Chapter 3.1: Joe and Mike and Me

But I will still go out. There’s a game on at 12:30, beer to be drank, at the good dive bar down the street. Besides, who doesn’t want to see who is out drinking on Easter Sunday morning? The bar is almost empty. The same bartender and regular who were there Friday night are there again this morning. I can tell the regular because he’s drinking Bud Ice in a bottle. I didn’t even know they still made that. There’s a few guys at the top corner of the bar. This is a good scene for being shy. Except, one thing happens. I get…..social!

One of the things I like about this bar is how much empty space there is. I am sure it’s banging and all nuts to butts during the summer. Right now, I think there’s 4 other drinkers. Two guys at the top of the bar, close to the entrance, talking shop. One, the older, raspy voiced gentlemen is into construction. He is talking to a grey hair guy with glasses. Glasses is offering some sort of job. I am sure this happens a lot in resort towns this time of year. They are friends. One of them says something, and I respond! What is this madness! I am not even drunk, and I am talking to strangers! 

Even more shocking, we all share a laugh! Well, next thing you know, we’re all busting each other’s chops, cracking jokes. What is odd is that this sort of thing rarely happens to me. What is even odder is I am not feeling uncomfortable. I guess this is progress. Or maybe the beer one of them so kindly bought me kicking in.

We continue to talk like I am a regular, in a situation that to me, is highly irregular. Songs are played in the jukebox, more beers go around. This is such a strange feeling for me. I don’t feel judged, I don’t feel uncomfortable, I feel included. I continue to talk with Joe, he of the raspy voice. We’re talking, I don’t quite remember about what, not that I was drunk, because I really wasn’t, but because the flow was so quick and positive, I just kept going with it. He tells me he has esophageal cancer and that he maybe has a year and a half left.

Whoa. Left hook from right field. What do you say to something like that?

What do I say? I don’t know, maybe he is bull shitting me. The vibe I am taking away is that he really is not bullshitting me; he really is sick. Very sick. That’s quite a sobering moment to have in a bar. The first thought that hit me was. “Wow, this guy could be dying. He may not be here next Easter. And he’s buying me a beer.”

I don’t really remember what I said next. I put my hands on his shoulders and said something to the effect of, “I am so sorry to hear this. But if it makes any difference, I have been here for two days, and this time right here, has been the most fun I have had.”

That is certainly not going to make his situation any better. But if he understood my situation; shy awkward, insecure-if I could have explained that to him, maybe he would know this was kind of a big deal to me.

I soon found myself talking to Mike, he of the white hair and glasses. I forget what I said (again not drunk, just going with the flow) and it came out he was in the military. He didn’t strike me as military. When I told him I didn’t know he was in the military (like, duh, how was I supposed to know that) in cadence, he quickly spat out his name, rank and serial number. I was tending to buy it, but what’s not to say this isn’t two locals clowning the out of towner? I thank him for his service-cheesy thing to say, I know. He remains humble, but then he starts tearing up, because he lost friends. He gets a little choked up, far too quick if he was putting me on IMO. His reaction seems so genuine, and I am buying it.

The mood lightens, the laughs and music return. The game ends, and it is time to leave. I thank them for the laughs and hospitality. I leave, knowing I will never see those two again. And it kind of gives me perspective of my issues. Here are two guys, one who very well may be dying and the other one who very well may have seen death. And they bought ME beer. They hung out with ME. They, in their precious time, laughed with ME. I known there’s some sort of lesson in there, and I have been trying to figure it out every night since.

Chapter 3: Trying To Find Reason in The Offseason

Is there really a better time to get away than a holiday? Pick one, any one. Christmas, Fourth of July, Boxing Day. Well, I chose Easter. Easter is a perfect time to get away, as the weather can generally be nice, and introverts generally don’t have to deal with hordes of vacationers. You know what’s even better? When you pick a shore town that is usually deserted this far ahead of Memorial Day. So that’s what I did, Friday through Monday. And it was glorious.

It wasn’t totally deserted, as many of these beach towns will hold events to draw folks down during the off season. At my place of choice, they were holding a wrestling tournament on Friday and Saturday. Like the high school amateur type. Not the cool “hit ‘em with chairs when the referee is distracted” type. Sadly, there were no little Daniel Bryans or Undertakers running around. Turns out this sort of thing actually draws a lot of kids. And the rest of their families. In my hotel. When I arrived, there were tons of little toe heads running about, dribbling basketballs of all things. Under sized but still just as loud basketballs.

I can generally deal with all these families, they hardly get in my way. Until I’m hungry, and they’re clogging up every open restaurant. I will even go so far as to say it is generally OK to hear kids playing and running at the hotel. I would like to tell them, this is the golden era. You will most likely look back at these young, innocent time with much envy. Of course, I won’t actually tell them that because that entails actually talking to them.

As someone who fancies themselves as a future beach bum in training, what’s better than being at the beach? Being at the beach when (pretty much) NO ONE ELSE is there. Shore towns take on an intoxicating emptiness in the chill of the offseason. Many buildings are still in hibernation; lights turned off, blinds drawn; an eerie stillness. It’s almost like there are zombies waiting to attack. The zombies would be more social than me.

