Happiness in a booth

Clutching my white MacBook beneath a blueberry-colored coat that did very little to keep me warm, I breathed a sigh of relief as I stepped into the side doors of the familiarly warm, buzzing bar of Jackson’s. Walking past various working people in their 20s, I was overflowing with a conglomeration of emotions – mostly relief and genuine excitement. At the thought of ridding myself of isolation, having spent the last three hours stuck inside of an overheated sedan in the middle of a gridlocked, snow-covered road near work, surrounded by honking and equally miserable, immobile drivers. At the mercy of windshield wipers that were total crap. I had never felt the kind of loneliness that was utterly helpless. Isolation.

To be honest, I felt so desperate and in need of company. Any kind of company. Digital or physical company. Human interaction. Someone to laugh with, listen to my poor choice of music with, or just talk about the most mundane things with. I never felt so dependent and needy of Internet, Wifi, faster mobile technology, just to feel a little bit connected with the human race. I wanted to scream, call random people I never talked to in years. I wanted to walk along the edge of the road and wave at the drivers behind me. Get covered in some wet sleet, and share a joke with someone plowing and pushing a car. My level of desperation was pushed to ultimate heights. But I sat timidly behind the wheel with the safeguard of knowing that I had a full tank of gas, a multitude of both horrendous and terrific music selections, a smart phone that was in the midst of charging, unlike my entire family and extended group of friends who were all displaced in Virginia, struggling to make it home as I was. I took comfort in that fact.

Which only points to the stroke of genius that led me to detour, one last time, back to the town center to join my co-worker, who offered shelter for the night at her folks’ place nearby. Hotels were all booked, friends were stuck elsewhere in worse situations, and I was near human company and shelter. I figured if I was going to be U-turning back and forth at -1 MPH, I must as well just head back to where I started. I am not one for making the best decisions in times of panic, but that night, something just clicked.

As I greeted my co-worker, who stood in front of a window on the phone with her parents, who were stuck in traffic, I spotted a host of familiar, desperate-for-company-and-equally-enthused faces of people I work with – catching a buzz over a snow storm happy hour. I visited the ladies’ room to check how horrendous my snow-matted hair looked and returned to the seating area where my co-workers, hungry, decided to grab dinner. Despite the fact that I’m not familiar with most of them, I eagerly agreed. Eagerly, being the operative term. Not reluctant, as I usually am around people I’m not entirely close to. I plopped myself down on a booth seat. I couldn’t be happier. Genuinely buzzing with excitement. Jittery with anticipation for good food and the chatter that only comes from desperate and dire experiences, we were vibing with an explosive chemistry. “You only made it past Carabba’s?” they all asked me in fierce sympathy. “I didn’t make it past two miles.” I watched their mouths drop in synchronized harmony, and I, then, became the Carabba’s girl for the night; I lapped up every ounce of their condolences, and then gave them the most honest introduction of myself in our period of waiting for food. The talk was lively, human, fleshed out, and stuffed with dry wit to boot. Talks about their toddlers, their spouses, their whereabouts. No BS, poise, or pretenses. It was the rawest form of camaraderie. Team-building at its best; we all shared a common misfortune that night – to suffer together in the middle of a Great American restaurant that was slowly suffering to flickering lights and lost power in the kitchen. We mused over how we could all find spots in the office, sixteen floors up, play movies on the Mac machines that littered our cubicles. I offered to do something crazy in a “dark, hidden corner” far from the reaches of a security camera.

“Tonight was the craziest night of my life. Honestly, I think the world is ending -” I said, my eyes wide with conviction. Obviously, I mentioned the massive, random deaths of birds and fish in the past month. David, a smart-looking Mac-guru type of guy sat in front of me with a grin. “It’s gonna be great.” Puzzled, I examined him carefully, and asked what he meant. “It’s gonna be great. Jesus is coming back.” I stared at him, hypnotized by the sheer luck of the situation – sitting in front of a believer in the midst of a wired, overworked, or just frenetically web-obsessed work environment that I find myself in. By believer, I mean someone I once used to share recommendations on great dining spots in the area. I couldn’t believe the situation. “You’re a believer? I cannot believe this.” I retorted in disbelief. With a whisper, I continued, “Honestly, I didn’t know there were any at work.” He continued grinning and replied, “No, there are a few of us here.” He said this with an emphasis on “are”, as if in his assuredness, he was swearing me to the secrecy of Free Mason-type covertness. I was struck silent, and the only thing left to do was smile as I stared back at his open expression. I had no idea that I could find a glimpse of God in an information architect and happily married father to two tiny Chinese-Caucasian girls. And he could catch a glimpse of it in a young, seldomly certain woman searching for her identity in the world.