After our dinner rush, I stood in the break room talking to a couple of other servers, when one of them stood on a chair and very excitedly started telling me about how her latest crush is going. Because there were other people around, and her crush is one of our co-workers, she was speaking in code. And this was on top of her already shortened and overly enthusiastic speech. When she left the break room, another server shook his head and commented that she was crazy.
She must have heard him as she walked away because later, as we were cleaning up the restaurant, she asked me if I thought she was indeed crazy.
“Yes,” I told her. “But I find that your insanity is one of your most endearing traits.”
And I meant it. I admit, when she first started working, I found her a little off-putting. She is loud. She has an odd laugh. And she laughs a lot. At her own jokes. Which aren’t funny. And aren’t jokes. She’s also nice. Like really nice. Like insanely, over-the-top, unnecessarily polite.
But we’ve worked together a few months now and after many smoke breaks together and a couple of drinks after work, I’ve discovered that I really like her.
She isn’t afraid to say what she thinks or feels. She has a really unique laugh. She laughs at her own unfunny jokes and I find this very charming (probably because I do this too). And she’s nice – would do anything for anybody (except watch your tables while we’re in the middle of a dinner rush).
And several times over the past few weeks, we’ve hung out in her car and smoked and talked before I headed home to the kid. I think I have a new friend.
Anyway, this got me thinking about first impressions. Mostly, how mine turn out never to be right. And by this, I mean I thought Mike Vick was a real sweetheart, right up until he asked if I wanted to meet his dogs.
Some examples of my (wrong) first impressions:
When I was thirteen, a new family moved into the house across the street from us. I was playing football with a group of neighborhood boys (tackle football – I kicked ass) in the church yard across the street, and the new kid emerged from his house and asked if he could join in. He said his name was “Daniel.” He was gangly and awkward and sucked at football. I didn’t like him at all. After his father called him in for dinner, I joined the other boys in making fun of him.
Reality – He turned out to be really, really funny. Also very smart (I think these go hand-in-hand). He liked the same corny movies I did and read the same books. He turned out to be my best friend all through school. He was my date for senior prom. And even though we never dated (and he is madly in love with another friend of mine), my mother still refers to him as the one that got away. Oh, and his name isn’t Daniel, though it’s close.
When I was very young, I thought my father was the greatest person on the planet. He was really smart and really funny and took me to football games. It didn’t bother him that I liked to play with GI Joe (back when he was a full-sized doll and not that puny piece of plastic) rather than Barbie. In fact, he thought it was kind of cool. I thought my mother was kind of boring. She was just, you know, a mom. Like June Cleaver. Except she complained a lot while doing the housework, which I found totally unnecessary (“How in the Hell did you get spaghetti sauce on the ceiling? I told you girls not to eat in your room!”).
Reality – My father is smart and he is funny, but he’s a violent shit-hole. And irresponsible. And did I mention, a shit-hole? My mother could kick June Cleaver’s ass. And probably Ward’s (and not just because he’s dead now), but she would never kick anyone's ass because she's just too cool. I found out after my parents’ divorce that she was just quiet most of the time because my dad was too busy doing all the talking. And telling her to shut up. And I realized that my mom was really smart and really, really funny. Especially when manic. Oh, and she used to wear combat boots. What of it?
My first semester in grad school, I adopted two cats. I planned to adopt one, but when I met Mickey and Annie, they were just too sweet to pass up. Annie was kind and gentle, and her brother, Mickey, came right to the front of the cage and rubbed against my finger, then rolled over on his stomach, and though I couldn’t reach it, I knew he wanted a belly rub. He stole my heart.
Reality – Annie was sick. Her full lethargy surfaced within a year, and she had to be put to sleep. Mickey turned out to be aggressive and standoffish and the first time I rolled Mickey’s upturned belly, I pulled back a shredded hand. When I took him to the vet to be neutered, the vet laughed at me and told me the cat had already been fixed. And that, oh yeah, he was a female*. I changed her name to Mickie.
I worked the closing shift at a convenience store during my first semester of college. I had to restock the coolers and clean out the back room before I could go home each night (early morning), but I could only do this when there were no customers in the store since unattended customers tend to shoplift and/or masturbate in the bathrooms (yes, really). Every night, about an hour before close, this guy would come in and play pinball for about forty-five minutes before finally getting the hint that I had work to do and he needed to move on. I assumed he was just some lonely, creepy dude who loved pinball.
Reality – He was just some lonely, creepy stalker dude who loved pinball. Apparently, I had said something funny to him one time when he stopped in for coffee. He took this as flirting and came back the next night, and the next, and so on, hoping to continue with said flirting. Oblivious, I gritted my teeth each night when he came in because his presence in the store meant I couldn’t get my work done and get the hell out of there. One night, I took my frustration out on a cardboard display stand of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, and as I tried to move the stand (by kicking it across the floor), the cardboard collapsed and candy bars spewed forth. The creepy dude helped me clean it up and a conversation ensued. His son now lives in my spare bedroom. And eats all my food.
*The Richmond SPCA sucks. That is all. Dismissed.
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