That is one of the things I like best at the shore in the off season. There’s not waves of people to wash you by some pretty cool sights. It’s almost like these buildings are abandoned. Some will open come May, some stand with For Sale signs in their weathered windows. All of them have a story. You can peek in some windows and try to figure out the story; how long have those chairs been piled up like that? When is the last time an actual person was inside? Will the name be different next year? If the walls could talk…

That’s the thing being an introvert, the feeling that with a group of people, time will move faster and you will miss these cool moments. An almost empty town is a haven for the introvert. So much to see and never the feeling of “let’s go somewhere else.” No, let’s just be. This is pretty cool. In the quiet, you can hear the waves from blocks away. The buzz from a busted neon sign.

I’m social. I go to bars, restaurants, boardwalk, bike riding. I use sunscreen. I feel responsible. But I know, the main event, the time I am looking forward to is Sunday into Monday. Many of these people will be leaving, and this town will be mine.

The ebb of people leaving on Sunday morning is apparent early. Most of the vans in the motel parking lot are consuming luggage and children like me at the seafood buffet Saturday night. Breakfast isn’t as crowded. People are getting in their last bit of salt air, then heading to their full cars for their trek home. Suckers. Nope, not me, these next few hours will be awesome for an introvert. My favorite place minus my least favorite thing; other people.

Chapter 2; An Introvert Takes an Uber

One thing I have never gotten use to is when my introvertness flares up. Wait, is introvertness even a word? Well, according to SpellCheck it is not. Until now. I coined it, so I get to keep it. I recently had to take an Uber ride all by myself. Like a big boy. And I never though how uncomfortable it could be until the ride started.

Now, I’ve taken Uber rides before, usually maybe with one or two other people, on those rare times I feel social and buzzed enough to stay social. Generally, Uber rides are just safe ways to get from Bad Decision A to Bad Decision B on a weekend night. But this was a weekday, and I need to get my car from the shop. So I got on my Magic Box and summoned a driver. As soon as I got in the backseat and closed the door, I suddenly thought, “What the hell am I supposed to say?” My driver seemed like a fine guy; I’d even call him a fella. I just found myself wishing there was some sort of placard on his dashboard that either said “It’s OK not to talk” or “I accept small talk.” I felt some pressure to at least have some sort of conversation.

It was at this point I realized Uber is a Godsend for the alcoholic, but a claustrophobic nightmare for the introvert.

I found myself enjoying the odd position of being in the passenger side backseat as we traveled these very familiar roads. It was certainly a different perspective, and I saw things I never see when I drive right by them. I don’t know if there is some sort of generic chit-chat handbook for Uber drivers, but if there is, I am pretty sure I followed it to the tee. Banal questions like how his riders were. “How about the weather today?” Just frickin’ shoot me.

Maybe this would all be better if there was some sort of option on the app to let the driver know it’s OK not to talk.

And this is why I could never be an Uber driver. Not to mention I am a total slob in my car. I imagine there aren’t too many introvert drivers. The need for a few extra bucks is not worth the dread of multiple social interactions. With strangers who have cooties and do God knows what in the backseat.

Now, to be fair, he was a very pleasant guy….uh, fella. His car was clean and thankfully not playing music that sounds like I am shopping at the Foot Locker in the mall. I guess that’s just something the weekend drivers have to do.

So we continued to the shop. I did what most introverts do; looked at my phone most of the time. I’ll be honest, I don’t even think I had the web up. I was acting like I had a life. Like I was going to pick up my car and meet the guys for dart night. He dropped me off. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had my independence again.

Chapter 1; A Night at The VFW

I like the VFW. One day, if I ever get the guts to go, I imagine the actual bar there to be full of real people. I am sure there are literally hundreds of good stories-plus literal war stories-in any VFW to make an evening there worthwhile. I also imagine they would get a load of pansy ass me, and suddenly question why they fought so hard for a doofus like me.

So, I went to a beef and beer at the VFW. I’ve gone to a lot of beef and beer/fundraiser type events there, and generally have a good time. Granted, not every crowd is “my crowd. “But what better way to face my suddenly self-diagnosed condition as “introvert” than by going to the ol’ VFW?

I should have known when I saw the full parking lot, I had grossly underestimated this. The event was for a family I didn’t know. As I enter the hall, there is a big picture of the family. Both the mother and father were recently diagnosed with cancer and they have a couple of kids. I was here because I was friends of friends of friends of them, or something like that. Honestly, all I heard was “beef and beer” and those are, like, two of my favorite things in the world.

Got there and it was packed. Nuts to butts packed. On one level, I was happy to see my town coming together to support a family. It’s refreshing to see these days. On the other hand, did everyone have to go and show up at the same time? Tables were full. Walkways were full. The line for the beef and the beer was long. I had never seen the VFW this packed. This is another thing I like about the VFW; they apparently don’t observe fire codes.

