notes from: the corner seat of the bar

i'm constantly stuffing story ideas into nooks and crannies of my notes app and forgetting about them. an exercise in reviving potentially dead ideas.

“The protagonist’s name is Teddy.”

“Theo?”

“Theodore?”

They all laugh in unison, as if they rehearsed this very moment. One of them would say something objectively not funny, the other two on the right side of the table would chime in, adding nothing of comedic value, and on cue, they’d all toss their heads back in laughter to make everyone else here feel “other” to them.

That, or they are just tipsy and I am just trying to read my book in peace.

But I cannot resist the need to eavesdrop on as many human interactions as possible.

"It’s good content.” I negotiate with the me who just wants to read this damn book.

The “they” to which I refer is the group of 30-somethings causing a ruckus at the table behind my corner seat at the bar.

I come here to get drunk alone without feeling like I’m getting drunk alone. In an artistic way. Not an alcoholic way.

Every time I see the corner seat open, I sigh a bit in relief.

No other seat would do.

This particular seat offers the perfect place to stuff myself into the smallest amount of space I could possibly take up. So small that no one will pay me any mind as I quietly throw back a glass or two (or three) of natural orange wine. The stool is just large enough for me to pull my knees to my chest, creating another stool of sorts for my book to sit upon.

The low hum of oh-so mature and oh-so intellectual conversations that really could only take place in this part of Brooklyn fills the space between wine bottle-lined walls and wobbly wooden bistro chairs. The sound creates a wave that carries the deliciously human aromatic combination of grapes and dairy that someone permitted to go bad on purpose. And don’t we just love them for doing so.

It’s not often that there would be any distinctive noise outside of the hum in this particular wine bar. Or anyone else my age, unless I’m just in wild denial of my own age. I mean, I’m 32. I’m probably the same age as these idiots behind me. But they’re too young to be here. And I’m not. But I’m also the youngest here. You see the difference?

The one who started the non-joke joke was talking about the main character in the book she’s planning to write. I don’t recall the proposed plot of her story (remember, I come here to get drunk), but I do recall rolling my eyes.

“YOU’RE writing a book?”

That’s what I’d say if I were sitting with them.

“You?” the second person on the right side of the table would chime in.

“A book?” the third person would add.

And, in perfect unison, we’d throw our heads back in roaring, mocking laughter like a trio of synchronized swimmers.

Jealousy, that’s what you’re thinking. But you’re WRONG!

She can write whatever book she wants. I don’t even know her. Maybe one day I’ll pick up a beautifully acclaimed book and gasp when I see name Teddy jump off of the first page.

I don’t really care.

This isn’t about her.

This is how I imagine it would go if I were to admit I had named the main character in my book. Admit that I’m even writing a book at all!

She dropped the news so carelessly, callously. Not considering that SOME OF US are too cowardly to speak on such endeavors until they’re complete. Until we’ve actually done it - can prove it. Put our money where our pen is, so to speak.

I jot down fragments of the overheard banter into my notes app, promising to write about this when I get home.

I pay my bill.

I take my drunk ass out into the rain and do not write about it when I get home.