sticky strangers, part two
and when not to bring beet juice in your backpack.
There are 20% more people here since this story started. Welcome! If you’d like to start at the beginning, go back to read sticky strangers, part one, first.
As if someone could hear the ticking of my internal type-A time bomb, the host very innocently suggested, “should we eat?” as though it was obvious that most of the no-bake desserts for an August Meetup would be resting safely in the fridge.
As dishes emerge, so does my cool. We assembled a serviceable buffet line including a well executed strawberry pretzel salad, a too pudding-y chocolate mousse pie, a few types of Jell-o parfaits demonstrating a varied ability to layer colors and two thoughtful homemade ice creams.
It was starting to feel like we were simply a bunch of strangers with a common interest willing to huddle together on a dingy couch in exchange for a little bit of community.
We briefly introduced our dishes and ourselves before digging in. Folks shared thoughtful ingredient considerations, family traditions and first time attempts at their recipes. It was starting to feel like we were simply a bunch of strangers with a common interest willing to huddle together on a dingy couch in exchange for a little bit of community.
Amidst the grazing we start to break off into little enclaves of conversation. Whatever anxiety folks had about the food they brought eases as many of us go for seconds and the offerings get gobbled up. Bellies full, people carefully ease into sharing stories of their kitchen triumphs and failures.
Around the time that people start to drift into conversations beyond the agreed upon topic, the door swings open with a BANG!
Startled, we all swivel towards the guy sauntering in wearing a wife pleaser undershirt. He’s shoving his bike through the door, slinging sweat against the threshold in the process. The room stands still as we all brace to reenter the worst part of any party: the introductions phase.
Faster than we have time to form our first impressions, he has offloaded his bike behind the table, hiked up his sloppy faded jeans with the assistance of a studded belt and splayed himself across the center of the living room floor. Taking up a huge amount of floor in an already crowded space, he props his head up with one arm, splaying the other over his head like he’s ready to be painted by an Old Master.
“Hey, ladies,” he coos, as we wait for what could possibly be worth interrupting the fragile comfort we had spent an hour building together. Innocent eyes and freckles fool a few, but then he launches into a monologue about his journey here which makes no attempt to explain why he felt arriving an hour late would not be disruptive to the cautious hens trying to lay the eggs of new friendship.
“One of the great things about biking is that you don’t have to deal with idiots on the train.” Says the guy who voluntarily showed up to a room full of strangers to make small talk with a bunch of idiots who thought coming here by train might end with a new person in their lives.
“I’m starving. What are we eating?” he interrupts himself mid complain, laying on his back, knees up contemplating the flush mount light. The rest of our eyes are darting across the room to each other, a collective cry for help.
Paralyzed since his arrival, we are undecided whether it’d be better to stop time or speed it up. Before we can choose he labors himself into a seated position, reaches into his backpack and pulls out a quart-sized mason jar covered in more condensation than is coming from his armpits.
“I brought beet juice.”
I’m sorry, WHAT?
Beet juice? That’s your move? That’s the first impression food you’re bringing to this party?
No. NO. I can’t. Looking around I see that others also cannot.
By the time he asks how to incorporate this elephant sized vegetable juice in the room into the buffet, we’ve scattered faster than cockroaches when the light comes on.
The host flies to the kitchen, mumbling something about cups to protect her escape.
I leap over Dr. Martens in August to start portioning out leftovers into Tupperware containers.
The missionary moves to collect paper plates for the trash bag so fast, she trips over his backpack.
The foreigners sense something is a foot, but they don’t move fast enough on their instincts and are captured by a beet juice backstory.
It’s every baker for themselves.
From the table I hear something about “pressing juice is like bench pressing” before I catch him doing knee-assisted pushups while staring at his prey on the couch like a maniacal clown. I pause for a single beat pondering whether to rescue the foreigners, but in some way I decide we all have to live with the consequences of inviting strangers into our day.
I move into the kitchen so I can hide a grimace I share with the missionary behind the freezer door. We frown at each other, then again through the galley kitchen window, acknowledging that he has deprived us of the ritual Meetup last scramble.
The ditch effort where everyone tries to close in on someone relatable enough in the last 15 minutes so that you can exchange numbers and never come back to one of these things. We’re all too distracted, working against the clock of having to take your turn at conversation with this guy. Terrified to bring our phones into sight lest he see it as an invitation.
What feels like an eternity of avoidance shuffling later (which is probably only 20 minutes) we feel we have not abandoned our Samaritan duties to the host, so folks start to quietly slip into departure mode. Some have been spared completely, others sacrificed a few minutes to Meetup Gods of Pained Conversation to let the foreign captives escape.
Me? I walk out reminded that the only thing less predictable than the internet, are the people who inhabit it.
Reading - The Interview by Sean Dietrich because “hey, if a writer doesn’t dream then he is a CPA.”
Listening - to World Music Radio by Jon Batiste (2023) which is basically the chaos menu in the best way possible.
Snacking - on Coke Y3000 because somehow I’ve turned into a 15 year old boy who can surely be the only market for the limited edition Coke Creations catalog.
Watching - my teams have a really good weekend. Florida ranked! O’s to the postseason!
Smelling - HAZY BLUE (이내), a part two from ELOREA, (2023) which is further evidence of my absolute devotion to lily of the valley.
Tell us the most inappropriate thing you’ve brought to a party.
Which juice is the best juice?
What’s your favorite way to look fake busy in a group setting?
I knew it was time to leave when ________________________.
This is very creative writing about beets and messy things to eat.