An Irish guitarist plays at the head of the room. He was actually quite good, but his talent seemed to be lost on most of the people here. That can’t be an easy gig, and I can’t imagine most musicians are introverts. As I begin to filter around, I do see a familiar face or two. Since they are really the only people I remotely know, I go to them. And by ‘know” I mean have a few seconds of awkward small talk, then move along.

Small talk has always been trouble for me. I am just no good at chatting about the weather. Or work. Look, I am sure your job may be fascinating to you, but it might mean bupkus to me. I also expect no one to be blown away by what I do to keep the lights on and my belly full. It goes both ways, and I am aware and appreciate that. Unless I have a solid joke or line to start with, I suck at small talk. Externally< I am talking about weather, internally I am thinking, “Man, have you gained a bunch of weight?” or “Is that pretty blonde checking me out?” (No, of course, she wasn’t.)

I grab a quick beer and head over to the chow line. I get all my protein and head back to sit with my group. I sit down and of course, unconsciously pick the worst spot to hear or engage in any conversation. I sit so the music is behind me and I am facing the entrance of the room. It’s so loud I can barely hear, and I face this constant stream of new faces coming in. I am horrible at numbers, but let’s just say there’s over 300 people in this room and counting. There are so many people, you can’t even see the asbestos tile flooring that I am sure is in every other VFW hall. I have successfully locked myself into this position.

Being the mooch that I am, I plow through my plate. I am still hungry. Now, here’s my sitch; I can leave the table, squeeze through the chairs, squirm past dozens of folks who refuse to get out of my way, actually interact with the nice kids dishing out the food, and fight the crowd to again return to my cramped table. OR, I can just sit there, and eat the plate of grody party mix that I am sure has been already handled by dozens of strangers who didn’t wash their hands after going to the bathroom. So, party mix it is!

II have previously remedied these situations by setting up camp at the bar and just never leaving. I’d drink till I either got somewhat social or somewhat shit faced. I am actually trying NOT to do that these days, so I only have 2 beers all night; a performance worthy of some sort of chip.

As I sit there, I see another couple, and with my newly minted introvert super powers, I can just tell they are both introverts. While they, too, are sitting at one of these long tables, they are just by themselves. I can tell, they are “present in the moment” but they are not social. They seem to be OK. I continue to look around the room at all these strange faces. All of them, and they are not making eye contact with me. That’s fine, because it would freak me the hell out if I got eye contact back. Even that blonde is doing ace work avoiding my sultry gaze.

I can feel my social anxiety rise as more faces wash in the tide at the entrance and cascade the 3 steps down to the asbestos tile floor. Don’t these people have a place to go? Oh, right, this is their place to go tonight; who isn’t down for the challenge of all you can eat and drink for $25? Hell, that’s enough to get me out of the house. I continue to scan when I see the husband this benefit is for. Now, I have no knowledge of his actual situation, just to know it’s cancer. He has, in what only I can properly describe as, evidence of a recent and serious head operation. (I tried to GIS what I was talking about, but immediately stopped for fear of tossing my cookies. You’re all welcome.) And here’s the thing:

He is the happiest one in the room.

Constant smile. Shaking hands, man hugs, “making the rounds.” He has my immediate admiration. I can’t even begin to imagine his situation; his pain, fear, worldview, experience, hope, gratitude. It’s things like this that put life in check. And if I wasn’t such an introvert, I might go up to him and talk. I am sure he has wisdom most of us don’t have. There is a lesson there, I am sure.

Since I had 2 Miller Lites, it’s now time to pee. I go to the latrine-that’s what they call them in the army, ya know. And I am confronted with yet another version of introvert nightmare-no privacy walls! What is this madness? Oh yea, I forgot, all our brave vets have balls of steel. So of course, these guys have no need for privacy walls while they’re peeing on the Hanoi Jane sticker in the urinal.

I return to the hall, and even more people have arrived. There is much laughter and happiness, and I just can’t figure out why I am uncomfortable in this situation. At least the good thing with this many people is I am pretty much invisible. I think with being an introvert, you can either feel like the world is staring at you, or you are totally invisible. I can tell from earlier scanning the room, I am observer. And right now, I need to observe my ass getting the hell out of here.

I am a big believer in the Irish Exit. Ya gotta give it to those crazy Micks, they got life pretty figured out. Have good friends, drink good alcohol, something about the wind blowing and knowing when the hell to leave. The Irish exit, for those of you who don’t know is

More specifically, the irish exit refers to the departure from any event without telling any friends, associates or acquaintances that one is leaving. It is almost always the result of being very inebriated/intoxicated.

Man 1. Hey man, where'd you go last night? You just disappeared, did you take a girl home or something?

Man 2. Nah, I got drunk and pulled an irish exit. Uh... happy birthday by the way.

I’m pretty sure being shy and fed up with people also counts. As I hit the fresh air of a cold night, I can feel tension leaving my body. I really do think ‘people hangovers’ are a real thing.

So what did I learn tonight? I learned that if I underestimate the size of a crowd, I can get thrown.  I’ve always known there really are people with far worse problems than me, and I need to appreciate both more. I also think that I might feel like an introvert if I write about it.

A blog for one.