Two years ago, we bought into the boomer hype and attempted to watch Cheers from the beginning. We couldn’t get through the first season. Didn’t even make it to Woody Harrelson’s appearance on the show, let alone Kirstie Alley. CORNY would be the first word that comes to mind. We laughed, but not enough to buy in. I also fear that Ted Danson’s Sam Malone would not survive in the current social media atmosphere, as some of his lines and actions would be extremely susceptible to public scrutiny. All of this is not the point. The point is the theme song, “Where Everybody Knows Your Name.” That intro to each episode was the best part for me. The song established a warm feeling in the viewer and created such a positive connotation with the bar and its staff, that you could almost, almost get through the cringy jokes and stupid arguments.
Again, I have strayed from the point. For lunch, at least twice a week, I go downtown to a place called 501 Fresh. A small place that actually no longer exists. They know my name because of my orders. I don’t know their names. The story could end there, but I won’t let it.
Great food and a welcoming-enough staff. A little dry and introverted enough to never actually start a true conversation with me past how the weather is outside or how busy they are today. We stick to our comfort zone of “hello” and “yes, I ordered the wrap again.” Now they may be shy, but are they “go home and write a blog about not asking their name again shy?” Probably not. A little foreshadowing here.
The place is very low-key, in general, but it does have its quirks you must work through upon each visit. There is a funky odor left over from the preceding restaurant that was housed within those walls. However, this could just be the stench that emanates from 5th Street. Maybe it is the calming feeling that envelopes you while enjoying your food and you hear another customer order a smoothie and you just know that you will not hear what anyone has to say to you for the foreseeable future. Give it 5, 10 minutes with that blender… maybe 20. The blender literally screams at you for an eternity. But seriously, the place is great. I swear. For the health-conscious, if you can get through the initial smell, it is worth the visit. Super fresh food… some may even say, 501 Fresh. Most do. It’s their name. I am not sure what I am even talking about anymore.
I get the same damn thing every time. That is how I know that they know me. It is getting to the point where they know that I know that they know me. In the most inviting and welcoming way, they say “Hey Dave!” upon my arrival and it is all that I can do to not melt into myself with awkwardness as I utter out a wimpy, bashful “oh hey,” like they caught me off guard with the salutation. Even though I practiced that today would be the day where I would break the ice and maybe engage in a meaningful conversation. But no, all that I can muster is a surprised, slightly audible “Hey.” This is what I have been reduced to.
Now I feel like we have come too far in this “relationship” for me to just ask for their names. After ordering from the restaurant for the now 12th day in a row, you would think I have built up the courage to begin this friendship, once and for all. But no, now they just know Dave as the guy with the Caesar dressing fetish. I keep amping myself up for each visit. I call ahead, letting them know that I am coming. Set the table for our introduction. I go through my rehearsed lines. DAVE IS COMING! That guy with the recurring, weird create-your-own-wrap order. I walk in the door. The dude behind the counter sees me in line. He goes to the fridge and gets Dave’s order BECAUSE HE KNOWS ME. I start to sweat, waiting for (ENTER NAME HERE) to turn around with my bag of spinach.
Today’s the day. You are ready for this. Are you ready for this? OK, now you are certainly holding eye contact for way too long now. Say something. SAY SOMETHING. ANYTHING. What are your lines?! In a panic, I start to recite vegetable jokes that I read online because you know, this job as a cashier at a local salad place is definitely a calling for this guy and what he thinks ALL DAY EVERY DAY is vegetables.
What did one snowman say to the other? IT ALL SMELLS LIKE CARROTS TO ME.
By now, it has to be visible that I am falling apart. Not just physically (See: Sweating from earlier), but emotionally as well. Telling carrot jokes in public being a telltale sign of mental illness. I couldn’t escape quick enough. I actually believe history was made on that fateful day in line at the counter: A minute became an hour. If there was ever a longer moment in human history than me waiting for that damn credit card reader to angrily beep at me to let me know the card has been approved, then I am all ears. Actually, I am all tears. Tears because I am a grown man that cannot ask other dudes for their names because of this inner fear of social rejection and being on the receiving end of an unsettling look of confusion.
Maybe I will try again tomorrow. Maybe 13 sandwiches in a row is the lucky number. There is no lonely like Cheers Theme Song Lonely.