Strangers Like to Dine with Me

Try to have a little sump’m & cain’t.

That’s a hangdog expression (culled from my in-laws and their parents) that my husband and I jokingly use on occasions when some modest attempt at enjoyment goes wrong.

Well, this past Sunday, my husband, son and I decided to have lunch at Taco Bell—and I think you’ll agree that enjoyment doesn’t get a whole lot more modest than that. There were maybe three other families eating at the same time and we were all on one side of the restaurant, so that means the whole other half was completely empty. Brian and Brandon were seated in chairs, but on my side of the table was a long bench, serving several tables which were separated by no more than a foot of so of empty space.

So there we were, minding our own business, when a lone Pentecostal woman decided to ignore the entire empty side of the restaurant… and plop herself down beside me on the shared bench-seat. Sure, she had her own table-top, but the point is, she was mere inches away from me. She was invading my personal space! Also, since she was by herself, there was nothing for her to do but listen to our conversation. Brian was talking, but we both widened our eyes at each other, telegraphing, “WTF?” Then we fell silent, and shook our heads in disgust. Try to have a little sump’m & cain’t.

This stranger-in-my-space thing happens to me often. Brian and I once nearly spewed our lunch from trying not to laugh out loud at the sudden invasion of an uninvited table-sharer at Mamie’s Kitchen. And just last week, I was trying to write at Dunkin Donuts—a place I had especially selected for its lunchtime emptiness. With my notebook and papers spread in front of me and earbuds plugging both ears, I was doing everything short of posting a sign that said Leave Me Alone when another Pentecostal woman once again ignored the entire empty restaurant and chose the table right next to mine, which makes me nervous when I’m trying to write.

I originally feared that both of these women were working up their nerve to proselytize me, but that was not the case. The lady at Taco Bell did alarm me momentarily by slumping into a sudden seizure-like prayer over her burritos. She was probably just blessing the food, but I for one hoped that she was whispering, “Dear Lord, please get all those stray cats out of my house so my clothes can quit smelling like old urine.”