Maybe Right, Maybe Wrong: Classic goodbadi

Several years ago, when M was four months pregnant with N, we went on a month-long road trip. A highlight was the day M’s sister took us climbing in Yosemite. I’d never been on a rock face before, and I was thrilled and terrified for pretty much the whole time. At the end of the day I was exhausted, proud to have met even such an amateur challenge, certain I would never attempt anything of the like again, and hungry.

M’s sister knew just the ticket for such an evening: burgers from The Forks. I’ve since tried to replicate the burger; the only trick I’ve found to bring my productions close is toasting–as in buttering and skillet frying–bread slices for buns.

Along with the fun–if frightening–memories of that day, I remember that as we walked into The Forks, we passed four rough-looking motorcyclists standing outside. The restaurant was busy, so we waited patiently at the door for a table.

But as one opened up and the waitress headed in our direction, the motorcyclists entered and stepped ahead of us.

“Four,” the man intercepted the waitress, not looking at us.

Now, maybe they’d been inside already and then went outside to wait and so really were next in line, but the waitress looked uncertain, as though she, too, thought we were next–and seated them.

For many years, now, I’ve been wondering how I could have turned the situation to make me feel less squashed. Should I have insisted on paying for the bikers’ dinner? Should I have started a chair-throwing row? Neither would have been worth my trouble, perhaps, but I still haven’t figured out the name of the feeling that in me lingers still–and resurfaced yet again just the other night.

Last Friday, at the last minute, M and I decided to drive nearly an hour down the highway to see a professional production of “A Christmas Carol” on its last “pay what you will” night. Getting their early was of utmost importance, since we’d heard that lines form even a hour and a half before starting time, so we speedily ate supper, speedily got the girls ready to go to their cousins’, speedily waited for H to finish nursing, speedily went on our way, speedily parked in the parking garage, and, seeing other people in the garage also heading in the same direction, speedily sped towards the walkway from the garage to the theater.

“Excuse me,” from behind us we heard calling a silvery blond woman in a light blue sweater accompanied several other people. “Is this the way to the theater?”

“We think so,” we called back. “We’re new, too.” And off we sped.

From the end of the walkway we had to pass the front of the lengthening line on our way to the back; we quickly found our places and stood shivering.

The blue sweater group, however, paused to talk with their friends who were in line ahead of us.

My annoyance probably showed on my dear face.

“It’s okay if they jump in here with us, isn’t it?” one of the friends asked us with a smile that matched her sleek leather jacket, impeccably straight, black hair, and everything else about her that said she was in control, always gets what she wants, and didn’t give a rip about anyone who might or might not care to disagree.

It was already settled, apparently, so we just sort of stood there, not sure what we mumbled in return.

I decided then and there that henceforth I would always say what I thought, like “Not really,” but the moment for doing so just then had already passed, so instead I complained to M about how rude some people are and looked across the street to look for shadows on the glowing window shades of an historic apartment building.

Finally the lobby doors opened and that group went to the left while we headed right; I hoped never again to cross paths with those annoying people.

When the theater doors opened, we grabbed the first seats we could find. Actually it was one seat, and it was behind a balcony support that blocked center stage, but it seemed wide enough for two. It would do; the “pay what you will” throng had to make do with the limited unreserved seats, which appeared to be few compared to the sea of seats with “reserved” placards.

With the show still twenty or thirty minutes from starting, I decided to go to the bathroom. On my way, as I walked along a bench row still empty but apparently wholly reserved, I happened upon two empty, unmarked places. They were really good seats; I couldn’t see any others to me more preferable, except maybe for those on stage.

“Are these reserved?” I asked the woman seated in the next spot.

“They were, but not anymore,” she said.

I forgot about going to the bathroom, but I wasn’t sure what to do. M was only thirty feet away, but she hadn’t seen me station myself in front of the new seats. Should I go back and get her and maybe lose the seats, or should I ask someone nearby to keep them for me?

I looked around. There, already seated in the rows behind the newly discovered seats, were the lady in the blue sweater and her friends. Her Leatherfied Smile was still smiling and looking in my direction. And just then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the blue sweater lady slip her purse over the back the very seat I was standing in front of and in the process of claiming.

That did it. Pretending not to be aware of the purse or the people around me, I sat down on the edge of the seat now holding the purse, and rested my arm on the adjacent empty seat.

Behind me I heard the woman who had told me the seats were unreserved politely say to the purse owner, “His wife and he are going to sit there.” I felt the purse being quietly pulled away, and leaned back.

Eventually M saw me and came to the new seats, and we watched the delicious show.