Lunch, Solo

A favorite thing: 1:15 lunch alone at the Crepevine every Wednesday, reading.

Today's selection: "This Is What it Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona," a short story by Sherman Alexie. Great story.

But not even Thomas Builds-the-Fire, the irresistible tragicomic storyteller of this tale, could keep me from becoming distracted by the equally irresistible music being piped into the restaurant.

It started with Hall & Oates' "I Can't Go For That." My ears began to twitch not because I like the song (in fact, I've always found it kinda creepy), but because it is inextricably tangled up with sappy teenage memories of sophomore year. Next came that little ditty called--I'm making an educated guess--"It Only Takes a Minute." You know it, right?-- "It only takes a minute girl/to fall in love/to fall in love." This was followed by Donna Summer's sublime "On the Radio."

Sherman Alexie was losing his considerable hold on my imagination.

By the time "Staying Alive" came on, it was over. I looked around and saw at least three other patrons fully prepared to push aside some tables and create an impromptu dance floor. Lucky for everyone concerned, we came to an unspoken agreement to restrain ourselves. I closed my book and turned to the four line cooks, visible from the chest up in their white chef jackets and black baseball caps. I thought, please start dancing. please? all four of you. like you've been practicing for weeks waiting for just this moment.

They are good line cooks, but lousy mindreaders. After "Car Wash," I was outta there.