68 - The Seat Next to Mine

DH Al and I are at a dive bar, sitting on cracked vinyl-topped stools (really, would any self-respecting dive bar have any other kind??) nodding in appreciation at the platters in front of us. Taking up most of the plate is a piece of haddock the size of New Jersey. It - this goes without saying – is deep fried and half covered by fries.

Also nestled in: Two plastic containers, both lidded. One has tartar sauce; the larger one coleslaw. The coleslaw has the tang of vinegar mixed with the mayo… just how I like it. I also approve of the plastic containers. They seem to say: You, Coleslaw, humble mixture of cabbage and carrot slivers and You, Tartar, oft neglected condiment, are worthy, are wanted…you BELONG on this plate.

It is a Friday night and, in my world, a Friday night means Friday Nite Fish Fry. And this might be the perfect fish fry.

Maybe it is the beer - so icy cold and cheap we order a second. Maybe it is the twitchy swivel of those cracked vinyl barstools. Whatever the reason, DH starts talking to the couple on his right; I turn toward the woman on my left.

The couple are friendly, gregarious, happy to swap stories. Soon they are laughing with Al – the best of bar friends. Al introduces me but I cannot quite hear what they are saying. This is not helped by the fact the jukebox is now playing.

For a moment I freeze in disbelief, fork stopped between mouth and table. Winding past the clink and clatter of dishware, rising above the boisterous chatter, the jukebox blares what seems less lyric than command:

You put your right foot in. You take your right foot out. You put your right foot in and you shake it all about. You do the Hokey Pokey and you turn yourself around.

That’s what it’s all about.

You have to be freakin’ KIDDING me! Is this even considered a SONG? And even though I have heard it a million times, WHO exactly sings it? Moreover, what TRUE self-respecting dive bar puts the Hokey Pokey on its playlist?

I am mulling this over when the woman to my left calls out to the bartender: This coleslaw tastes freshly made!

He shoots her a quick smile but makes no response. Perhaps he is not used to comments about the coleslaw. Perhaps he is used to comments about the slaw and has learned not to engage.

I twist further on my stool. Yup. She definitely ordered the Friday Nite Fish Fry.  And she appreciates the coleslaw. Probably also appreciates the cute little plastic containers. My kind of folk!

I make some remark…about the fish? The slaw? Maybe that DH and I often come here on Fridays? I no longer remember but this is how it starts – my conversation with the woman in the seat next to mine.

She and her husband also enjoy this place. But she is alone tonight. Her husband has been in the hospital for over a month. Complications. Bad stuff. She tries to visit every day. But it is a three-hour drive roundtrip. She cannot always make it.

A few days after her husband was hospitalized their daughter died. Of lung cancer. The daughter was a heavy smoker. But she was only 45. Leaving behind a young son who has Down’s Syndrome.

She does not think her grandson understands about Mommy. And the daddy has his own problems. He was in an accident. Broke his back. Other injuries.

The woman pulls out her phone. She shows me a picture of the daughter. The daughter looks relaxed. Carefree. Happy.

Lovely, I murmur.

The woman nods. This is the picture she is using for a Celebration of Life service. But the service will not be for another month. Maybe by then her husband will be out of the hospital, through rehab, able to attend. Maybe.

She tells me all of this in a calm, matter-of-fact tone. No histrionics. No tears.

“I have no time to grieve,” she states as if in answer to a question she knows I must have but will not voice.

Looking at the phone reminds her. Her credit cards were recently compromised. She has to figure out which auto-pay was on what card and get them corrected.

She gives a wry smile. THIS! On top of everything. It is ludicrous. Ridiculous. Almost funny.

The conversation is ending. It is time to leave. There are no hugs. No exchanging of names. No promises of prayers. “I will be thinking of you,” is all I offer.

And I do. I imagine her at the hospital earlier in the day. She tells her husband that she might stop at the bar. Might get some dinner. He says, “Yes, you should.” Three little words. But they are filled with love and understanding.

After all, it is Friday night. And Friday night means Friday Nite Fish Fry. Is there a better place to be than this dive bar with a perfect one? Here – where the world is still recognizable and there are no surprises. The fish will be the size of a small state, the creaky barstools strangely inviting, and the coleslaw tastes freshly made.

This may not seem like much…a bit of sustenance, a stranger who listens. But it is just enough so that you again put your right foot in, then the left one. You turn yourself around, you walk back out the door and you do what needs to be done.