Since moving to Murphy a handful of months ago, I’ve attempted to pass myself off to the community as a worthy member. Most natives have been friendly, with the exception of one who reproached me for driving too quickly on our little shared lane.
Her allegation was preposterous, of course, as I am one of those clenched-fisted, hunched-over-the-steering-wheel, pokey-puppy kind of drivers, but I waved and smiled. Kill them with kindness and all that. Because I work from home, I have fewer opportunities to “get out there” and enlarge my tiny social circle, but I’m happy to report a new exciting development.
My friend Joe at the Convenience Center (don’t dare call it “the dump”) approached me the other day while I was hoisting garbage bags into one of the enormous receptacles there. They have 14 or so all lined up like proper soldiers with large, spray-painted numbers marking their sides.
Every time I pull in there, I cruise past the green giants carefully eyeing my options. I try to choose a different number every time, you know, to shake things up, but usually end up in front of trusty No. 10. Its number is a bit off-center, and it was painted with a shaky hand. I greet No. 10 as an old friend because I understand feeling off-center and shaky.
Joe ambled over, all smiley and friendly, and told me, “If you want to stop being so lonely, don’t rush off all the time.” I nodded at him and then rushed off. But, of course, he was right, so I decided to try out his theory the following Thursday.
Thursdays are my “human days,” meaning I interact with other humans on that day. The newsroom holds their weekly meetings then, so it’s a good excuse to leave my little cabin, use my vocal cords and practice my smile. So this Thursday, when the meeting finished, I drove across the street to a little pub called Chevelles.
Terra nova. I was scared. But Joe was right; I am a “rusher.” When I’m out among my fellow neighbors, I rush about like a jumpy rabbit sensing the wolf. So when I walked from the blinding sunshine into the dark, cool room at Chevelles, my Spidey senses were on high alert.
There was a man at the bar wearing a white baseball cap. He was slunched over a Tom Collins glass with a clear liquor inside. I guessed him for a gin man. I took my seat a friendly distance away and heard a voice coming from behind the bar.
“What can I get you?” the voice asked. I stood up and peered over the wine bottles that were blocking my view and connected the voice to a tiny person. This was Dianne, and she seemed to be everything I was not: comfortable in her own skin, petite and sure of herself.
I ordered a vodka sidecar (I’d seen it in a movie), and she looked up the recipe on her phone. I love that kind of confidence. When I am tasked with a mission that I know very little about, I immediately begin sweating and then swallow uncomfortably past the growing lump of insecurity in my throat. Then I’ll make a joke, and no one will laugh.
As Dianne got busy shaking up the magic, I became acquainted with my new place. I spied a full kitchen nestled up against the back wall. Diane followed my eyes and handed me a clipboard with the day’s specials written on it.
She recommended the brussels sprouts, and because I wanted to please her I ordered them. A guy with a tan baseball cap sitting at a high-top table behind me began talking to the waitress who was sitting at nearby table wrapping silverware. She pulled her hair into a high ponytail and adjusted pink glasses that looked happier than her face.
The tan cap was talking to her about his son’s recent visit from Florida. The duo went to Harrah’s casino for a bit of wild luck fun. He told the pink glasses that they each had $200 to play with. The father lost all of his money, but the son came out $100 ahead. He said they arrived at 6 in the morning to beat the crowds. I, on the other hand, draw the line at crowded social events occurring before breakfast.
Diane delivered my drink by then, all sugar rimmed and fancy. As I lifted it to my lips, I caught a glimpse of the ceiling, which was plastered with dollar bills. I pulled the cold, sweet liquid into my mouth while squinting at the bills. They all had messages written on them.
“Duke of Erlo and Duchess Pam,” one said. “Life: excel or die,” another instructed. There were hundreds of messages stapled to the ceiling. “Jason and Tasha, Feb. 1, 2012.” I wondered if Jason and Tasha were as happy today as they had been 18 years ago at pub in Murphy, where they fastened the proclamation of love to the ceiling with a stapler.
I was mesmerized, reading all these messages as if they were written solely for me. Whispers from past humans who had traveled this way, sat on this very bar stool. They had been afraid, happy, sorrowful. The endless range of human emotion was fixed to the ceiling above my head.
“Chomp, chomp,” someone named Julia wrote, and next to it, “Happy birthday, Jenny.” I raised my glass to the menagerie of happy strangeness and felt a deep connection with my fellow travelers in life.
When my neck began acting up at the strain of reading the ceiling, I lowered my head, when my eyes caught a sign on the bar post. “Notice: if you are drinking to forget, please pay in advance.” I laughed a little too loudly, which caught Diane’s attention. She didn’t even know what I was laughing about, but she looked me in my eyes and laughed along with me.
Julia got it right. Bite life with gusto. Chomp, chomp!
Authored by Abigail Hickman, a special correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. You can leave a message for her at 837-5122 or email abigailhickman44@gmail.com.