Friday, April 02, 2010

Hot dog.

The polka music is so loud in a popular German restaurant on a warm Thursday night. There are so many bald heads and gray hairs and wrinkled smiles gathered here, the owners to each raising their beer mugs and smiling and opting to move when the accordion commands them to their creaky feet. It’s the infamous Chicken Dance, after all. There are some who can’t stand how loud it is on that open patio and openly say so and others so completely happy with their fat brats and warm sauerkraut and “happy, snappy music," oft-times regarded as that oompa oompa sound.

I am proudly part of that latter variety. Remember the accordion lessons for a year? Remember believing I'd marry a German miss, no thanks that fated Epcot experience?

Tonight, though, has everything to do with the blonde (authentic) German waitress, the one who keeps dropping words on us that we don’t come close to understanding. Sounds nice, but meanings get lost. She’s so completely oblivious to my long glances, but that’s all right, too. Beauty is still beauty when admired in silence. There was a barely recognizable accent and a Cameron Diaz-like quality and a small peace sign tattooed on the inside of a wrist. Those are the things that keep getting remembered.

It helps to have wing men when you’re single and admiring and suddenly so alarmingly shy. Why stop at one wing man when you can have two? When they’re married and you’re not, they practically do the looking for you. They’ll be the ones who try to set you up to the point that you can pass her your business card (even though you don’t have one and fail) and they’ll try and steer a conversation back towards including you if it falls off the tracks (you being of few chewed-on words) and things almost work out all right (but don't). And it makes for a good night. One of those comfortable ones. One riddled with at least one more possibility than there was.

It doesn’t make a whole world of sense to think that this snapshot from an evening had anything to do with hearing someone speak my name so clearly and audibly in my ear around 3 in the morning; it woke me right up, though there was nobody there. Part of me thinks it was this German waitress stepping out of my dreams for a second to prove she’d remembered my name. The other part believes my heartburn had been given a cooing voice, if only for a second.

Who understands these dreams? Who tries to? All possible explanations comes out disguised as haphazard guesses.

1 comment:

Kathleen T said...

My heartburn's voice is dependent on the cuisine.

South American of any variety or Spanish (especially a burning and lovely mole): Antonio Banderas

Asian food: George Takei

African food (especially Ethiopian and Ghanaian): Peter O'Toole