A Popcorn Social

When I say in job interviews that I'm a people person, I mean it.  I just love people.  I love them more than animals, more than trees, and even slightly more than I love snack cakes. 

The only thing I don't love about people is that, from time to time, I have to talk to them.  Often, when stuck speaking with someone that I don't know well, I catch myself daydreaming, often the same dream, where I light every person in the room on fire before turning the match on myself.

So when I wandered into the break room the other day it was a carefully-measured decision.  The temperature outside was below zero, ice was on the roads, and the parking lot was mostly empty.  I figured that today, of all days, I could navigate the break room without encountering awkward conversation.

Of course I was wrong.  The break room is empty enough, but, as I stand there in front of the most remote of three microwaves a man I have never so much as seen before appears next to me.  He plunges his sesame seed bagel into a nearby toaster, pokes his nosy face down to see what I'm cooking, and says:

"Hmm.  Microwave popcorn and Oreos.  That's a healthy and nutritious lunch."

In times like these I feel really and truly schizophrenic.  Seven or eight of my internal identities instantly launch into an all-out war.  Is this type of statement an earnest conversation-starter?  Or is it supposed to be some kind of original and engaging joke?  And why do I now feel pressure to come back with a joke of my own?  Am I supposed to have material for these situations? 

One can't spend too much time thinking in social situations, so I respond quickly: "Hey, it beats my breakfast of bourbon and Ding Dongs."

This amuses me much more than I had anticipated, largely due to the glint of bewilderment -- and, was that fear? -- I see in his eyes.  I've forgotten about my head cold and the fact that I haven't spoken all day, as well as the fact that my breath still reeks of Robitussin.  Given all this, along with my so-sarcastic-it's-not-sarcastic intonation, Mr. Bagel could be excused for thinking I was serious.

We share an awkward moment of silence while my corn does its popping.  When it's finished, I leave the area, fairly pleased with myself, but also feeling a familiar pang of guilt.  In these quasi-social situations we’re anything but honest with each other, and it bothers me.  We say meaningless and vapid things to appear like we give a piss about one another, but, in doing so, we show that we really don’t.

If I were a more honest man I would have responded to his little dig with bluntness, as in: "Yeah, that snack machine over there was all out of warm glasses of shut the hell up.  Shame, really."

Or if I had gone with my first and natural reaction, I would have said: "Yes!  It's both healthy AND nutritious!  Thank you!"

Maybe I should have taken time to explain my situation.  "Look pal, I forgot to bring a lunch, I'm all out of cash, payday isn't til Friday, and it's literally five degrees below zero outside right now.  So the best I could do was rummage through my desk drawer, scrounge up a buck-fifty in quarters, and hit the vending machine which, for some reason, was only one-fourth full today.  Now I realize that deep down you are jealous because I'm about to gorge on yummy buttered things while you eat sad and seedy things, but you need to stop talking down to people just to make yourself feel better."

My mind is consumed with this self-doubt as I walk around the corner of the break room (to where they keep the fountain of free-flowing Fresca), and so it takes me a moment to realize the guy is following me, disgusting bagel in hand.  Worse, it sounds like he's speaking to me again.  I catch something along the lines of: "...pulled so much hair from the dog that bit you that the dog is bald now."

And now I'm even more freaked out than before.  As a guy who drinks only on occasion (and in those occasions, it's typically Fresca) I should have known better than to make an alcohol joke.  Clearly I've run into an AA guy trying to make a bond.  What he's just said about dogs is most likely an idiomatic invitation to drink peppermint schnapps in the backseat of his Passat.  Or something. 

In any case, it isn't good.  So in desperation I say: "Yep.  And those bald dogs get cold and mean, so you either bundle 'em up in a sweater, or you just slice 'em open and go to town on those innards.  Ya know?"

Actually, I don't say that, I just think it.  I don't know what to say.  So I just chuckle rather heartily and walk briskly to my cubicle, like I guess you're supposed to.

Then I get drunk alone on Robitussin and cry.