stick shift

My favorite Thai place is just down the hill from my most recent yoga endroit. For a while I was going there after yoga class, though recently I’ve forgone the yoga altogether and just go to gorge myself on number 75, vegetarian, mild plus. Number 75 is a coconut milk-based stew, flavored with fried red onion slivers and pickled mustard leaves, swimming with tofu, crunchy vegetables, and slender noodles, and topped—the piece de resistance—with fried egg noodles. It’s divine. If eaten all in one sitting (usually the case), it’s decadent.

Without the yoga that originally justified this decadence, I arrive at 6, the prime dinner hour. There is only one free table when I arrive, and the host/owner/kitchen dictator is either disturbed that he has to seat a single or amused that I am alone, I can’t tell which. Before I can sit down I am greeted by a woman seated at a table near mine; she is with her teenage daughter, another woman about her age, and another girl whose back is to me. It’s been forever since I’ve seen her so I have to confess that (a) I still have her knitting needles (b) I haven’t finished the scarf yet (more than a year, and only 30 stitches wide), (c) I’m still with the guy for whom I am knitting (or not) the scarf, and (d) I’ve moved. This leads to another several minutes of discussion, what town, which road, which house, oh! I know that house; which mailbox? She promises to drop off something she’s been saving for me (a professional publication); I insist she should come for tea. I retreat to my table at last.

I order and number 75 comes quickly, with only enough wait time for me to read my mail and wonder at the low figure on my telephone bill. As I begin to slurp the steaming hot broth, I begin my foray into The Nation, the newest of a series of magazines in my mailbox. Lost in the relentless liberal dirge, I twirl noodles, crunch broccoli, and consciously ignore the fact that I am, once again, eating all of it. How many minutes and a few diatribes later, the bowl is empty and I am feeling just this side (which side?) of fat and happy.

Leaving presents another conversational intersection. Practically drunk on coconut milk, I somehow promise to teach the teenager to drive a stick shift. She is insistent: When? When the snow is gone. What did I just say? I am channeling someone and I’m not sure who. I discover the fourth at the table, the other girl, to be a former student, an insightful girl with a little too much self-knowledge for public school. She’s absent from the table, and those remaining grumble dismissively; she’s in an adolescent funk and sulking outside. It’s above freezing tonight, practically balmy at 33; perfect weather for pre-teen angst. I promise to harass her on my way out and take my leave.

We pass, she and I, and I stop her to ask about things. She readily admits that sixth grade is hard. I ask: the classes, or the friend thing? Both, she replies. I press on a bit; is it the girl thing, where you don’t know who your friends are anymore? She nods, says yes; is she tearing up, or am I projecting? Both are possible. She has such beautiful clear brown eyes, and a spirit that knows better than the bullshit of middle school. Of course she’s sulking outside. I’m thankful to know who my friends are, with more certainty than I know most things. And I’m wondering: how in the name of all that is holy do I think I’m going to teach anyone to drive a stick?