bother her. If Jimmy had stuck around it would have felt less weird, but I can’t blame him for not wanting to talk to the random dude – who he probably already though was weird for requesting bizarre direction back at the gas station – his sister brought home. Video games is a much better option. If the video games had been in the living room instead of in his room I might have been able to casually strike up a conversation or joined him shooting aliens or whatever the way guys who date single moms in the movies always do.

“Right after I asked I realized how ridiculous it was and sorta hoped you would say no.”

“I can leave ...”

“No no, don’t be silly, unless you’re looking for an excuse to leave.”

“No no, I appreciate you having me.”

There, I said it anyway. It’s true, I do appreciate it. Now we’re going to have an awkward silence for a bit.

“Jimmy! Dinner’s ready!”

Saved by dinner I guess.

It’s not a very formal dinner. We all grab a plate, pile on food in the kitchen straight from the stove and then clear a little space for ourselves on the table. My plate ends up fighting for room against a stack of psychology books and some unopened mail. I expect Emily to apologize for the mess. My mother would go into overdrive whenever we had guests. She was always ashamed of how the house looked, even when it was spotless. She seemed to have this idea in her head that everyone else in the world was more formal and neat than we were, which as you can guess is the exact opposite of the truth. At the same time she was desperately trying to impress guests she also had a sort of disdain for them, as if they couldn’t appreciate everything she was doing. She’d often whisper mean-spirited remarks to me in the kitchen when I was helping her bring out the coffee and tea. Emily’s just eating, as if she’s completely forgotten I’m here. Jimmy is talking, a lot actually. Something about something that happened at school. It doesn’t look like Emily is listening, but I could be wrong and Jimmy doesn’t seem to care either way. It must be a brother sister thing. After a while I just focus on eating and it doesn’t matter that the silence and the strangers and the house feel unfamiliar and I have no clue what I’m doing there or what to say or what to do or what’s going to happen next.