june 12, 2023

 It’s been SO incredibly long since I’ve last posted on here! To that, I apologize to mom and to my boyfriend—who so lovingly ask when the next blog post is coming out. Truthfully, I’ve been writing so many papers for school that I could not even fathom sitting down to write for fun. But I am out of school now, tired of doom scrolling, and am in between books— the keyboard is calling. What I’ve written below isn’t anything new, but a snapshot of something I found in my journal that has been patiently waiting to be turned into a blog post. Even though I wrote it well before the birth of this blog,  it exemplifies the essence of a napkin note quite well.

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June 12, in the longest Chipotle line in the history of my life beside a potential pathological liar. 

Me and my boyfriend are waiting in said line, chattering on about watches (what’s the difference between a Rolex and a Fossil), Taylor Swift tickets (the next time she goes on tour I’ll be graduated college) and the likes. 

“Maybe those will be your graduation gift. My parents got my brother a watch,” Caeden says. 

Behind us, I hear the ever so slight exhale of the nose, the kind you make when reading a meme online, and catch a glimpse of a nodding head. 

“Excuse me, I hate to interrupt but you guys’ conversation is much more interesting than the one in my head,” he says. 

When people say they hate to interrupt that is not often the case. Buckle in, I thought. And so begins the somewhat one-sided, 45 minute encounter with the man behind us in a chipotle line. Mustache, gray T-shirt, thinning hair gathered in a ponytail. He asked me if Taylor Swift did anything political onstage and if I enjoyed the show- no and yes I say. He asked what we were going into—to which Caeden says fashion design. The man says he’s really into fashion—Caeden looks as me as if to say: “In that outfit?” But alas Caeden is also wearing socks and sandals, Adidas joggers and a white tee, so I shrug it off. 

We are a little put off but more so intrigued by this man, we let him continue. He shifts to me, asking what I’m to do. I say journalism, and he is enthused. He tells us stories are all around, how he almost published a book about a cat pre-COVID, how he’s written multitudes of short stories. It comes up that I am Albanian, and he says he knew an Albanian man once, how he was one of the most brilliant, interesting people he’s ever met. We continue this conversation, or more so he continues talking, where he interrupts himself to comment on the absurd wait time. Albeit, it doesn’t seem to be bothering him. And this is also true, I don’t recommend the Chipotle near Woodland. 

By this point, the thought crosses my line he may be a pathological liar. How is he interested in fashion, journalism, and the Albanians?  He did introduce this conversation by saying our conversation was more intriguing than the voices in his head—but this seems a little bit too honest of an introduction. Either way, talking to strangers in line is a lost art. Maybe we do all have more in common than we thought, but with our heads buried deep in the digital sand it goes unnoticed. 

The man applauded me for keeping a journal and advised Caeden to do the same. Then with a glimmer in his eye, he said he can see us both going one step above the average person with our lives. And with that we were up to order. He didn’t ask us for our names, we never asked for his. He got his food and ate silently ate his dinner alone, reading a magazine. Maybe he was a pathological liar, maybe he just needed someone to hear him, or maybe his phone was dead and talking to us was his last resort.